“No,” Amielle whispered back. “The wedding’s at noon. Look, the bride is coming now.”
A ripple went through the Seragians on the pier, and the vibrant mass parted to open a path that led straight from the galleys to the main square and the foot of the dais where Amril stood. It looked like magic, like the sea splitting in two, like sunlight carving a golden road through the waves.
“How are we going to recognize—” Melia started and immediately stopped when a figure stepped on the gangplank of the main galley. She was dressed in white, but a white so bright it made all other shades of white look gray, so brilliant it looked like the fabric was spun out of the light itself. She walked slowly, carefully, and alone. As she stepped onto the pier, a procession of women formed behind her, dressed in the imperial purple and gold. Music followed her footsteps—not loud, brash fanfare, but dreamy strings, gentle as the lapping of the waves and the whisper of the wind.
The crowd in the square fell silent and not a soul moved. You could have heard a pin drop as the Seragian carevna walked to the dais. It was five hundred steps or more, and she took her time, allowing everyone to ogle her attire. The wind picked up the fabric of her overskirt and sleeves, diaphanous and so light it created an illusion of weightlessness. The bodice and the skirt underneath encapsulated her body in heavy satin, shining likepolished steel. The belt and the diadem that held her veil were encrusted in pearls set in white gold.
“I expected this,” the princess said, “and yet…”
And yet. Melia closed her eyes to protect them from the imperial flare, and her mind wandered back to the weather-beaten stones of Syr, to the empty rooms with worm-eaten furniture and threadbare carpets, to the austerity and the grind of the endless war. Every pearl in that diadem was drenched in blood, and the carevna’s wedding dress was just as red as Melia’s had been.
As the Seragian procession approached, Amril stepped down from the dais, followed by Amron and a dozen noblemen, including Amielle’s husband, Erian of Leven. It became clear to Melia why Queen Orsiana had fussed so much about the clothes for the ceremony, why every fabric, every shade, and every cut had to be approved. A tiny spark of admiration for her flickered in Melia’s chest. It was a hard task not to be completely overshadowed by the Seragian women’s attire, but Amril and his men managed to pull it off. The crown prince, in a blue so dark it was almost black, was the perfect contrast to his glowing bride.
They met on the square beneath the dais, in a large circle formed by the guardsmen. Even with the diadem on her head, the carevna barely reached his shoulder.
“Welcome to Abia, Carevna Aratea,” Amril said in Seragian.
His bride lifted her veil, revealing a heart-shaped face so pale it matched her dress. From where she stood, Melia could see enough to decide she was no great beauty, just a short girl with thick red braids framing her serious face.
“Thank you,” the carevna replied in perfect Amrian. “My father the emperor sends his greetings.”
Amril took her hand and the procession moved on a carefully planned route that took them through the widest streets of the town, scrubbed until the stones shone for this occasion, andstrewn with flowers. Every street corner offered a new scene: landscapes painted so vividly you felt you could step into them, plays and songs, and people cheering. Melia searched for disgruntled faces in the crowd and couldn’t find a single one. Food was free for all, and so was the wine, and it looked as if it were really that easy to make people happy, at least for a day.
The procession circled around Abia and came back to the royal dais on the main square, which was now empty and had transformed into the wedding altar. A priestess of Lada, crowned with flowers and dressed in red, waited to bless the union.
As Amril and his bride faced the priestess—their figures perfectly visible from any corner of the square—as they said the words and performed the rites, Melia expected to see something magical happen. Every scene, every move that led from the arrival of the ships to this moment, had been so masterfully arranged. This was the finale. Surely, the gods would give a sign that they blessed a union as great as this.
She prayed for a sign. If the gods approved of this union, then any kind of rebellion was futile. The future of the kingdom had already been decided, and it was peace.
But try as she might, Melia saw no special signs of divine goodwill. Oh, it was beautifully arranged: the golden chalice adorned with rubies that glimmered in the sunlight, the trained alto of the priestess, projecting perfectly over the crowd, the choir hidden behind the dais, with their celestial voices. The crowd surely thought it enchanting.
And yet, all Melia could see was Amril’s impatience and contempt hidden behind his beautiful mask. And the bride: She didn’t even believe in these gods, they were powerless in Seragia, where their one god, the almighty Sha, ruled with an iron hand and an army of priests. Their promises were as solid as the clouds sailing over the brilliant sky.
Melia’s eyes filled with tears; she blinked and the scene fell into colorful fragments like a stained glass window shattered by a gale.
Chapter 17
Liana
No servants’ quarters,no cozy room in the attic this time for Liana. The guards dragged her to the basement of the palace, to a stale windowless hole with nothing but a rough wooden bench and a chamber pot in the corner. They left her no light, no blanket to fight off the chill, no water. When the key turned in the lock and their footsteps faded away, she touched the thick wooden door, trying to find a weakness, but it was in vain. After an hour or so of pacing wildly, raging about her own stupidity, she finally curled up on the hard bench. The precious moments slipped away, wasted. Somewhere above her, the bloody plot had been set in motion, spreading, gaining speed as she trembled in the dark, powerless and forgotten. By the time someone found her, it would all be over.
Exhausted, she shivered on the bench. Her arm had stopped bleeding and already her body was rushing to repair itself, but that just worsened the pain. Her skin burned as if a wild cat had clawed her from head to toes, and her throat was swollen and raw. Yet the physical pain was nothing compared to the self-loathing she doused herself in.
She’d been so unforgivably stupid, thinking she could deal with the priestess alone. She’d stumbled into a trap and made a terrible fool of herself. And what was worse, she’d failed to help anyone.
But what could she have done alone? The idea that she could stop the wheel of history from crushing them all just because she was aware of what was coming was a fool’s hope. There was notime for smart plans, for devious schemes, and even if there had been, Liana had never had a head for tactics. All she knew was that Amron was married to a traitor whose murderous priestess was on the loose somewhere in Abia.
She closed her eyes, trying to feel the space around her. Perhaps if she could step behind these walls, there would be a way out.
“Mother,” she whispered in a small voice, hating herself for asking for help. “Can you hear me?”
She reached out, touched the stones. They turned to ice under her fingers as a massive wave of black water rushed in, closing over her head. Reeds wrapped around her ankles, pulling her down.
A flash of sharp teeth in the depth and a face she hoped she’d never see.
“No!” she screamed, air escaping her lungs in bubbles.
And then she was back on the stone bench in the cell, her dress soaked in cold water, her feet covered in filthy mud.
