“How can we be certain?” Whelan’s voice was duller than Madan had heard it in a long time. Flat and hopeless. “She hasn’t even gotten to the book yet. Assuming Emillie’s correct and that book has what we need.”
Madan sighed. Of course he was right. They couldn’t know for certain whether or not they had all the supplies, or if the book Ariadne now risked her life to get would have the proper ritual. His foolhardy, impulsive sister hadn’t thought it all through. Not the repercussions, not the threat to her own life, and certainly not what she’d do if, after all of this was said and done, the book held nothing but poetry that Emillie had misinterpreted based on the notes.
“We have the spring water,” Madan said, blowing on the next bite of stew so it wouldn’t scorch his mouth. “We preserved the moonlight flowers—”
“And Phulan took leaves and branches from the Keonis Tree,” Whelan finished. “But what do wedowith it all?”
“We pray to Keon that everything is going precisely as it needs to.”
Chapter 3
Loren Gard had never dreamed of his wedding night. Never spent the time or energy imagining what it would be like to stand before the High Priestess in the Temple of Keon and watch his bride join him on the dais. Never wondered what it would feel like to finally sink his fangs or cock into the woman he would be bound to for the rest of his life—not when he already had centuries of experience doing both with whomever he chose.
Rather, he plotted it out step by step, hour by hour, and moment by moment. He knew, by the time he reached the Temple the night of his wedding, precisely where he would stand and how, because he had watched those before him, made mental notes, and knew he could be better. And, gods, he knew precisely how he would take his new wife home and have her begging him formoreby midday.
So Loren took his place on the dais as a King had every right to do—Nikolai Jensen, the King’s Sword, in his silver armor at the base—wearing the one thing he had not anticipated throughoutall of his planning. The fine suit of black stitched with crimson, his tailcoat hiding a fine red silk inner lining, and boots that gleamed in the candlelight were all good and well. Revelie Ives had done her job exquisitely despite her repeated complaints that she was not a tailor. Even the finely-crafted rings of gold on his fingers sparkled just right, yet they were still not the priceless piece he now cherished.
No, it was the crown of gold inlaid with brilliant rubies and etched with fine designs that all of his planning had missed. It rested upon his brow, warm now that it had been set there prior to his departure from the castle, and over his silver hair. That pretty, redheaded servant he had taken from Alek Nightingale’s manor—he could never remember her name, nor did he care to—had smoothed and pulled all of his hair back to be held by a crimson ribbon at the nape of his neck. A simple style. Nothing flashy or intricate or unnecessarily gaudy like twin braids when he need not impress anyone.
As guests entered to take their seats, they stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed low to Loren, and right they should. He greeted each until the Temple had filled, and those who could not stand along the back of the pews were forced to retreat into the autumn drizzle. Perhaps if they had been prompt, they would not be treated as such.
The door at the back of the Temple opened with a flourish, drawing the eyes of all those gathered to the High Priestess of Keon as she swept into the room. Her cinched, long grey robes swept around her like shadows crawling from the depths of the Underworld. An ethereal glow seemed to emanate from her dark brown skin, each deep crease of age highlighted by the vitality she still bore. The gauzy grey veil, held in place by a circlet of foliage and antlers with the symbol of Keon at its center, rested upon her head with a regality even he dared not contest.
Loren eyed the door. Only three remained unaccounted for, though they were expected to be the last of those admitted. With his retinue awaiting them at the old Caldwell Manor, he did not worry about their attendance. His soldiers would ensure his bride’s safe and timely arrival, whether those two meddlesome friends wanted her to go through with their union or not.
No sooner had he finished his thought on how he would punish Camilla and Revelie if they attempted to thwart their wedding than the doors opened once more, making way for the very pair of Caersan women he plotted against.
Blood boiling at the sight, Loren held back the sneer that threatened to disrupt his calm façade. Of course, Camilla Dodd would wear the most outrageous gown she could imagine, drawing the attention of the guests who began whispering behind their hands to one another. So much for the tamed version of her from before her father’s departure to Eastwood Province. At least Revelie Ives had the courtesy of wearing something more appropriate for the wedding—if only just.
They stepped forward, making way for the true gem of the evening. The murmurs rose in excitement as his bride drew nearer, still not yet fully revealed to him, thanks to the tradition of her being hidden behind members of her family. If only herfriendshad not decided they would tarnish the custom that was reserved for guardians.
Yet this was something Loren had anticipated. As such, he gave Nikolai a brusque nod to enact his own plan. His Sword, without hesitation, stepped forward and pivoted to stand before the women, facing the dais with his head held high. As Ariadne’s previous Elit, he held more right over his future bride’s place than anyone else in the Temple. Behind Nikolai, the pair of women had the audacity to share an aghast look between them.
“Whose blood do you present?” The High Priestess raised her voice as though nothing about what had just occurred was unusual.
Before either Camilla or Revelie could respond, Nikolai proclaimed, “The blood of Ariadne Harlow.”
Only then did Nikolai return to his place near Loren. To his utmost satisfaction, Camilla and Revelie also stepped aside and stood at the foot of the dais.
Loren could not hold back the smirk of triumph at the sight of Ariadne before him. Her gown of ivory and gold was fit for royalty, and the veil obscuring her face was held in place by a gold tiara sparkling with the same stunning rubies as his own. Tilting her unseen face up toward him, Ariadne’s shoulders shifted as she inhaled deeply.
The High Priestess continued, “And to whom is it given?”
Unlike that uncultured half-breed, Loren was ready for the question and did not hesitate in his response, “King Loren Gard. I shall be its keeper.”
“Rise, Chosen of Keon,” the High Priestess said, speaking directly to Ariadne as Loren held out his hand to her, “and take your place before me.”
Ariadne laid her hand in his, and he guided her up the steps to stand on the opposite side of the obsidian column. Her fingers lingered on his palm for a heartbeat longer before she pulled back to twist them into the skirt of her gown.
“Nervous, my pet?” Loren whispered, leaning a little closer.
She loosed a soft breath. “Excited.”
Before he could respond with his confirmation that he felt the same, the High Priestess began the ceremony. “Since the conception of our world, the union of two souls has marked the beginning of a new life.”
She continued as she pulled a knife from one of the many satchels dangling from the belt at her waist. “As we stand herein the Temple of Keon, it is critical that we remember the God of the Underworld’s teachings. Between each celestial being, it is Keon who understands the grave importance of such unions, for he alone entwined himself with a mortal soul.”
A foolish mistake, in Loren’s opinion. Though even he did not stand to question a god as powerful as Keon, he certainly had his feelings on the matter. Given the opportunity, Loren would never have tied himself to someone as weak and powerless as a human slave. Anwen never tempted another god for a reason: she was a useless vessel who happened to wield a beautiful voice. Like all other mortals, she aged and died and left Keon where he started—alone and miserable.
