Morana’s laugh was a deep, chilling sound of stones grinding underwater. “As I said, the past is gone. I have no quarrel with him, his slate is clean.”
“You have no reason to help me, to help us.” Liana struggled to rise, but her legs wouldn’t carry her. She landed heavily on the bench.
“You still think Perun will help you?”
“We have a deal,” Liana said.
“Has he ever done you a favor? Has your own mother ever done you a favor? Helped you in any way?”
“I can work with what they’ve given me.”
The goddess laughed again. “When you figure out what they’vedone to you, call me. I’ll be waiting.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Use your brain.” The goddess laid her hand on Liana’s brow. “Wake up.”
Chapter 18
Melia
Melia had neverseen such a feast. The great hall of the palace looked like a summer garden, a colorful image of opulence and splendor. The soaring ribbed vaults reminded Melia of the branches of the ancient trees in the legendary forests of Virion, while the evening light that filtered through the tall stained glass windows bathed the hall in a jewel-like glow. Garlands of blooming roses, fragrant lilies, and dark ivy decorated the walls, framing the tapestries depicting chivalry and romance. Seragian imperial banners—purple, black, and gold—hung together above the dais with the golden sun on the blue field of the House of Amris.
The scent of flowers and beeswax filled the air, while candles in silver holders gave off their warm light. Massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling shone like trapped stars, casting shimmering patterns across the polished stone floor. Long banquet tables gleaming with silver and crystal stretched the length of the hall. Gentle music filled the air, rising to the vaulted ceilings.
Melia felt small and insignificant and quite displeased with herself.
Her eyes followed the new couple. Amril had turned on his charm, and not a single soul could catch a glimpse of his violent moods beneath his radiant good looks. His sapphire eyes shone with goodwill, his generous mouth was curved in a disarming smile, despite the cut and the bruise that marred it. He held his bride’s hand, guiding her through the crowd, pausing often towhisper something in her ear.
And the Seragian carevna, the long-awaited emperor’s daughter? As far as Melia knew, the emperor had a dozen wives and at least thirty legitimate children. What made him and his horde of advisors choose this somber redheaded girl? She glided through the mass without touching anyone, like a cloud of pristine white vapor, and weighed every scene before her with an ice-blue gaze.
The court had forced Melia to acutely feel her own lack of beauty. She’d been terrified of the possibility that Amril’s wife would be some stunning, enchanting princess who’d outshine every lady-in-waiting. In fact, Princess Aratea could hardly outshine Melia herself. Without the glorious jewels surrounding it, her homely, freckled face had little charm.
“What do you think about the carevna?” she asked Princess Amielle, who still walked beside her as they entered the great hall.
“She doesn’t reveal much, but that’s to be expected,” the princess replied. “At least she’s not too young. I was afraid they’d send a child.”
The carevna looked about Amril’s age. Fresh enough, no doubt, but far from girlhood.
“Wouldn’t a younger girl adapt more easily?” Melia asked absentmindedly.
“Would you adapt more easily if you were younger?” the princess retorted.
It wasn’t a real question, but Melia still considered it. How far back would she have to go to stand a chance of becoming a sleek, scheming court lady? Before Rovin’s death? Before her mother’s? Or perhaps she’d always been hopeless, from the moment she slid out, bloody and terrified, into this world.
The bride and groom climbed on the dais and reached the high table, where two gilded thrones with red velvet cushions awaitedthem.
“A kiss! A kiss!” someone shouted, and the whole crowd picked it up.
Amril waited for the call to grow into a mighty roar and then pulled his bride close and gave her a long, intense kiss.
Melia averted her eyes, sickened by Amril’s duplicity, by the self-assurance of the Seragian porcelain doll, by the senseless cheering. Who did the crowd cheer? The cruel, reckless prince kissing the enemy.
Amron materialized beside her and she looked up, hoping foolishly for some hint of affection or at least camaraderie. But he was a hypocrite like the rest of them, righteous and untouchable in his armor of ice all through the long succession of speeches and congratulations, the prattle about the wish for peace, the union between the kingdom and the Empire, the historical deal. Lies and self-interest.
She remembered the women in the kitchen of the fort, feeding their children with stale scraps, hoping their men would return. Her stomach turned at the sight of the first course, the hake and mussel soup topped with parsley and olive oil. It felt like ridicule.
Her father was right about one thing: The court cared nothing about those living—and dying—in the borderlands.
