Chapter 9
“Why are you nervous?” asks Rahk. His white hair glows silvery in the low light.
I shoot a look at him. “I’m not—” And then I cut myself off abruptly as iron fills my mouth. Quickly, I take a swig of watery wine to wash out the taste.
Rahk just smirks at me with that knowing gleam in his eye. His question hangs between us as I wash my face, dry it off, and run a hand through my hair.
“I don’t intend to be nervous,” I mutter.
“You’ve never been married before. Being nervous is understandable.”
I glare at him. “I don’t need your patronization.”
Rahk’s smirk widens.
“My lord?” says Edvear, cracking open the door to my chamber and meeting my gaze. “It’s time. The humans are assembling.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Well, give me a minute to put on my shoes,” I grumble, hoping my tone disguises my nerves. I march to the wardrobe, fling it open, and grab my boots. At this point, I’ve stopped looking for my things in the last place I left them, but rather wherever Edvear would think the most proper place for them would be. I drop onto the edge of the bed—I’m not making the mistake of sitting in one of those human chairs again—and yank one boot on, then the other. I lace them up, shoot my steward a sharp look when he approaches. It might be my wedding day and my hands might be just a touch unsteady, but Mountains of Ildrid, I can put on my own Kings’ cursed boots.
I stand. Straighten my long tunic, my coat, the silver medallion hanging to my navel. Then I level my shoulders and stride out of the room.
No going back.
I relax my jaw and don a cold smile as I pass through the king’s guards and my courtiers. My warriors have done an exceptional job keeping them contained. I will reward them when we return.
But for now, I stride toward the doors of the chapel where my bride is waiting. With each step, my nervousness is replaced by something else. Something not unlike the hot determination that coiled around my heart last night.
Hardness sets in. This is war, and I will face my bride. She will be mine. Mine to care for. Mine to protect.
Mine to lose.
I’ve accepted this responsibility, this weight of her on my mind and conscience. Now I will bear it without faltering.
I stride down the hallway, and at the end of it is a woman in a frilly blue gown, with a matching blue silk veil over her face. The veil is sheer enough that it clings to the contours of her forehead and nose, and nothing strikes me as ugly about that scant bit of profile.
That veil had better not be a trick.
She stands at her father’s side, surrounded by her gaggle of sisters. My jaw works even as I flash a smile at them, as Isabelle Louise turns to see me.
I told Roland to keep the ceremony short. I haven’t time to waste on human frivolity and customs. Aside from that, however . . .
The strength of my own desire to take my bride to our chambers, to remove her veil, to have her alone for once without all those sisters, almost catches me off guard. If it was up to me, we’d skip this ceremony altogether and go straight to the fae bonding.
That would probably scandalize the humans.
My bride makes no move, as that veiled face stays fixed on me. What does she see when she looks at me? What is she thinking? The nervous tells she’s had so far aren’t apparent at the moment. I wish Rahk could tell me if her hands are sweaty again.
He is close on my heels, a great sword strapped to his hip and another across his back. The humans said it was their custom that the bridegroom brings his best swordsman to accompany him. Seems a little out of place to me. It certainly would make sense at a fae wedding, but a human one? Do they suspect the clergy of plots to disembowel their patrons?
Whatever the case, I definitely don’t mind having a heavily armed Rahk at my back. Especially with my magic so limited here.
It’s silent when I reach my bride, as if the small crowd of onlookers has drawn in one collective breath. Waiting. For what, I cannot begin to guess.
I stop before my bride.
Her head tilts up to mine.
Neither of us moves. Roland clears his throat. I swivel my attention to him and say dryly, “You still veil her? In but a few minutes, she will be my wife.”
Something shifts in the air around the young woman. It’s so subtle I almost miss it.
Fear.
“It is our custom,” says Roland. “You may remove it after the ceremony in your chambers.”
Right, because then it will be her, and not him, who bears the brunt of my reaction—my disappointment, presumably—when I see her for the first time.He releases his grip on Isabelle Louise’s arm and steps aside, motioning for me to take his place. My face hardens, but I do as instructed and hold out my arm for the princess to take. When she loops her tiny fingers around my forearm, they twitch.
There’s little I can do to assuage her fears, especially in front of an audience. So I resort to laying my other hand atop hers. She jolts in response. I grit my teeth. Then I swipe my thumb over the back of her wrist in a soft caress. It doesn’t make her relax.
I will be good to you, I say in my head. Have no fear.
But she should be afraid of me. She should be afraid of being my wife.
The clergyman begins a dreary lecture that makes me wonder if the true reason bridegrooms bring their swordsman was as a threat to the priest that he ought not to drone on too long.This ceremony strikes me as tradition piled atop tradition with little meaning. It is so pale compared to the true depths and beauty of a fae bonding.
The priest gives a cough, clearing his throat, and says, “Now, Prince Trenian of the Fae, you must plight your troth to Princess Isabelle Louise of Aursailles.”
“I must what my what?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows.
The priest peers over the rim of his spectacles at me. “Plight your troth.”
That is another language. Unless it has something to do with trouble with my trough, and if that’s the case, this might be one of those human wedding traditions I choose not to ask questions about.
“Right,” I mutter. “My trough. Of course.”
The princess’s shoulders give a little shake. I glance down at her. Was that a quiet snicker? It’s so unexpected, it warms my ears and makes me want to squeeze her hand. I don’t, lest she misinterpret the gesture.
Plighting my trough, as it turns out, is the part of the ceremony where I make my vows to her. They involve a curious statement about pledging to love and hold her no matter if she be fair or ugly, whether she be sick or healthy, until death parts us.
She must be one ugly and sickly princess.
I suppose there is an additional possibility that the young woman might not be so young, but her smooth hands indicate the contrary.
To my surprise, the princess pledges no trough to me, but no one blinks. I suppose that is just how the humans do it. I confess I’m disappointed. I wanted to hear her speak.
Then, the priest announces, after another long segment of dreary nonsense that I tune out, “Prince Trenian, you may kiss your bride.”