I shifted on my heels, uncomfortable with the weight of Primus’s gaze. He stood behind and to the left of Luvic. Since I was mirroring him but behind Last, he was facing me instead of the Bards or his father. The edge of his lip twitched. I looked away and focused on Luvic. A teardrop of sweat was trickling down his temple, and his cheeks were red. He held Last’s hands loosely.
Herman Clark twisted his hand and held out two black wedding bands. “The rings.”
I leaned forward. The rings were illusion made real and tied with true lover’s knots. The black metal was etched with intricate designs. There were no stones.
The Clark placed the rings on a small marble pedestal, next to a golden cup filled with wine.
My stomach twisted at the smile on Luvic’s face.
Where were Ragnor and Celia?
“First, we drink,” the Bard’s wife said. “We share the cup of plenty and sorrow. We pledge our loyalty and combine our fates.” She stepped forward and pressed her hand to Luvic’s cheek. She hadn’t been seen much since the closing ceremony. She’d always been thin, pale, and as fragile as an orchid, but today, she was even more so. Her voice was reedy, and her hand shook as she pulled away from her son.
She picked up the golden cup and held it out to the Bard. “My husband?—”
She was cut off as a giant clap of thunder shook the hall. Conjurers screamed, and then their screams were clipped short as a violent gust of wind charged down the wedding aisle and battered the arch.
Last’s dress flew around her like a flock of ravens. My tulle and satin swirled, rising like a storm cloud. The wind tugged at me, and I braced against it. Last wobbled on her heels, and Luvic gripped her arms and held her upright.
The Bard grabbed the cup before it spilled and steadied his wife.
The wind screamed around us, rattling the poison vines and tossing tainted flower petals in the air. And then, as suddenly as it had roared through, it was quiet.
Everyone looked toward the entry at the sound of footsteps coming near.
The Bard held out his hand, ready to conjure. Primus narrowed his gaze on the back of the hall.
Then Jacob sauntered in, his hands in his jeans pockets, his T-shirt a wrinkled mess.
Did he always sleep in his clothes?
He blinked owlishly at everyone, looking around the wedding hall as if he was surprised to find himself there.
“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows rising in surprise, “did you start without me?”
“Ward,” the Bard said, and by the timbre of his voice, it was obvious he wasn’t pleased.
Jacob tilted his head and smiled. “Yes?”
“What are you doing here?”
Jacob frowned, looking around the hall. He took in the conjurer guests—the Bards in their colorful dresses and suits, the Clarks in their somber blacks and grays—and then he studied the wedding party. He quickly moved his gaze over me, instead focusing on Last and Luvic.
“Hmm? What did you say?” he finally asked after the silence had stretched to an unbearable tautness.
“What”—the Bard ground his teeth—“are you doing here?”
Jacob looked around the hall and then down at his wrinkled clothes and his dirty shoes. He scrubbed his hand through his blond hair, trying to smooth it down, but it only made it worse.
“I got your invitation.” He smiled happily, and I felt a swift tap on my heart, like he was letting me in on his joke.
“You were not invited,” Primus said.
Conjurers in the back rows were quietly slipping out, casting Jacob nervous glances. He didn’t seem to notice his presence was having a deleterious effect on attendance.
“I wasn’t?” Jacob frowned, his brow wrinkling. “Huh. I was sure . . . no . . . hmm . . . well, never mind. I’m here now.”
He moved to a recently vacated row—at least two dozen conjurers had fled—and sat down in a chair. He crossed his ankle over his thigh and then looked at the wedding party expectantly.
