Alarik spent the day before his wedding in a daze. He drifted through the halls of Grinstad like a ghost, trying not to think about Greta Iversen, and failing at every turn. He spent the morning sulking in his art studio, painting the weaver elk in the grazing fields, his fingers itching to add his wrangler there, too, immortalizing the afternoon they had spent laughing and riding together. He refrained, sticking to the landscape and the beasts, smudging brushstrokes of amber and pink across the sky. It was beautiful, and hollow. Devoid of the joy that marked that day in his memory, and yet it would look pretty, he supposed, hanging on a wall.
When Anika came by with coffee and fresh pastries, she suggested he make a wedding gift of it to Elva. He had presented no argument. After all, they were to be married. After all, wasn’t that what a good husband did? Gave thoughtful presents to his wife, and not to his wrangler?
Despite his low mood, he was glad of his sister’s company, and eager to learn of her adventures overseas, of her lover, Celeste, and their plans for the future now that she had been cured of the terrible sickness that had befallen her some months before.Indeed, it was quite the story, a journey that had taken Celeste’s brother, Captain Marino Pegasi, far beyond the known maps of their world to an island that glittered with strange magic and was guarded by fierce mermaids. A dangerous quest made possible by the kind of dauntless family loyalty that Alarik could only admire.
While Elva spent the day with her lady’s maids, no doubt primping and preening for the wedding, Alarik passed the rest of the afternoon in his bedroom, pacing a hole in the carpet. It was there he took an early dinner, barely picking at his food, sitting under a portrait of a stern-faced King Soren.
Tomorrow, I will do my duty as king, he silently promised his father.
Tomorrow, I will save our kingdom.
Tomorrow, I will make you proud of me.
It was a strange feeling to do something that made others proud of you, and yet to feel no pride in yourself. Only defeat.
By the time Lief arrived for his final wedding fitting, carrying an armful of doublets and frock coats, the fight had gone out of Alarik entirely. He stood by the window as the steward flitted around him like a chatty butterfly. Alarik stared past him, watching the Fovarr Mountains tremble, imagining the beast that stirred deep within. Every so often, fresh drifts of snow thundered down the slope, the avalanches growing bigger and thicker with each passing day.
The problem would have to keep until after the wedding. Once the war was won, he would deal with the beast. Somehow.
Night fell, cold and starless and far too quiet. Or perhaps Alarik’s thoughts were simply too loud. He left his bedchamber to pace the palace halls, hoping the exercise would wear his mind out. It was an effort to keep himself away from the forest to see if she was out there, singing to his beasts, but he had promised himself not to be selfish with Greta.
No matter how badly he wanted to be.
He went instead to the library, where he lit a fire and made a stack of his most treasured books from childhood – the ones his father had read to him, Anika and Ansel, during winter solstices when even the king of Gevra found himself with the day off. Alarik sat in Ansel’s favourite chair and lost himself in ancient tales of brave pirates and buried treasure, and mermaids that swam far beyond the edges of the map.
It was here that his mother found him in the middle of the night. Queen Valeska was wearing her velvet dressing gown and fur slippers, her long hair wound into tight curlers ahead of tomorrow’s festivities. She lowered herself into the chair opposite him.
‘Can’t sleep?’ he said, setting his novel aside.
‘Nanna saw you walking the halls. She was worried about you.’
Nanna should learn to mind her own business.
He swallowed his cruelty. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you nervous about tomorrow?’
He shook his head. Tomorrow wasn’t the problem. It was the rest of his life. ‘I’m sure Lief has it all in hand.’
‘Well, it is his greatest life’s work.’
‘How sad for him.’
His mother surprised him with a trill of laughter. ‘Even despite Lief’s most admirable efforts, there is a lingering issue we must address.’
‘Oh?’ he said, his brows lifting.
‘You’ll recall the unfortunate issue with Herbert’s cello.’
‘Vividly.’
‘Well, we have lost our string quartet over it. And Princess Elva cannot walk down the aisle in silence.’
Alarik hummed. ‘I could have Borvil roar for her?’
Her lips twisted. ‘I’m not sure King Nilas would approve.’
‘Then have a servant do it,’ said Alarik, with a shrug. ‘There must be someone around here who can sing.’
