Chapter Twenty-Eight
Aren
Dietan tells me he tossed and turned all night and didn’t sleep a wink. Regardless, in the morning, there is no more talk of sending me away. Maybe he changed his mind or maybe he’s just tired of arguing.
I know I am.
Our caravan continues through the outskirts of Loegria. But now, there are no more stops for the Wedding March, no more announcements and cheek kisses.
There’s a war on.
Marcus is surly and quiet, and the soldiers are nervous as well.
The closer to old Estyrion we travel, the grayer the sky becomes. The sun has retreated and is merely a hazy disk behind the clouds.
But even with the sun hiding behind cloud cover, it’s hot here. I take off Dietan’s leather jacket and wipe sweat from my brow.
I wrinkle my nose at the scent of smoke so acrid I can taste it on the back of my tongue. It doesn’t smell like the comforting warm hearths of Evandale. It’s thicker, more acidic, and stings my eyes.
Father used to tell us stories of the Great Waste and how nothing could grow there—a land decimated by Boreas’s magic.
When I was a child, it was difficult for me to imagine such a place.
I grew up surrounded by lush fields, rolling meadows, and streams full of frogs and fish.
It doesn’t feel real until I can see it, and smell it, for myself.
The Great Waste is nothing but desolation.
When we finally arrive in Alba, the westernmost Loegrian city bordering Estyrion, the clouds are thick.
The air itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for the release of rain that never comes.
It doesn’t look like it’s rained here in centuries.
The ground is as cracked as a dry riverbed, and dust settles on every surface.
Our hair and clothes are covered, the grit invading every pore.
For a moment, I just take it in.
Alba is eerily quiet for a city. Even the wind doesn’t walk its deserted streets.
It’s almost like a dream—a surreal one.
It’s difficult to discern where the horizon ends and the city begins.
Heavy fog blankets most of city, strangling the sunlight.
Alba appears to be made of limestone, but now it’s turned a dull gray, mirroring the sky.
I can barely make out a few towers beyond the rooftops.
In the distance, I can see the shadow of the great bridge is a menacing specter, haunting the road already traveled.
Perhaps at one time, the city was beautiful. Now it’s as still as a graveyard.
Where South Dunston was bustling, Alba is a ghost town.
Successive generations of inhabitants must have fled from the Usurper’s troops near Penrith’s border and then from the Mad King in the Waste that used to be Estyrion.
The innocents still here are either stubborn, apathetic, or have given up entirely.
The few souls we pass don’t acknowledge us. Their gazes are on their hands as they sharpen their swords, weave grass into rope, or cook small game over open fires. Tears prick the corners of my eyes when I see small faces peer out from dirty windows covered in soot and grime.
Hacking coughs come from behind closed doors, and I wonder if the smoky air will make us all sick, too. I don’t have anything in my healing kit of herbs that can ward off this strange miasma.
Dietan’s dour expression tightens with tension as we walk among these people—his subjects. Does he feel responsible for their well-being, as their prince? Is he witnessing the reality of life in one dark corner of his kingdom, or a portent of what is to come for all of Loegria if we fail?
When he meets my eyes, I can see the despair in his, and I know he’s tearing himself up inside seeing the state of his people, his kingdom.
No one speaks as we walk through the city. The despair is too vast to ignore.
Carts full of belongings have been left abandoned in the streets. Those who fled must have left these behind mid-flight, taking with them only what was necessary for survival. What happened here? How much of a hurry were they in for them to leave their possessions?
What were they running from?
I can tell by the ransacked contents of the carts that they’ve been picked over by those who remained. Nonessentials like vases and some broken children’s toys are all that remain in the overturned crates.
A craggy voice barks down at us from above. “Go! Shoo! Go!”
An old woman waves at us from her balcony, where her clothes are hanging to dry. They are already covered in a fine film of dust.
She throws her arms out, as if trying to scare a rat out of her pantry, but someone from inside grabs her and guides her back in before closing the door. “Leave this accursed place while you still can!” she shouts from inside.
Dietan sighs and keeps walking, but I have a bad feeling about this place.
“All right,” says Marcus. “The temple is this way.”
It’s easy to forget in this desolation that we are here to receive the traditional blessing for our supposed upcoming nuptials.
We need to keep up the charade until we disappear into the Waste.
Both Loegria and Penrith need to ready troops for war.
Which buys us a few weeks, possibly, to solve Dietan’s problem.
