I want to take the stone heads of the statues in my hands, wrench them from their entwined bodies, and crush them to powder. I could almost believe my strength capable of the task, so hot is the fire in my veins. But I close my eyes and drag great lungsful of air down my thickened throat, in and out. With each breath, I inhale the stillness of the garden. It is, after all, a sacred place, despite what a mockery Artoris made of it so short a while ago. He and his frail sacrilege can leave no permanent stain on this ancient space, where the gods themselves have chosen to reveal some small aspect of their power.
Nornala—Goddess of Unity. This is her garden. She who graces the worlds with the joining of unlike things, creating new patterns of harmony where once was great discord. She is the patroness of my own people, who honored the blending of fae and human blood by creating for us a world all our own. A world we may have lost, but which was nonetheless formed in goodness. It was she who sent us the licorneir, who ordained the unique bond we share, and it was she who sent the ilsevel blossoms to sustain them in our world, though they themselves originated in realms beyond.
“Ilsevel,” I whisper. That name has twofold meaning for me now. I remember the shock that went through me when she first uttered it, the evening following our strange wedding night. I had wondered then if her name was a sign—an indication that we were somehow destined to meet, that her fate was bound up with that of Licorna and the Licornyn. I’d fought against the idea for a time, unwilling to reconcile my mortal understanding with that which my soul already understood.
I no longer fear the strange dichotomy of her existence in my life—my enemy’s daughter, my great love. Instead I see in it a holy design, one which I may not fully understand, but which I will no longer deny. She was always meant for my world. She was always meant for me, and I for her. Whatever else may come, on that foundation of certainty will I plant my feet.
I turn to Lyria, who stands in the doorway, framed by vines of greenery. She watches me closely, wary of sudden movements, but I spread my hands in an open gesture and draw myself straight and tall. “The gods themselves reached down from heaven to endow Ilsevel with their power and grace,” I say. “They will not let her perish until her purpose is accomplished in this lifetime.”
Lyria’s lip curls. “And you think her purpose is . . . what? To be your wife?”
“No,” I answer at once and with conviction. “To be my queen.”
13
ILSEVEL
I am dragged from bed well before the appointed time of my nuptials, giving Mother and her ladies ample opportunity to ready me for the blessed event. It is a long, laborious process of bathing, scenting, combing, preening, trimming and polishing, all in an effort to make me the most perfect version of myself. A worthy gift for my husband.
Nausea churns in my gut, right in that space where the wound throbs. I’ve always known I would be some man’s prize in whatever marriage my father arranged for me. Only, in my imagination, the groom was some stranger, like the Shadow King; a fearful but unknown entity.
I never thought I’d end up joined to a man who so openly hated me. A man whom I despise in turn. All because of a single,foolish letter . . .
I frown slightly, even as one of my mother’s ladies plucks an offending eyebrow hair. It is strange, is it not, that a letter full of stupidly-expressed passion from so long ago could motivate Artoris to leave his mage’s citadel and travel across worlds. For what purpose? Pure revenge against me? This seems out of character. While I don’t doubt Artoris would gladly take whatever revenge was most convenient, I simply don’t believe I mattered to him enough to venture so far out of his way. Maybe his hatred for me runs deeper than I thought.
Or maybe . . . there’s something else at play. Something I would understand, if only I could remember that night in Lamruil’s temple.
Lyria’s face appears suddenly in the murky glass of the mirror before which I stand. My heart jumps with surprise. I start turning to her, only for three different waiting ladies to cry out in protest. Lyria smiles over my shoulder and plucks a comb from the lady at my back. “I’ll take over this,” she says, wriggling her fingers dismissively. The lady growls with ill grace but removes herself, and Lyria takes over combing with an aggressive vigor.
My mother, becoming aware of Lyria’s arrival, turns an icy gaze from her inspection of my wedding jewels. “Your presence is not needed here,” she says sternly.
Hastily, I grab Lyria’s hand and shoot my mother a pleading gaze. “Let her stay,” I say. “I . . . She knows how I best like to style my hair.”
Queen Mereth looks down a disapproving nose. She hatesLyria with every fiber of her being, more even than she hates Lady Fyndra, her mother. But she is far too cool and collected to let such hatred get the best of her. Without a word, she sweeps from the room and into the adjoining chamber where my wedding gown is being prepared even now. I listen to her voice giving last-minute instructions about the beadwork on the hem.
Certain my mother’s attention is occupied, I look into Lyria’s eyes in the mirror glass. “Where were you?” I demand in a tight whisper.
“Sorry for abandoning you, Ilsie,” she says, which is hardly an answer. “I’ve been . . . looking for a solution.”
“A solution to what?”
“To our little problem.”
“Whichlittle problem?” There are so many to choose from these days; I’m positively awash in problems, big and small.
Lyria merely grins and taps the top of my head with the comb. “I’ll let you guess at that. But rest assured, I may have found the answer we need.”
I purse my lips, unamused by her obliqueness. “Unless you’re concocting some sort of spell that will transform Artoris into a toad at a handy moment, I’m not sure there’s much else that will help me now.”
She casts a brief glance at the two other ladies, one working on my feet, the other on my hand. Then, inclining her head close to my ear she whispers, “You might be surprised.”
To my bewilderment, she kisses my temple, tosses the combto a nearby lady, and flits once more from the room, abandoning me to my fate. I scowl at the door as it shuts behind her, some of my old dislike stirring in my breast. The least she could do is stick around until the vows are stated, the toasts all drunk, and I’m bundled off to the wedding suite for my not-so-gentle ravishing.
But she’s gone. I feel truly abandoned as the ladies, their ministrations complete, lead me to the next room. There follows the arduous process of donning my wedding gown, with its structured undergarments, its bountiful petticoats, and its many yards of embroidered gold silk, trailing from train and sleeves and shoulders in a rippling waterfall. It is a glorious creation, intended for the daughter of a king, but feels entirely out of place for such a wedding as this. I am not, after all, marrying a prince or an emperor. Just a lowly mage. A death mage at that. No one seems to care, however, as they clasp jewels around my neck, slip rings on my fingers, and top my head with an ornate gold crown set with rubies. Is all this pomp and circumstance simply to make a point? To convince the world this marriage is as the king and queen wills and not a twisting of circumstances beyond their control?
Someone carries the murky glass from the other room and sets it before me as the final laces are tied and clasps hooked in place. The creature in the mirror is a spectacle to be sure—like something right out of a fairy story, with gold cascading from every limb and bloodred stars glinting at her throat and set in her hair. She doesn’t look like me.
And over all shivers the darkness of an enwrappingnecroliphonspell—a thin film which no eyes can see, but which my soul feels with a vividness keener than sight.
