“Of course. Aunt Delia wants to make sure you actually make it there and don’t attempt to make a run for it. I have permission to use whatever means necessary to get you down to the hall on time, so if I were you, I’d get moving. We have just over four minutes before you’re officially late.”
“You’d use your magic to keep me hostage? Really?” Syrus stood and smoothed down the front of his jacket. He’d fought his mother’s attempts to put him in formal court attire and in a rare concession, she’d allowed him to wear his dress uniform, complete with the medals and accolades he’d earned after seventeen years in the military. The gold-trimmed violet sash adorned with the crest of Vaetreas couldn’t be avoided, standing out in stark relief to his black uniform.
“I’m not even half your size and my boots have four-inch heels. Magic is the only way I’d be able to stop you. Now stop stalling. You’re down to three minutes.”
Syrus groaned but allowed Xan to escort him from his room to the formal Great Hall. They even made it with a few seconds to spare.
“I was about to send the guards after you,” Caro snipped. In charge of planning and executing formal events in the palace, she had very particular opinions of what it meant to be on time and made no effort to hide her disdain for Syrus’ behavior. “Now, you will enter here on the right. Your betrothed will walk up the left aisle. The two of you will meet at the front to stand at the dais with your parents and the officiant.”
“Why are we not using the center aisle?”
“As per my explanation yesterday, it seemed imprudent to have the two of you walk up the aisle together, as is traditionally done.” Caro looked ready to throttle Syrus. In her defense, he’d been fairly drunk yesterday when she’d been explainingthe scheduling for the wedding. “Your mother felt it best to keep you both apart until the ceremony is complete.”
That made sense. She needed them both alive until they were legally bound to each other and she gained access to whatever the Canjiri had offered her in exchange for a Vaetrean prince.
“Of course. Please continue.”
Caro took a slow, measured breath. Xan’s poorly muffled laugh nearly broke Syrus’ composure, but he kept himself together. It was easier to pretend Caro was in a huff about a random ball. If he focused too hard on what was about to happen, he might actually break and run.
“Once the ceremony is complete, you will walk down the center aisle with your new husband.” Her nose wrinkled for the briefest second, betraying her feelings about Syrus’ betrothed. “I will escort you both to the dining hall. You will be required to stay at least two hours and socialize with your guests. We have kept the guest list small, only two hundred or so guests.”
“Wait, how is that small?” Syrus protested.
“You are perfectly aware that the celebrations for royal weddings usually last three days and involve hundreds of guests, between the nobility, certain military officials, foreign dignitaries, and select commoners. Given the nature of this arrangement, tradition can be set aside just this once.”
“But what about?—?”
“No more questions,” she snapped, cutting him off. “If you’d gotten here earlier, I could have explained everything in detail, but you didn’t and now it’s time. Face forward, shoulders back, head up, and act like a prince of Vaetreas.”
Before Syrus could compose himself to ask anything else, the doors opened and Caro pushed him forward, leaving him no choice but to proceed into the hall. Xan slipped in ahead of himand hurried to his seat near the front, but Syrus barely noticed. This was it. Too late to do anything but go forward.
The walk up the aisle was a blur. People filled the seats on either side of him, but he kept his gaze locked on the dais ahead of him. Tittering whispers accompanied him on the short walk and he wanted to look around to find the cause, but if he didn’t stay focused, he might never complete the trip up the aisle. Besides, once he and his betrothed stepped up onto the raised dais together, he spotted the source of the whispers.
At the betrothal ceremony, Eiri’s white ensemble with red trim hadn’t stood out among the dozens of Canjiri in similar garb. Syrus had simply assumed the raider would wear more traditional clothing for the actual wedding ceremony. Judging by the look of stony disapproval on his mother’s face, she’d clearly thought the same.
They’d both assumed quite wrong.
Rather than tailored breeches and a jacket, similar to what Syrus was wearing, Eiri wore some sort of light, silky robe with billowing sleeves that gathered at his wrists, the hem of the robe falling to his knees. The breeches he wore beneath it were more fitted, but still loose, and his soft slippers were more suited to the women in attendance, not for a man.
Still the strange outfit could have been written off as a Canjiri oddity were it not for the color. As a man, he should have been wearing black, like Syrus. Even white would be acceptable, though many would raise an eyebrow at him wearing a traditional bridal color. Instead, Eiri had opted for red. Not a muted maroon, either, but bright as a poppy. Floral designs in gold and black thread decorated the entire robe, heavier along the sleeves and back. A matching sash encircled his waist, the ends left to trail down his left hip. The trousers, at least, were black, but his slippers were the same red.
The blatant disregard for Vaetrean tradition by wearing such garish clothing at a serious event was a slap in the face. Syrus hated every second of what was happening, but he’d dressed formally so as not to embarrass his family. Eiri’s complete lack of regard showed he clearly had no intention of attempting to make this work.
Syrus had at least hoped they could go about their lives amicably, ignoring each other in private while maintaining a facade in public. Obviously Eiri didn’t feel the same. Even the officiant seemed startled, but recovered quickly.
“Let us begin the ceremony,” she declared in ringing tones that silenced the whispers and giggles of the assembled nobility. She gave Syrus an expectant look and he belatedly remembered the betrothed were to face each other and hold hands during the ceremony. He stalled just long enough to compose his features into a blank mask, then turned to face Eiri.
The raider hadn’t used the time to compose himself. He wore his hostility openly and the way he wrinkled his nose at the touch of Syrus’ hand was a clear insult, if Syrus had cared enough to take it as one. Eiri attempted to withdraw enough that only his fingertips rested in Syrus’ hands, but Syrus clasped tighter, keeping Eiri’s hands firmly trapped in his own. He knew it was a petty move even as he did it and he should probably be ashamed of how much he enjoyed the discomfort it caused, but instead, all he felt was a curl of satisfaction unwinding within him. The glare it earned him only pleased him more and he locked eyes with Eiri, a silent standoff neither was willing to break first.
Syrus held Eiri’s hands through the entire ceremony, even when the younger man subtly tried to pull back again. He repeated what he was told to say, went through the motions, and, when prompted, slipped a signet ring on the man’s finger. It was a smaller version of the one Eiri roughlypushed onto his finger a moment later, both bearing Syrus’ personal crest as a prince of Vaetreas.
After a few more words that Syrus didn’t hear, he was married, his future now bound to that of the stranger staring him down with utter contempt in his eyes.
Chapter 5
Eiri
“How long dowe have to keep this up?”
