Yarif would share his. “Nearly ready,” he said—outwardly, at least. Inwardly? Maybe never.
“Just a second,” Berram muttered around the hairpin in his mouth. He pinned the last braid into place, then capped his creation off with a golden dagger hairpin in the shape of a dragon—the DiRici family crest.
Yarif sighed. “If forced to wear a coronet, we’ll have to leave off the hairpin.” At Barram’s scowl, he added, “Don’t worry. I’m wearing my boot knife.” Surely the guards wouldn’t search him on his wedding day.
Weapons were once seen as bad luck at weddings because someone got drunk and used them on in-laws. This affair, however, was a combination of Cormir and Renvalle royal wedding traditions, with traces of military honors thrown in, though Draylon must give up his commission upon being named king.
Would he grow bitter, blaming Yarif?
I’ll have to ensure he doesn’t.
Being consort allowed Yarif to keep watch over the citizens of Renvalle. So far, Draylon had seemed a reasonable man. Though luck seldom favored Yarif, fortune might smile on him this time and give him someone sensible to work with.
“Are you ready, Your Highness?” Berram asked, lifting Yarif’s hand.
“No, but I’m sure the emperor doesn’t care.” Yarif rose to his feet as gracefully as traditional wedding attire allowed. Fall weddings allowed for more colorful garb and lighter material. Winter weddings involved a lot of disrobing time to unwrap the layers.
The wedding night. Yarif shivered.
“Are you cold, Highness?” Berram asked.
“No.” Yarif tried to smile, taking in his appearance in a mirror. His tailored trousers matched the color of Emile’s, while his heavily embroidered tunic matched Adrina’s for color. A single teardrop sapphire hung from a silver chain around his neck, one of the few pieces of his mother’s jewelry he’d been allowed to keep before the new queen laid claim—less than a month after his mother’s passing.
Boots in deep blue completed the outfit instead of the customary slippers, allowing him places to hide knives.
One never knew when they’d need to be armed.
“You look beautiful!” Adrina giggled.
“Handsome. He looks handsome,” Emile corrected. “Women are beautiful. Men are handsome.”
Yarif bit back the words,“Have you seen my groom?”but didn’t want to explain. At least he wasn’t marrying the sadistic old duke his father initially planned for him.
Berram threw open the door with a flourish. Two guards outside did a doubletake, appreciation in their eyes, before remembering themselves and schooling their features.
Yarif ignored them, a hen leading two little chicks down the stairs. Courtiers normally filled the hallways for important events. Due to the recent war and subsequent deaths of many nobles, the halls remained relatively empty.
While Yarif worried about what happened to the normal castle inhabitants, he didn’t need the ogling.
The small chapel to the castle's rear didn’t see much use but had been decorated with fall flowers for the occasion.
A cleric stood at the altar, wearing an insignia Yarif didn’t recognize. The priest of some foreign god? Figured. Not that Yarif really cared who uttered the life-changing words.
Four soldiers guarded the chapel door, with several more stationed around the room. A man close enough in looks to Draylon to be a brother sat on one side of the room. The crown prince? The crown prince was here? At Yarif’s wedding?
Well, at his brother’s wedding, Yarif supposed. A few honored servants sat on the DiRici side of the room.
Yarif wasn’t to have the grand wedding he’d once dreamed of. No splendor, no celebration. No happiness. As Yarif entered by the chapel’s front door, Draylon came in through the side, followed by Captain Rufe and the emperor himself.
“Whoa! Is that the emperor?” Adrina asked.
Yarif nodded, swallowing hard. The emperor. Here. The man who’d launched the battle that cost Yarif so dearly. No, his father’s betrayal started the issue. The emperor merely put down an uprising. Seeing Draylon here, now, with his father and brother in attendance, brought home not only the family resemblance but the depths to which Yarif was out of his element.
Since a young age, he’d been told that a duke was the greatest he could hope for as a younger son. Thatno one else will have youwent unsaid. Now, he was about to enter into a binding agreement with the emperor’s son, a powerful commander in his own right.
Never before had Yarif felt so small—or so determined. He’d do what he must. Hoping no one noticed him trembling in his boots.
All three newcomers stood near the altar, looking back toward Yarif. No pipers, no harps, no lutes. Silence instead of music. A funeral dirge might be more appropriate. Taking the twins’ hands, Yarif strode to the front of the room, stopping opposite Draylon. His heart lodged in his throat.
