Except he isn’t. Not by full blood. Not in the only way that matters.
Astrophel presents his arm. I extend my right hand, will it steady. He dips his head and presses cold lips to it. A shiver passes through me.
Stupid treacherous body.
‘You look very fine this evening.’ A flush steals over Astrophel’s cheeks and he looks away. I realise this is the first time my betrothed has seen me uncovered since his return. The first time he’s seen me as a woman grown.
He speaks in the cut-crystal, nasal drone the coterie cultivate now, all traces of his former peakish accent buffed smooth. Silver-tongued, I’ve heard him called. But though his words may be courteous, there’s little warmth in them, and his pale-grey eyes are hard as agate. They remind me of my father’s, and the resemblance doesn’t stop there. The lines of discontent graven on the King’s face have yet to etch themselves around Astrophel’s eyes and lips, but it’s only a matter of time. There’s already a disdainful edge to them, his mouth permanently curled between a smirk and a sneer.
Astrophel’s eyes settle on the diadem I’m wearing. He nods towards it. ‘It met with your approval, I trust?’ The flatness in his voice gives me to understand he doesn’t particularly care either way.
I try to discern a glimmer of sentiment in his eyes, something to prove he’s finding this as awkward and difficult as I am. But he’s gazing at some far-off point in the distance, nostrils flared, jaw set hard.
I thread my free hand through the crook of his arm. As he turns, drawing me into the hallway, a shaft of jewelled moonslight from the rose window drapes across him, catching on something. Stars above, he’s wearing a Crescent Sword.
At twenty, Astrophel is surely the youngest recipient of this honour. Oh, how he must have loved that. Pathetic, the pair of us, the way we crave the scraps of my father’s approval. But I’m the bigger fool – I should know by now Astrophel takes all the crumbs. There’s never anything left for me.
I grit my teeth and nod towards the blade. ‘I see congratulations are in order.’
Astrophel can’t contain the look of pride that spreads over his face. ‘Best not keep the King waiting.’ His spit-shined boots turn down the Long Walkway.
I hate him. Stars, how I hate him.
I’m forced to lengthen my strides to keep up with Astrophel, easier said than done in these ridiculous slippers. The walkway seems to narrow as we process towards the central staircase, the gleaming starcrystal walls closing in on us.
I’d pinch myself, to make sure everything that just transpired with Orthriel in the Reliquary wasn’t a fever-dream, but there’s no need. Noelani’s letter weighs down the chatelaine around my waist and the crystalline pulse of the starstone is steady against my palm. Faint but irrefutable.
My mouth is dry as we descend the glistening steps in silence, walking at a dirge-pace because of my train. A cool draught circles the stairwell. It bites my exposed collarbones, carrying with it a familiar honeyed scent cut with musk. I crick my neck. Delicate garlands of white starflowers rope the domed vestibule. One’s fallen loose, a noose of white petals dangling in mid-air.
Astrophel stops abruptly before the entrance to the Watching Chamber. I almost trip over my feet. He turns, looks down the long bridge of his nose at me, and his serene, courtly façade splinters. His eyes narrow and sharpen, his jaw locks so hard I worry he’ll crack his perfect teeth.
‘There’s no need to overexcite yourself, Princess.’
He’s noticed my racing pulse, then?
His lips twist as though he’s eaten something foul. ‘Once I’ve sired an heir, we need only see each other at public engagements. I shan’t bother you.’
My stomach clenches. I tighten my grip on the Celestial Chain.
Silver-tongued? More like forked.
Astrophel bends towards me, lips grazing my ear. ‘I know you tried to run. That you don’t want this binding.’
My skin crawls at his throaty whisper.
‘I would not choose it, either. But unlike you, I’ve been preparing to shoulder my duty – my responsibilities – for as long as I can remember. I suggest, for once, you do the same. Think of the realm before yourself.’
I twist my upper body to escape his warm, tickling breath.
A way out – that’s what Orthriel called Noelani’s letter. And in this moment, there’s nothing I want more.
The consequences of interrupting the binding ceremony flash through my mind, rising along with the phantom scent of rosemary: I’d be forced to join the Veiled Sisters, permanently banished, denied even the right to visit my mother’s deathbed.
But what if there doesn’t have to be a deathbed?
Everything within me recoils at the thought of embracing my curse, of setting any faith in Noelani’s last prophecy. The prospect of revoking the Sickening might be an impossible fiction, as plausible as the more fantastical creation myths within the Book of Starlore. But I can’t ignore Noelani’s letter… I’ll have to at least tell my father of its existence. Because what if I can save her? Perhaps countless others too…
Astrophel parroting my father’s slurs about my dereliction has decided me. The letter gives me a chance to prove myself, to show the King I do understand the meaning of duty. That I am fit to rule.
