Chapter 1

1

The small square box was the first direct communication between Jag Martin and his husband-to-be.

Jag cradled the box in his palm, wondering if he should open it. Nobody had told him what to do should Brace Rivers send him a gift. He supposed nobody had thought to mention it because it had never happened before. All messages, all gifts, all introductions, should take place between the families of the intended. Had his parents seen this tiny box? Did they know who delivered it? It must have arrived while Jag was in the bath, applying the strange concoctions and oils left for him by Drake, the family’s only servant.

The box arrived without a card, but Jag knew the gift came from Rivers. The box had the traditional mark of a wedding present—two purple entwined vines growing towards the ruby sun. The mark had infused his life for the past several tidal cycles, appearing on contracts, gifts, and clothing. His mother had even borrowed a large tapestry of the design to hang in the room where both ceremonies would take place. Was he supposed to smuggle a present to the other man? He looked around his small bedroom—he had nothing to give. His intended husband would know that. His family’s current humble situation was no secret. The two of them wouldn’t be betrothed otherwise. His mother might have mentioned the gift to him that afternoon before she left to oversee the first ceremony, but there was so much to remember that it might have slipped his attention.

He untied the heavy purple ribbon and slowly unwound it from the box. He didn’t recognize the rich material, but it felt like fabric from a fine coat, or a heavy blanket, not a humble ribbon on a small box. He traced the sharp points and the smooth lines of the box before carefully easing the lid back.

Jag was almost afraid to learn what was nestled inside. His stomach had been in knots for the past two months, and now all those knots tightened until he couldn’t even take a breath. He looked around the room, expecting somebody to barge through the door and take the gift from him. But nobody barged in. And nobody was spying on him through the window.

Jag tilted the box up to the light and his face flooded with heat from pleasure and surprise. The yellow glow from the lamp above his head reflected off a perfectly black, perfectly round, perfectly smooth pearl, delicately balanced on a silver band. Pearls were almost mythic. He had never even heard of a pearl on the Timotai Peninsula. There were dozens of stories and legends about the lack of pearls in the rich waters surrounding the Peninsula, including stories of ancient curses and bloody feuds, but every telling ended with lost pearls. He took the ring between his forefinger and thumb, gently lifting it from the box to examine it. Ornate designs wound around the silver band. He recognized the pattern after several seconds of scrutiny. The mark of Rivers’ house. The mark of his new home.

Jag slid it over his right ring finger. It fit perfectly. He stared at the exquisite piece of jewelry, his wrists tingling with excitement. A pearl that size, without any visible imperfections, would be worth a literal fortune. He imagined calling his mother into the room and presenting the ring to her.

Here, Mother, he would say, sell this and pay off your debt and use the remaining money to buy back my freedom. I can stay here.

The first ceremony had already begun, when the parents stood in for the bride—Jag in this case—and took care of all the legal business with the new groom. In the big room with the new tapestry, his parents were making promises, signing contracts and exchanging money. It was too late to call everything off. Even if Brace Rivers had given him the very thing that would render the ceremony unnecessary. Even if he was certain his mother would take the ring and do exactly as he suggested. Even if he was more than a little frightened to learn what his wedding night held for him.

And the wedding would be the easy part. What came after that? Jag didn’t know.

He slid the ring off and folded his fingers over it. Jag didn’t want to let it go. He wasn’t sure why it was so important to keep a hold of it, but the pearl was a small, hard ball of fire against his flushed skin. It seemed wrong to put it back in its box, to shut it away, to make it lose the heat it had already absorbed.

Jag’s door was locked. It’s only tradition,his mother had assured him. We don’tactually think you’ll go anywhere. But Drake was positioned outside. A guard? Jagwasn’t sure. Maybe that was tradition too. For every piece of information his parents had given him about the tradition, about the ceremonies, about the wedding and marriage, it seemed like there were two pieces of information they left out. The ritual seemed designed to distance him until he was nothing but a passive pawn—a point that was beyond ridiculous given that the ritual was always held under the auspices of the Goddess. She was worshipped for her strength, her cunning, her intelligence; the Goddess was never passive.