She hesitates. Which is disturbing in itself; Lyria is not a woman given to hesitation. “It’s some kind of obscure witchcraft,” she says at last, choosing her words carefully. “Very dangerous. I—they—the Miphates, you know—they’ve done their best to root it out of your system, but it seems as though there are residual strands.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Did Artoris tell you this?” I cannot imagine him or any Miphato wasting any time on witchcraft, which everyone knows is considered low magic and an abomination. They burn witches in some parts of Gavaria even to this day.
Lyria hums softly, neither denial nor affirmation, merely a sound of acknowledgement. She won’t quite meet my eye. “They say the curse will die off naturally if you do nothing to strengthenit. But even a stray memory could feed it, could make it stronger. Strong enough to kill you even now, if you do not take care.”
Turning from her, I study my reflection in the long dim mirror standing close to the window to catch its light. So many mysteries! So much emptiness in my head where there should be clarity. It’s strange to look back to my last clear memory, to the night of my betrothal, and see in that space a girl who is so little like me. Angry, defiant, frustrated, and trapped, yes. Futile in all her endeavors, brimming with mingling self-righteousness and self-loathing. I am still she, perhaps—but I cannot help feeling that I have become more. If I could only remember, if I could only rediscover that version of myself who knew how to take up arms against my troubles rather than sitting by in furious passivity. But she—whoever she is—seems to be lost in those blank spaces in my mind.
I turn slightly, taking in the sight of myself in that ceremonial gown. Strange to think I wore it only recently, when I underwent this same heartfasting ceremony with King Vor. That moment came and went from my life without leaving any lasting impression. I can’t help thinkingsomethinghappened . . . something I should recall, but cannot put my finger on.
Artoris’s dark spellwork still encases my body. I lift a hand, watch the liquid-like play of magic moving across my skin, not truly visible to the eye, but strangely present nonetheless. Clinging, cloying. Like a black oil spill. My intended bridegroom has returned several times over the last few days to reassertthe spell. Lyria has always been present on those occasions; otherwise, I’ve seen little of him.
I wonder if his spellwork has suppressed my emotions as well as my pain. I suspect I should be much angrier at the prospect of being married off to Artoris, but as it is, I just feel a numb sense of inevitability. My eyes move in the murky glass, rising from contemplation of the gown to meet my own gaze. “Got what you deserved in the end, didn’t you?” I murmur. The version of myself in the mirror smiles without mirth.
“It’s time,” Lyria says. She carefully arranges the heavy veil over my head and face, a shield for my maidenly virtue which strikes me as utterly incongruous. I feel neither maidenly nor virtuous as I turn from the mirror and march for the door, still a little unsteady on my feet, despite days of healing. Pausing at the door, I turn to look back at Lyria, who carries the train of my gown. “I want to thank you,” I say, blurting out the words rather abruptly. “For standing between me and Artoris these last several days. It . . . it meant a great deal to me.”
She looks unhappy, her mouth severely downturned. “Ilsevel,” she says in a low voice, “after the wedding, I won’t be ableto—”
I cut her off with a sharp gesture. “I know. I know it was probably useless in the long run. But I appreciate your efforts even so. Just knowing you tried to protect me makes me feel a little less . . . alone.”
The bells continue ringing below, an obnoxious clamor. I cast an irate gaze out my window and mutter, “What are they making all that racket over?” Then, gathering my skirts in both hands, I leave the chamber behind.
Artoris will be escorted in silent procession down to the sacred courtyard at the bottom of the garden where the heartfasting vows will be exchanged. My father will be part of that party, along with all the chief members of his court and any young men Artoris invites to participate. Their voices will be raised in taunts and jeers, making a mockery of the holy ceremony. The bride’s procession is rather different. I too have an entourage, made up of noble ladies of the court and unwed maidens, all dressed in a brilliant garden of colors, singing sacred songs as they go.
My own entourage is not so impressive as one might expect for the last surviving princess of the House of Cyhorn. My mother waits to meet me at the top of the garden, clad, not in black, but in dark, somber blue, as close to mourning garb as she can manage without overtly offending the traditions of this occasion. She has three ladies of court with her, including my father’s mistress, Fyndra, who hovers ever close to the queen’s side, an inescapable thorn in her flesh. Fyndra smiles in greeting; my mother does not.
Queen Mereth surveys me with cold disinterest as I approach, Lyria at my heels. She does not wear the face of a mother whose child has been returned to her from beyond the grave. “You lookwell, Ilsevel,” she says after a long appraisal. Her gaze seeks mine beneath the heavy beading of my veil. “So. Here we are again.”
