Adrina and Emile jostled for position, each wanting to mirror the emperor. A pointed look from Yarif quelled their foolishness.
Only then did he take a good look at the man he’d known a mere handful of days and was now expected to marry.
Draylon had taken time to shave and have his hair neatly cut, the sides very short and slightly longer on top of his head. He wore similar attire to Yarif’s but in shades of green. He was… heart-stoppingly beautiful, despite the ragged scar across his face and what appeared to be the unfortunate Aravaid family nose.
Beautiful, yet brutal. Yarif couldn’t for a minute forget he’d been forcibly tied to a warmonger. No matter how good the man’s pedigree.
Or his body.
Coldness hid in the depths of Draylon’s eyes, causing Yarif to shiver, until Draylon met Yarif’s gaze and the tension softened momentarily. Yarif gave the briefest flicker of a smile, which fell when he noticed the emperor’s stony disapproval.
In the royal Renvallian wedding of Yarif’s dreams, a harpist would play, or perhaps a violinist. Then the couple’s closest relatives would file in, taking seats of honor near the front of the chapel.
Yarif could almost smell incense burning, mixing with various perfumes. Happy faces would turn up as he passed, and he’d be nearly overcome by nerves and happiness.
The cleric cleared his throat and began in broken Renvallian, “We here today before farm and friends on this monuments occasion, connecting two of the empire’s most illusion farms.”
Close enough to a proper introduction to the ceremony, Yarif supposed, if he could keep from laughing at the cleric’s translation mistakes.
The cleric turned to the emperor. “Who sacking this marriage?”
“You know damned well that Isanctionthis union. Now get on with it.” The scowl on the emperor’s face might have scared bears from a feast.
So much for making Yarif’s marriage a special day. "Sacking” came closer to accurate than “sanction,” he supposed.
The cleric’s face pinked, his mouth twisting in annoyance. “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. Commander Draylon Aravaid, son of Emperor Soland Aravaid. Do you bound into this combination of your own free willfulness, and of your own free willfulness do you gift your guarantees?”
Odd that Draylon’s princely title wasn’t used. Then again, Draylon was a king now, in his own right.
Yarif’s heart ached. He’d been the last DiRici king, so easily ending a centuries-old legacy with the stroke of a pen. Now to complete his disgrace by marrying the enemy.
Couldn’t they have found a better cleric?
The silence seemed to stretch forever but likely only lasted a few heartbeats. Yarif whooshed out a sigh of relief when Draylon’s answer came.
Draylon’s voice never wavered when he said, “By my own free will do I join in this union and make these vows, pledging myself to Prince Yarif DiRici.”
The cleric smiled, bobbed his head at Emperor Soland’s frown, then turned toward Yarif. “Prince Yarif DiRici—”
“Dee-richy,” Draylon corrected, winning respect points from Yarif.
“Prince Yarif Dee-richy,” the cleric enunciated. “Son of the tardy King Lleval DiRici. Do you bound into this combination of your own free willfulness, and of your own free willfulness do you gift your guarantees?”
Local custom called for the father's and mother’s names to be spoken. Better to keep quiet than to earn a growl from his future father-in-law.
Yarif's heart pounded, and he fought not to wipe his sweaty palms on his clothing. Would he even be able to force words out of his clogged throat? He pulled in a deep breath. He could do this. “By my own free will do I enter this union and make these vows, pledging myself to Commander Draylon Aravaid.” Yarif echoed the title the cleric had used earlier. Yarif’s voice hardly quavered, though he’d been tempted to repeat the cleric’s bumbling wording. He glanced up to see a brief smile of reassurance from Draylon. Maybe this marriage wouldn’t be totally horrid. They might not be a love match, but they could perhaps become… friends.
Or something less than enemies.
Captain Rufe stepped forward, dropping a ring into Draylon’s outstretched hand. Draylon’s voice boomed in the nearly empty chapel. “I present this token as a symbol of our binding, letting all who see know we are as one.” He lifted Yarif’s left hand and placed a plain gold band on the third finger.
Yarif’s heart sank. Well, what had he expected, declarations of undying love? As he’d not been allowed to leave the castle to go shopping, the captain also presented a ring to Yarif. He hadn’t even been allowed to choose for himself, gifting his husband with a personalized token.
Husband. Once this ring sat on Draylon’s hand, he became Yarif’s husband.
Slowly, carefully, Yarif slid the ring on Draylon’s hand and recited, “I present this token as a symbol of our binding, letting all who see know we are as one.” He couldn’t hold back a relieved sigh. For better or worse, come what may, he and Draylon were now joined, and the emperor couldn’t change his mind and find some feeble old duke.
Apparently, the cleric didn’t intend to have them promise fidelity. What would be the point?
