The scent from the overhanging flowers cloyed the air, making breathing difficult. The officiant entered by a side door, resplendent in the purple robes of his station: Aberfrer, Royal Sorcerer of the Noble House of Hanaran, a position he’d earned after helping the high king win the war.
What a mouthful. Like Wycke didn’t know the Hanarans started out with a poor shepherd, who’d managed to be in the right place during the right time to seize power.
The high king dressed far simpler than Wycke expected. No silk? No satin? Well, maybe a bit. He wore the dark leather breeches of Wycke’s own people, contrasting with a deep purple satin shirt, a token of his heritage. He wore his auburn hair loose, with a simple circlet on his head instead of the enormous crown he wore to state affairs.
Murmurings began around Wycke, too far away to discern, given all the empty places around him. Many probably gossiped about the handsome king. Others might look down on his acknowledging his intended’s traditions with his attire.
King Broen wore a soft, expectant smile as he watched the entryway. At last, the flutist began the strains of some stately song. The footmen opened the doors at the back of the chapel. Radre swept through, Saris’s hand resting on his extended arm.
During his time at the palace, Wycke had witnessed the occasional Dhugachian joining, all pomp and circumstance, jewelry and finery. Myrgrenians opted for more casual traditions.
As she’d demanded, Saris wore her hair loose, hanging straight down her back, a fall of white silk. She clutched a handful of dust roses, which grew on the inhospitable plains south of the city. One of their mother’s simple citrine necklaces hung around Saris’s neck, matching earrings glittering in her ears.
In a compromise of tradition, shimmering local silk formed a gown cut in the style of Myrgren—showing far less skin than Dhugachian custom. The pale golden color, also a Myrgren tradition, matched Saris’s eyes and jewels. Rich, colorful embroidery decorated the bodice.
Like the king, Saris wore a circlet, yellow gold to his platinum. A few gasps came from the crowd and a buzzing of gossip. No denying their new queen’s beauty. She and Radre took their time meandering down the aisle, a stunning pair. Couldn’t they hurry a bit? The scent of the joining feast crept through the open windows, making Wycke’s stomach rumble.
King Broen never once took his eyes from the vision soon to be his queen, a genuine smile playing on his lips.
Saris didn’t smile, glance right or left, or gaze at her future mate. Instead, she kept her eyes on the floor.
“She’s so demure,” Wycke heard from a few rows behind him.
Demure? Saris? Bah!
At the altar, Radre deposited Saris’s hand into Broen’s and retreated, taking his place in the chair next to Wycke’s.
“Why didn’t you bring courtiers to fill the seats?” Wycke hissed. How shameful, no family or representation from Saris’s home country.
Radre replied with unnecessary smugness, “Because the kingdom of Myrgren doesn’t support this union. Nor am I willing to empty the coffers with a retinue.”
He’d certainly dipped deeply into the coffers for his outfit.
“But you delivered our sister to the king’s hand.”
Radre’s snake’s smile sent quivers of fear through Wycke’s belly. “Ah, you have much to learn about politics. Luckily, you’ll never be a ruler who needs to navigate his way through tricky diplomatic situations.” Myrgren guards stood at attention around the chapel’s walls, a show of Radre’s might. Totally inappropriate for a happy occasion. Whatever happened to the advisors King Broen sent? Shouldn’t they have reined Radre in by now?
A mage held out two candles, one gold, one purple. Saris passed her hand over the gold wax, leaving a flame behind on the wick. Broen brushed his fingers along the side of the purple taper, lighting the candle. Next, the mage took Saris’s outstretched palm. Saris muttered a few words, and the mage held up the delicate yellow rose she’d conjured. The mage repeated the ritual with Broen, who offered a dust rose in a shade to match the beige ones in Saris’s grasp.
The mage addressed the crowd in a deep, booming voice. “Their magic is compatible.” Weak, but compatible. In intricate waves of his hand, he left faintly pulsing power, forming ribbons around the joining pair. All handwaving nonsense. Power dwelt in words, right?
The mage stepped back. Sorcerer Aberfrer took his place before the royal couple. “Princess Saris of House Bertillian, you may make your vows.”
A page came forward, taking the candles and flowers.
With a barely noticeable waver in her voice, Saris recited, “I come by my own free will. Such as I have is yours, from this day to the end of time. May magic forever be born of our union.”
Chills ran up Wycke’s arms at the word “forever.” Magic.
The sorcerer replied, “Your words bind you to this man, to be forever his.”
Wycke paid close attention to the words and the movements of the sorcerer’s hands. Mages were not as powerful as sorcerers, nor as volatile; companion dogs versus mountain wolves. Both made nice with humans when it suited them. However, one bided its time until eventually ripping out its master’s throat.
Next would come words to set Wycke’s teeth on edge, a flowery version of the king accepting his new queen as a glorified servant.
Gasps sounded around the room when the high king broke tradition with his words. “I will not have you stay with me because you are bound. You come by your free will. I wish for you to remain by your free will.” Then he spoke the ultimate blasphemy for a king to say to a conquered foe, pledging himself to Saris as she’d pledged to Broen. “Such as I have is yours, from this day, until the end of time. May magic forever fill our union.”
The mage beside Aberfrer sputtered, “But… but… Sire!”
