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The festival was in full swing, people dancing to the merry tunes of fiddles and percussion, enjoying themselves with food, drink, and entertainment. After my nap and a light meal, I had changed into something more fit for dancing—ignoring my mother’s choice of gown she’d had Lucinda lay out for me—determined to enjoy the merriment, knowing this would be my last autumn festival in Providence for a long time, if ever again.
The whole county seat knew the Ongahri were to arrive sometime tonight or tomorrow; Father had made the announcement at the public counsel last week, though the town folk had known the news weeks ago, the grapevine always being the true messenger. But knowing a thing and seeing it unfold before you? It was surreal.
At one of the food tables behind me, I heard the intake of gasps. I gripped my cup tightly, keeping it at level with my jaw to hide my own open mouth.
The first thing I thought when I took in the group of giant men was that they were naked. But when the shock of their appearance wore off, I realized they were just very under-dressed. The weather had, blessedly, turned chilly after sunset, so most of the citizens were wearing shawls and long sleeves, making the contrast between my people and the Ongahri more obvious. However, the men of Providence never went about shirtless, even in the hot summer months. Ever.
The Ongahri men, ten in all that I could count, wore tight tan breeches that hung well below the waist, accentuating their tapered hips. A few were clothed in sleeveless tunics, almost like an undergarment but not. Their well-made boots stopped several inches above the ankle. A few wore wide bands of gold and dark red metal around their biceps and necks. Their massive thighs and calves drew the eye, taut strong muscles that moved in a beautiful dance in the torchlight. The breadth of their shoulders, the expanse of their chests, and the many dips and valleys of their muscled stomachs all shouted to us onlookers that these men were other. Even though each looked distinguished from one another, whether in features or hair length and color, one could tell they were a unit that differed completely with the men of Providence.
My eyes scanned them from head to toe, then settled on the tallest of them, the one I was positive was their leader. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. His dark hair was shorn close to his head, accentuating his chiseled features and wide mouth. Though he was just as massive in size as the others, this particular Ongahri warrior seemed leaner, more refined, signifying a marriage between agility and brute force. He was terrifying.
All my observations took less than a minute as I watched them walk to where my father and mother sat at the long table that overlooked the revelers.
Demos strode along beside the Ongahri, and the way he carried himself among those wild and beautifully savage men made him seem just as otherworldly: The Owl and the Ongahri, the two greatest forces of Titus, together in the land I had known since I was born.
The image left me breathless.
I saw Father stand and come around the table to greet the new arrivals, watched as Mother turned this way and that looking for someone—me, no doubt. But I was hidden from her view, standing at the side of the clearing among the food vendors. I wasn’t yet ready to be Lady Sierra, daughter of Constant Linden. No, I wanted to observe. But honestly, I was frozen in both terror and curiosity. I knew the Ongahri were different. But I had no idea the visceral effect seeing them in person would have on me.
These were the people I was being given to in marriage. I would be one of them this time tomorrow. No longer a Lady of Providence, instead a Princess of the Ongarhi.
I watched as Demos introduced the tallest warrior. He must be the proxy, I thought. Panic swarmed me, taking my breath away, along with my grip on my drink. The earthenware cup dropped from my hand and fell to the dirt, shattering into thick chunks. I watched the bottom piece roll under Amos’ table, and I looked at my limp hand like it had a mind of its own.
“My lady? Are you all right?”
I turned to my left and nodded slowly to Amos’ wife, Nettle, whose eyes were wide in concern. “Yes, ma’am. Just…”
Her face softened, nodding in understanding. “I can imagine.” She tilted her head in the direction of Demos and the group of Ongahri. “You are a brave young woman, my lady, and you make Providence proud,” she whispered reverently.
It’s not like I have a choice in the matter, I wanted to say. Instead, I gave her a confident smile. “Thank you, Nettle. And thank you for the cider. I’m sorry about the cup.”
She waved a hand in the direction behind me, away from the Ongahri guests and the Constant’s table. “No problem at all. You go on, now, m’lady. Enjoy yourself!”
I moved back a few steps and glanced back to the Ongahri, who were standing out like a sore thumb. Demos seemed to excuse himself, leaving the group, and was headed this way. I turned around hurriedly to find an exit. I needed to be alone, unobserved. Somewhere dark, quiet, and with lots of space to think.
I ran past a few stalls that were selling quilts and textiles, then turned the corner, heading toward the cobblestone path that would lead me home. An old woman, who barely came up to my chin she was so short, grabbed me by the shoulders, startling me. She pulled on my arm and practically dragged me behind a giant sycamore tree in the brush.
In the dark, the old crone looked down-right frightening, conjuring up thoughts of witches and potions. Her milky eyes shone bright in the dim light from a nearby torch.
“Girl of the Fealty. I’ve been wantin’ a word with ye.” Her fingers on my arm turned into talons, and I tried to shrug her off. I didn’t want to be rude, but the woman was scary.
“Grandmother, pardon my bumping into you. I was—”
“Woman-child of the morn. You must take great care, see. You’re too important to Titus to forget these words. Listen and be warned. Trust the Owl. Your heart will break, and you’ll be wantin’ to run, but trust you must. Hear me, child?”
My stomach dropped, and ice filled my veins. I knew this woman. She was one of the village’s seers, but in my frazzled state, I couldn’t think of her name.
“Trust… what? What will happen, grandmother?”
“The sea will warm you, aye. But don’t rest! Soon the days will be cold. So very cold. But you must walk on. Trust the Owl.” Her face brightened then, as if listening to an inner voice that had just told her a joke. With a cackle, she added, “And say hello to my sister. Tell her I forgive her.”
She released me as suddenly as she had grabbed me. I called out to her, my feet anchored to the ground, unable to follow after her, but she was fast for an old woman, disappearing from the brush and into the crowd in seconds.
I frowned, filled to the brim with curiosity. But I had no time for riddles. I walked onward, searching the path I needed. My mother was no doubt fuming at my absence, but I still wasn’t ready to face the music quite yet.
Darkness grew the further away from the festivities I walked, but I knew the path like the back of my hand.
I slowed when I got to the gate that led into our formal garden, cursing my timing. Sitting on a stone bench was Demos, looking like a white beacon in the night.