I bite my lip, but cannot seem to stop my wayward tongue. “Not quite the advantageous match you once envisioned for me, is it, Mother?” I tilt my head to one side, offering what might pass for a smile. “Are you really going to stand aside and watch me throw my life away on a mage?”
The queen’s mouth firms into a hard line. It’s difficult to imagine this woman ever giving way to any soft or tender feelings. “You’ve always been a willful creature,” she says, bitterness coating each word. “Even now, returning from the grave to wed this man . . .” She stops abruptly and shakes her head, seeming to remember the occasion and what it requires of her. “I hope you get everything you ever hoped for,” she finishes. But judging by her tone, she means,everything you deserve.
“I’m sure I will, Mother,” I answer with a brittle laugh. “I’m quite primed to languish in the mire of all my foolish mistakes, have no fear.”
Mother leads the procession down into the Beldroth gardens. These are still drab from a long winter, but signs of a new spring are beginning to appear here and there. It’s strange to see all that life on the verge of blooming when my own existence seems to be narrowing down into the confines of a living grave. I long for Faraine and Aurae’s presence; the entourage is singularly bereft in their absence.
Partway through the garden my mother begins to sing, leadingthe women in sacred chorus. It is a song of call and response, and I am meant to sing my own part solo. It occurs to me that I have not sung once since waking in my bed, wrapped in spellwork, all those days ago. It feels as though all music has been stripped from my soul. When it comes to my part in the sacred melody, I simply hold my tongue, allow the silence to linger awkwardly.
“Ilsevel,” my mother says sternly, turning to look back at me. “You dishonor the Goddess with your silence.”
“Do I?” I tilt my head beneath the heavy veil. “How sad.”
Queen Mereth looks at me long and hard. The skin around her eyes tightens. Then she covers the distance between us in a few strides and draws her hard face close to mine. “You’ve already spoiled your own chances,” she hisses, as though the women gathered cannot hear every word loud and clear. “You’ve ruined your two sisters, destroyed every hope I once cherished for their prospects and for yours. You’ll kindly oblige me by, at the very least, going through with this farce of a marriage with some dignity.”
I meet her gaze without flinching, reading in her eyes all the pain of her own disappointed dreams. Trapped in a loveless marriage, she poured everything into idealized futures for her own four children. Now what? Aurae is lost, Faraine banished to the Shadow Realm as a substitute bride. My older brother, Theodre, is long gone as well, so they tell me. I am all that remains of Mereth’s legacy. And here I stand, with my bastard half-sister at my back, on my way to wed a man without title or eminence, aworker of black magic. How very disappointing for her.
I smile—without warmth, without love, merely answering her own expression in kind. “You can sing my part, Mother,” I say, “if it makes you feel better. But I do not feel like singing today.”
With those words I sweep past her and, Lyria carrying my train behind me, hasten through the garden, leaving my entourage behind. A flurry of furious whispering erupts behind me, but no one tries to protest or take up that hymn once more. I know the way to the sacred courtyard set apart for this ceremony; I’ve walked all these garden paths hundreds of times and could navigate them blindfolded with ease.
We reach the little mossy door set in a stone wall. I pause a moment, hesitating before I enter. Lyria tries to catch my eye, but I won’t look at her. So she merely reaches out, opens the door, and steps aside to let me pass through. Alone. I duck under the low lintel, leaving her behind to shut the door fast in my wake.
For a moment I simply stand, taking in the sacred grove before me.
Spring has progressed more rapidly in this space, possibly due to whatever holiness infuses the ground. Green vines climb the walls, which surround me on all sides, budding with white and purple blooms. Flowering shrubs grow tall and a trifle wild, delicate yellow blossoms like sunbursts in their dark green branches. Early bulbs put forth their jewel-tone bounty, and a sweet, complicated perfume fills my nostrils.
In the center of the yard stands a large stone basin filled with clear water. A statue rises in its center, the sculpted image of a man and a woman, locked in eternal embrace. Her back is to him, but she turns her head to accept his kiss. One of his hands caresses her jaw while the other gently cups her breast. A tender moment, the sight of which makes my heart ache strangely. I know no such tenderness awaits me in the arms of my intended bridegroom. And yet, why is it that the sight of that couple, rendered in marble, feels so strangely familiar?
I press my hand against my bare breast, palm covering that place over my heart that feels so empty, so bereft. Once again I find myself straining after a memory that will not come, but the lack of it fills me with mourning so heavy, it threatens to break my spirit.
