This is what you wanted,I remind myself, meeting those dark eyes in the glass. They feel as though they belong to a stranger.When you were trapped in that betrothal to the Shadow King, this is the very escape of which you dreamed.
Turning from the reflection, I face my mother and spread wide my arms to show off her ladies’ handiwork. Her gaze runs over me critically, taking in each detail. “Is it time?” I ask.
As though in answer, the chapel bells begin to ring, sounding out the hour of my doom. The song they peel is one of summoning and cheer, but to my ear, they are a funereal toll.
Many years after this day—should I live that long—I doubt I will recall with any clarity the flowers festooning the chapel or the faces of my father’s courtiers come to celebrate the union of his favored daughter. I won’t recall the sweet incense rising from the altar or the way the flames seemed to dance in various colors as they reflected off the metallic surfaces of the gods’ statues, which grace this hallowed hall.
I will, however, remember the music. The choir of priests hidden in a gallery above the nave, singing traditionalprayersongs, which echo to the vaulted ceiling. Particularly one voice—one sour voice, ever-so-slightly off key. It seems to rise above all others, though I suspect no one else in all that assembly can hear it. That slight dissonance in what is meant to represent a heavenly chorus, sends a creeping shudder down my spine again and again with each swell of praise.
I lean into that feeling, welcome it almost. It's better than the awareness of Artoris’s gaze, fixed upon me with such lust-fueled loathing. It’s better than the awareness of my father and mother’s watching eyes, both so disconnected from me and my future and all that is about to happen to me when I am wed to this man.
And it is better than the keen awareness of the dark spell enwrapping my limbs and binding me to Artoris more inextricably even than marriage bonds.
He will torture me. I know it as surely as I am breathing. Tonight, when he strips bare before me, he will first show me the raw welts on his back, evidence of the lashes he took at the pillory. Then he will make me pay for every cut, every scream. Over and over again, he will make my existence hell, and he will relish doing it. I peer up into his eyes and see the promise of my own pain there, even as he speaks the holy vows fed to him by the old priest.
When my turn comes to give an answer, I can barely manage more than a whisper of sound. Certainly no songful prayer such as the onlookers expect from me, the king’s gods-gifted daughter. I hear murmurs of disapproval behind me, and it brings a grimsmile to my lips. Let them grumble. Let them fret. It’s not their life on the brink of disaster.
For some reason, the stranger’s face appears in my head—that man from the garden. Thefae, with his perfectly sculpted features and godlike build. Certainly the sort of man who will haunt a woman’s fantasies for decades to come, but it isn’t his beauty which lingers with me now. It’s the earnest look in his eye and the strange timbre of his voice when he spoke that foreign word:Zylnala.
I find myself trying to sound out the word myself, right here, kneeling at the altar, in the midst of the final prayer. Only it will not come out right. Instead my lips whisper, “Songbird.”
I frown. Why would I say that? Why am I suddenly convinced this is the meaning of that word he spoke? I cannot possibly know it, and yet . . .
Artoris catches my gaze. I’m frowning, deep in concentration, utterly oblivious to any of the nonsense the priest is saying. My bridegroom gives me a stern look, but I merely sneer back at him, then turn a wooden stare back to the priest. The poor man gives a breathy homily, something about the goodness of Nornala’s plan for man and woman—two such disparate beings, yoked together so that the wife may nurture and comfort her husband in all his worldly endeavors. I can’t help thinking it rather odd on Nornala’s part. Why does she not want better things for her female worshippers? It’s all very well for the gods to demand subjugation on a whim, but I’d expect better of a goddess.
The ceremony comes to a crescendo in a final gods-skeweringly damnable prayersong. That single off-key voice seems to soar above all others. I want to scream and clap my hands over my ears and flee the chapel in a flurry of heavy gold skirts. Before I can act, however, Artoris rises, draws me to my feet, tucks his arm around my waist and draws me close. “It’s done now, sweet bride,” he says, his breath hot against my ear. “You are mine.”
Thus the nightmare descends.
We are paraded forth from the chapel, up several flights of stairs, out to an open balcony above the Beldroth courtyard. My parents stand to one side, both clad in their most elaborate royal robes, crowns on their heads, jeweled scepters in their hands. A dignified monarch and his consort. They know the mockery this marriage is, but they will put on a worthy performance, nonetheless. Gods blight them.
A great host of faceless celebrants stand below, cheering at the tops of their voices for the princess and her new husband.You,some dull part of my brain reminds me.They’re cheering for you.That cheer seems to spread from the stone yard down the rocky promontory to where the city clusters below. Bells ring out, both far and near, and a variety of hymns crop up from different quarters, all enthusiastic, none in any way harmonic. Doves are set loose, poor things, to flutter in terror up to the battlements and away into open sky. I find my gaze fixating on one young bird, following its flight out beyond the castle walls. My eyes pursueit until it vanishes from sight into the deepening gloom of dusk.
There may be speeches given. From my father, from Artoris. I don’t care, and I’m certainly not listening. My ears thunder with a dissonance which quakes through the caverns of my soul. I’m unsteady on my feet as they shuffle me from here to there. Their pretty, smiling, golden-clad prop.
Pain slowly intensifies as the spellwork slips away, and I must fight the urge to grab Artoris and beg him to slip away with me to some private place where he can reassert his magic. But I don’t dare—I know what he’ll do the instant he gets me alone. I want to putthatoff as long as possible.
So I brace myself. When Artoris offers his arm to lead me down to the wedding banquet, I don’t cling to him for support, merely rest my fingertips lightly against the embroidered fabric of his fine Miphates robe. We proceed to the banquet hall. King Larongar and Queen Mereth precede us and take their seats of prominence at the head table. Meanwhile, some overeager trumpetists blare a fanfare to announce our arrival, and all the gorgeously clad court stand to greet us.
My eyes sweep the assembly. All these faces I know quite well seem like strangers to me now. As though I’ve lived a whole lifetime apart from them and returned to find no friends in their midst.
A hasty search for Lyria discerns no trace of my recalcitrant half-sister. She seems to have abandoned me, here in my final hours. Faithless wench.
To my relief, I am seated on my mother’s left, while Artoris is granted a place of favor on my father’s right. A reprieve from my new husband is just what I need, and I sink gratefully into my chair and immediately lift my goblet, signaling the servants for wine.
Mother leans heavily to one side. She still holds her scepter in one hand, like a weapon she’s ready to wield against any lurking foe. “You look terrible,” she whispers from the corner of her mouth. “You need to smile more.”
“I thought I was smiling.”
“No, you’re grimacing.” She turns her head, looking me straight in the eye. For a moment all her queenly grace vanishes in a sharp expression. “You cannot let anyone know what you truly think or feel. Ever. You must keep your armor up at all times if you hope to survive.”
It’s the most real advice she’s ever bothered to offer me. I lift an eyebrow and lean back casually in my chair. “Survive what, Mother dear?” My words are bitter. “My wedding night?”
“Life,” she breathes.
The next moment she withdraws, and her face assumes that familiar cool mask. My father says something, and she offers a chilly laugh that sends a little shiver down the back of my neck.
“A toast!” cries someone from one of the lower tables. “To the happy new couple.”
