Despite her cloak, the rain poured down Bryn’s face and seeped beneath her clothes, chilling her down to her bare skin. She gave an involuntary shiver and felt Trei move his hand to the small of her back. “Let’s get you inside, out of this weather.”
He led the way down the steps and over the muddy ground until they were at last within the walls with a roof over their head. The great hall had been beautifully transformed for thefestive occasion in stark contrast to the sullen, rain-drenched ceremony. Warm fires roared at either end of the hall, and candles flickered on each of the tables laden with bouquets of maiden roses and bountiful baskets of pastries and cheeses. Musicians struck up a rousingvelta, and now that the villagers had shed their mud-stained cloaks and were warming up with the fires and pitchers of fig brandy passed around, the ache in her head eased slightly.
“Goodness, look at you!” Helna cried. Along with Mam Delice and a team of bathhouse maids, the seamstress swept up to Bryn and attacked her damp hair and gown with towels. After a few whispers of magic and some good old-fashion scrubbing, Bryn looked less like a drowned cat and more like a proper bride.
“There now,” Mam Delice said, patting her hand. “You enjoy your party, Lady Bryn.” The old woman gave Trei, waiting at her side, an approving look. “King and Queen of the Mirien.”
“Oh, we won’t be officially coronated until we’re in Castle Mir, with my parents’ crowns,” Bryn clarified quickly. Technically, she and Trei would remain a prince and princess until then. And given that Captain Carr unjustly held control of Castle Mir, there was no telling how soon such a coronation would be possible.
Mam Delice waved away Bryn’s clarification. “You’re as good as a queen now to me. And Prince Trei, I’ve heard nothing but praise for you in my time here. If anyone can right the wrongs in the Mirien, it will be the two of you together.”
“Thank you for your blessing.” Trei took the old woman’s hand. “I am honored.”
While he spoke with the cook, Bryn couldn’t take her eyes off him.Her husband. Mam Delice’s observations were right: Trei was the kind of king who could lead a broken land to peace. As he escorted Bryn onto the dais where a special table had been set up for them, she looked out at Mir refugees dancing arm-in-armwith Baer villagers, laughing and sharing brandy. It was the first time she’d seen the two groups interact peacefully.
Maybe all of this is worth it, she thought.Our marriage is already bringing our people together.
But her heart objected to her head.
Bryn found that once she had some food in her belly, she began to feel calmer. The kitchen had outdone themselves, drizzling Mir honey over the bread and fruits in a touching tribute to her homeland. Everywhere she turned, someone was pressing a pitcher of fig brandy on her, and she soon found her headache had settled into a dizzy blur.
Leaning close to Trei, she whispered, “I don’t see Saraj in the crowd.”
He bristled for an instant, then cleared his throat. “As an official within the Baer court, she was expected to attend the wedding ceremony, but not the feast. She . . . said she wanted to be with her birds.”
Bryn swallowed, feeling awash with guilt. “I suppose I can’t blame her.”
Trei rested his hand over hers and gave a small smile, though the pain in it was clear to see. Bryn smiled back, filled with sadness for all of them—Trei, Saraj, Rangar, herself—but perhaps also a tiny drop of hope.
At one point, Roxin appeared by her side with a special bottle of apple liquor, giving her a wink. “Watch it now; this is thestrongstuff. It’s gotten many a nervous virgin bride through their wedding night.” Mischief danced in Roxin’s eyes. “That is, assuming youarea virgin, and you and Rangar never . . . ”
“Of course not,” Bryn gasped, swiping the bottle as heat rose to her cheeks. It was the first time anyone had dared to mention Rangar all day. In fact, it felt as though the entire kingdom had intentionally gone out of their way to pretend the youngest Baer prince didn’t exist.
Roxin smirked like she didn’t believe Bryn. “Well, between you and me, Trei looks like he’ll part your legs and make you forget all about Ra—”
“Shh!” Bryn hissed. She was starting to breathe hard now, and she just wanted all talk of Rangar to cease. “Thank you. For the drink.”
Roxin gave her another wink.
The feast grew raucous as the night continued. The musicians played feverishly, prompting the dancers to whirl in spins and sashays. Laughter prevailed as the attendees fell deeper into their cups. Tentatively, Bryn told herself to view this party as a fresh beginning. The rainstorm outside was her past, brooding and tragic. This feast symbolized hope for her people—and perhaps for her.
“May I have a dance?” Trei asked.
She swallowed, knowing she could hardly refuse.We’re supposed to appear happy, not broken-hearted.
“Of . . . of course.”
He took her hand and led her into the crowd, which parted to make room for them. The musicians switched to a slower tune. King Aleth pounded on the table and raised his chalice at the head table. “To the future King and Queen of the Mirien and the Baersladen!”
The crowd cheered deafeningly. All eyes turned to them expectantly, anxious to watch the first dance between the newlyweds. Bryn hesitated before lifting a shaking hand onto Trei’s shoulder.
A crash sounded nearby, and several people shrieked. At first, Bryn ignored the commotion at the other side of the hall near the gate—just some overzealous partiers, she assumed. But the musicians abruptly stopped playing.
What’s happening?Brandy slowed her mind. She turned in confusion toward the commotion, only to suck in a gasp and press a hand to her mouth.
Saints!
A mud-streaked horse and rider had crashed through the gate into the great hall. The rider, dressed in a soaking wet dark cloak with the hood pulled high overhead, spurred his horse into the crowd of dancers, who shrieked and backed away.
