Free The Ruling Sea by Robert V S Redick

to have recovered both his hawklike gaze and his wrath. But he never directed these at Arunis—indeed, he seemed to have forgotten the man altogether.
    Stranger still, one of the aspirants beside the Father kept turning to look at Pazel himself. It was one of the mask-wearers—manor woman Pazel could not tell. And of course he did not know if the gaze was kindly or cruel, or merely curious. But why should a young
sfvantskor
be curious about him?
    Then he caught Thasha’s eye, and saw her courage and clarity, and even a hint of the mischief that was hers alone in all the wide world. And suddenly his fear for her leaped out, like a predator from the grass, and he could think of nothing else.
Stop it, stop the ceremony, get her out of here!
    It was time: Thasha and her groom were kneeling down on the stone. Once more the cleric raised the knife and cup. Falmurqat held out his thumb, and seven drops of his blood were added to the milk already tinted with Thasha’s own.
    “Drink now,” said the cleric, “that your fates be mingled, nevermore to be unbound.”
    He sipped, and handed the cup to Falmurqat the Elder. The cup made its way around the dais, everyone taking a tiny sip. But when Pazel’s turn came, he froze—furious, horrified, his brain on fire. The cleric prodded him, whispering:
“Drink, you must drink.”
The Mzithrinis stared with the beginnings of outrage. Thasha flashed him a last look, impossibly fearless. He drank.
    The guests breathed a collective sigh, and the cup moved on. Pazel took the Blessing-Band from his pocket and held it in plain view. Thasha and her betrothed drank last. The cleric took the cup again.
    “Now, beloved Prince. What would you avow?”
    Prince Falmurqat took Thasha’s hand, and stroked it ever so gently with his thumb. He was about to speak when Thasha wrenched her hand away.
    “Your Highness, forgive me. I cannot wed you. This marriage is a
tr
—”
    She got no further. At the back of the congregation Arunis made a furtive gesture. The lethal necklace tightened. Thasha reeled, clutching at her throat.
    Pazel dropped the ribbon and lunged to catch her. Pacu Lapadolma screamed. Eberzam Isiq leaped onto the dais, shouting his daughter’s name. The cleric dropped the sacred milk.
    Pazel held her to his chest, hating himself, hating the world.
No answer but this one. No other door to try
. He whispered to her, kissed her ear. Falmurqat watched in speechless horror. Thasha writhed and twisted, her face darkening with every beat of her heart.
    “Away! Give her air!” Dr. Chadfallow was battling forward. Behind him, wrathful and suspicious, came the sorcerer.
    Thasha’s struggles grew so violent that Pazel almost lost hold of her. He was flat on his back, arms locked desperately around her chest, face buried in her shoulder. Then all at once her struggles ended. Her eyes widened in amazement, then dimmed, and her head fell back with an audible
thump
against the stone.
    Pazel surged upright, raising her, choking on his tears. “You Pit-damned devil!” he shouted. “You killed her this time!”
    None knew who he was accusing—the boy was clearly hysterical—but from the gaping crowd Arunis babbled in protest.
    “Not I! Not with that little squeeze! Look for yourselves! The chain is loose!”
    Few heeded the raving merchant from Opalt (by now everyone was shouting something), but to Thasha’s friends his words meant just what they had prayed for: an instant when the very power that had laid the curse was consciously holding it at bay. Pazel’s hand shot out, caught the necklace and snapped it with one brutal wrench. The silver sea-creatures Isiq had had fashioned for Thasha’s mother—naiads and anemones, starfish, eels—flew in all directions. The necklace was destroyed.
    But Thasha lay perfectly still.
    Pazel spoke her name again and again. Dr. Chadfallow felt her bloodied neck, then bent an ear swiftly to her chest. A look of pain creased the surgeon’s face, and he