Miry blinked stupidly up at Zakroti for a moment, finally shaking her head to clear it. She took the bowl back and placed it where it wouldn’t be disturbed, though she paused a moment to place a bite of some sort of starchy root vegetable, similar to a potato in consistency at least, into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, reconstructing her thought. 

[i]’I mean, I’m sure you know everything I’m about to say, but-‘[/i] she paused, scrubbing at the air with her hand as though erasing that thought. [i]’Though actually, I’m not certain. The history as it was written is not often told to even our children anymore; I can’t imagine how it’s spun across the mountains. The agreement between our kingdoms has not always been like this - most of our great houses still push the narrative that it has, of course, I daresay because they don’t want to admit how badly our tradition has fallen apart.’[/i] she wrinkled her nose in distaste of her fellows and took another bite of stew. [i]’But I was fortunate enough to get to read not one but two manuscripts, originals that date back to twelve hundred and eight of the fourth era - you know, three years after the first agreement, and though the context of them both have been hotly debated, at least that of the almanac of Saranea-‘[/i] she cut herself mid-sign, her fingers pausing in the middle of drawing the particular scholar’s enormous and oft-cited beard. Certainly the Drakkan lord who sat beside her did not care to be regaled with the intricacies of a long-dead Gemmenite court historian’s narrative. [i]’Sorry, I - particulars aside, you know, it was called the Great Council for a reason. Representatives of fifty five noble houses and associated scholars convened with Drakkan lords for two weeks of negotiations and wrote a contract - sorry, I’m sure you know that, too -‘ [/i] she shook her head slightly. 

[i]’The long and short of it is, well, the Drakken did not break their contract. We broke ours. The exchange of goods and services was not unlike most, if you ignore that living people were among those goods taken forward and back across the Spine. Under the En’delare dynasty,’[/i] the namesign trailed down from the crown of her head to her shoulders; the royals who had held power since the dawn of the fourth era were known for the length of their hair, their rule, and their lives. [i]’the choosing was voluntary, and families were taken care of in the absence of their daughters. It was a deeply flawed system, of course, but struggling families were often quick to offer up their children for the royal stipend, and seldom were the brides anyone of importance, so - it was peaceful enough.’[/i] 

She gritted her teeth. [i]’When the crown passed over to the Aralenderals, the first king- woefully young and naive, though his heart was in the right place, made certain changes to the program. He found it hideously objectionable to trade goods for young women - entirely understandably - and so no longer offered the stipend, and so within two years there were no longer enough volunteers. And so the Drakkan lords stopped asking.’[/i] Her handsigns were sharp, small, and deft, pointed and distant from herself. [i]’Gone were the festivals and open markets and proud public gatherings. Drakken came in the dead of night and snatched away girls who were previously untouchable. And you know, as the years have gone on they’ve stopped listening to the old guidelines, because we broke the treaty first, so. They take so many girls every year, now,  those too young or old, those already promised in marriage, those already set to inherit, those who-‘[/i] she trailed off again, a shiny rock on the ground catching her attention and holding it. 

Under agreed upon circumstances, she never would have been taken. She was too young, the heir, and besides that, fae-touched. Stupid, to some, but her mother had been too stubborn to let anyone plant that idea in her head. Just, different. She saw things too brightly and heard things too loudly and thought of things and words just [i]differently[/i] from most people. 

Still, most didn’t see it as a gift. She very vividly remembered freezing up in their lessons, being shoved against the bricks of the fortress, the guards and even the other brides talking over her head about how slow and dumb she was.

She shivered slightly, refocusing and chancing a glance up at Zak. 

[i]’if they weren’t following the rules you might’ve gotten my prettier sister, not me. But apparently, they still take volunteers.’[/i] Her signs were sharp and bitter, eyes clouded by tears. She wondered how much he’d been told of her - presumably not much; most lords likely didn’t care the circumstances of where their brides came from.

She was sure she’d bored him with her ranting, but also perhaps not; his comment about languages gave her considerable pause.

She’d thought it more of a Gem thing, to be gifted with so many words of so many people. As future Warden, she had been under a particular expectation to know as many different languages as possible, though most of the ones she knew were quite archaic and, as some scholars put it, ‘dead’. 

[i]’It was my job, or, well, was going to be my job, to know how to read and write as many languages as I could, or that was part of it.’[/i] The warden’s job was far more than just a scribe’s work, but that was a large part of it, too.

She chanced a tiny smile up at the man who was to be her husband. She could make this work. There was much to be learned, here.