THE WEDDING COULD not be escaped. It wasn’t the finality of marriage with Richon that bothered Chala. Even the ceremony itself, however tedious and incomprehensible, could be borne. But the preparations made her irritable enough to wish for her hound’s teeth, if only to snap at those who bothered her every moment with some triviality.
Already there were rumors swirling that she was a she-bear that Richon had brought back with him from his enchantment. She must do what she could to show her human side as much as possible. And yet there was a part of her that would always be different.
There were three women who became Chala’s particular burdens. She refused to call them ladies-in-waiting, for she had no more wish of women fluttering around her now than she had when she had been Princess Beatrice. They were kind enough, but they tended to chatter about topics of no particular interest to Chala. When she spoke of sword fighting, hunting, or running races, they gave her strange looks and seemed to have nothing to add to the conversation.
The three insisted on attending each of Chala’s fittings for her wedding gown, for they said that she would not be able to see herself clearly and that they would be better able to tell her what flattered her figure best.
The seamstress came with her best work, but Chala rejected gown after gown. One in particular Chala remembered with a shudder: lace everywhere, with a feathered hat and silver threads that a beautiful white wild bird had died to make.
“You would look like a dainty thing,” the seamstress promised as she held it out. “A woman made to adorn the arm of the king.”
“It is lovely,” said one of the not-ladies-in-waiting.
“Magnificent,” said another.
But Chala ignored them. She had not been a human woman long, but she knew what suited her and what did not.
Besides, she did not think that Richon cared a whit about whether or not she looked ornamental on his arm. He had loved her first as a hound, and as a woman he had loved her for what she could do, not for how she looked.
“Bring me something simple,” said Chala. She could wear a gown that was striking in color, she had found, but simply designed. Yet she knew that a wedding gown had to be white.
And at last the seamstress returned with a gown that was made of one piece of fabric, from the bodice to the skirt.
“It is from three seasons past,” she said, her mouth twisted. “And I never sold it then, for it was too plain for any of the noblewomen who could afford it.”
But Chala liked it immediately. It had strong lines and the fabric shimmered when it moved.
She only pulled out the ribbons at the neckline and then raised the gown over her head. She even liked the feel of it as it touched her skin and warmed to her. She smoothed out the fine fabric over her hips.
She looked up and saw the seamstress and the three not-ladies-in-waiting gaping at her.
“It suits her,” said the most thoughtful of the three. “With the starkness of the pattern, it is her face you see. The strength in it. And the love.”
“She will start a new style entirely,” said the seamstress. And she began sketching intently some new gowns that were similar.
So in the end they were not displeased with her choice.
The seamstress brought in a shoemaker later that day. He offered her dainty jeweled slippers and pinched dancing boots with heels too high to be comfortable.
In the end Chala sent him away and decided to wear instead the boots the wild man’s magic had given her when she was first transformed into a woman. They were worn, but she sent them to be cleaned, and they came back shiny and with new laces. They did not show much under the gown, but they did not shame her. And she had the added comfort of knowing that she could run in them.
Not that she expected to need to. But it was nice to know she could all the same.
The morning of the wedding she dressed herself, but allowed one of the ladies to pull her hair back from her face.
Then the music started.
The doors opened.
Chala had to force her legs to move forward.
She had no flowers in her hands. She thought it an abomination to pick living things purely for the sake of decoration.
But now her hands were clenched at her sides.
She was dry-mouthed, staring at Richon, far to the front of the palace chapel. And between the two of them, at least a thousand gaping faces.
She trembled, and tried to decide which way to go.
Toward Richon. Or away from him?
She knew which way she wanted to go. But she did not breathe until she reached his side.
Then he put his hands in hers. “Would it help for you to know that I am dripping sweat?” he said.
It did help. It made her grin and think that perhaps he sometimes felt as little suited to his role as king as she did to hers as queen.
“Don’t look at them. Look at me,” he said, pulling her closer. “It’s not them you’re marrying.”
Strangely, as soon as the ceremony was over, the noise of the cheering around her lifted her spirits. She did not mind the cannons firing at all, though dinner went on far too long, and the meat was overcooked.
That night, when at last she went to Richon’s bedchamber rather than to her own, he asked her if she was nervous. Many women were, and she was so new to her body, he said.
But she bit his ear and he did not ask any questions after that.
In the morning she woke up with Richon’s breath on her shoulder and thought that all had been worth it. Even if she had no moment past this one.
She did mention to him sometime afterward the rumors about her that she had heard whispered about the palace.
Richon went rigid and white with anger. “Who would repeat such things?” he asked. His hands twitched, as if ready for a sword to be placed in them, to defend her honor.
“It is true,” said Chala with a shrug. She was surprised that Richon had heard nothing of them himself. It meant something to her that those around him knew him well enough to see how he loved her and how it would hurt him to hear such things.
“It is not true,” Richon said flatly. “You are not a bear. You never were one.”
“But I was a hound, and I doubt that your people would see much distinction between the two. I was an animal.”
“You are human now. As much as any of them,” Richon said fiercely. “Without you I do not know if the battle would have gone as it had. I do not know if I would have taken the magic from the animals even. You guided me. And then you ensured that the cat man would never touch us with the unmagic again. You deserve their thanks and their welcome. Not these foul stories.”
“I think you must make an announcement of some sort,” said Chala.
“And say it is truth? How will that help?”
“It will help because your people will see you as strong enough to stand up against a threat.”
“And what of you? If I do as you suggest, then there will be countless jokes told about you all over the kingdom.”
“And there are not now?” asked Chala with an arched eyebrow.
“At least they are not said in your hearing,” said Richon.
“I think that you can trust me to be formidable enough that that will happen only once,” said Chala.
And so it was.
Richon did not make a public announcement, but he spoke openly of Chala’s years as a hound at his side and of her transformation.
The week after, a lack-witted noblewoman sat at dinner and mentioned casually that she thought that Chala’s teeth were rather large for her face.
Chala opened her mouth very wide and said, “And yet they are perfect for tearing flesh from bones. I always liked the taste of warm blood.”
The noblewoman went very still, then left the dinner table after a few minutes and did not return. She left the palace the following day and was not seen again.
Chala was not sorry for her.
But it stopped the rumors.