The temple of the great Oracle of Alba looms above the city, tall and proud. Unlike the other buildings that surround us, its limestone exterior is clean and gleaming. Gold inlays in the stone glint in the rogue rays of the sun. It’s nothing short of breathtaking—clearly cared for lovingly.
In the beginning of the third epoch, the Rings of Fate were crafted here. It was once filled with mages, Vindar, and a host of holy leaders who held services and tended to citizens in need.
Now, for all its beauty, it is desolate.
We walk over the threshold of the temple’s wide, bronze double doors. In the dimly lit antechamber, a man in cream-colored robes sweeps under a row of hanging braziers.
“Greetings, Father,” says Dietan.
“Prince Dietan,” the priest gasps, dropping his broom. “Your Highness, what brings you here?”
“I’ve come to seek the Oracle’s blessing for our engagement.” He smiles, putting an arm around my waist. “This is my intended, Aren of Evandale.”
“Dear me, I wish we had been more prepared,” the priest says. “Was there no messenger?”
“It appears our messengers have been delayed,” says Marcus, coughing.
The priest looks around at the depleted temple, at the desolation of the city behind us, and smiles sadly. “That’s not unusual these days, I’m afraid.”
“It’s all right,” says Dietan. “We’re, um, pressed for time.”
“I’m sure you are needed back in Lundenwic,” the priest says. “Well, come into the house of the Oracle, my children, and we will bless you with the waters of Alba.” He leads us inside.
It’s cool and dark in the temple, and I’m relieved to find it doesn’t smell like the smoke outside.
Instead, it’s peaceful and clean. Stone pillars line the vestibule, and the domed ceiling has a singular skylight.
Diffused light washes the room in an ethereal light.
It’s a sanctuary awash in gentle healing magic.
The priest stands before us at an enormous marble basin filled with water on a smooth stone pedestal.
In a place of honor at the far end of the room is a large statue of a woman, with one hand outstretched and an inscrutable expression on her face.
She is watching over us—the Oracle, the revered emissary of the Anemoi.
Her presence looms large but is a calming balm.
It’s a nice reprieve from recent events.
The priest dips a scepter into the basin and recites a few lines of prayer in a tongue I don’t understand.
Without further ceremony, he flicks the water at Dietan and then at me.
I blink in surprise as the water splashes into my eyes.
I didn’t expect that. As we bow our heads, I share a small smile with Dietan, who discreetly wipes his face.
The priest puts one hand on Dietan’s head, but when he places the other on mine, he gasps. I feel a tiny shock—like static in a winter knit—pass between his palm and my head. He looks at me intensely. “Aren of Evandale, yes?”
“Yes,” I reply, suddenly nervous.
The priest murmurs to himself. His eyes roll back in his head ever so slightly.
“What’s wrong, Father?” Dietan asks.
The priest locks eyes with me once more. “It’s been a long time since the Oracle has spoken. She has sent me a vision.”
Dietan raises his eyebrows.
“You must never leave his side, my daughter,” the priest says, his hand heavy on my head.
“What?” I question, startled.
The priest saw me in a vision?
I would have expected a more dramatic display when the Oracle spoke—but I’m no expert on holy things.
“What did you see?” Dietan asks. “Please enlighten us, Father.”
But the priest only shakes his head, distressed. “If you continue on by yourself, my son, there is only darkness and death.” The priest turns to me. “I implore you—do not leave him,” he repeats, looking meaningfully at me. “Never. For the good of all Albion. Promise that.”
Sweat forms on my brow at the priest’s conviction, and I nod my head. “I won’t leave him. I would never,” I breathe.
Next to me, Dietan squirms.
Yeah, he still wants to get rid of me, after everything. Asshole.
I bet he wishes we’d left the Oracle off the itinerary.
The priest clears his throat. “May the sacred waters of the Oracle bless the coming marriage of Prince Dietan of Loegria, heir to the throne of Alarice, and Aren of Evandale,” he intones. “May your union bring peace to both kingdoms and strength to our people for centuries to come.”
“Goddess willing,” I say, which is what we say back home.
“May the wind be ever at our back,” Dietan murmurs, which is the Loegrian way. He takes my hand and squeezes it, and when our gazes meet, his eyes are soft. I know what comes next to conclude this kind of rite. My whole body begins to hum like a beehive.
He draws me closer, and I can’t stop my heart from galloping out of my chest, because now he’s lowering his head as I raise my own. He murmurs, too softly for the priest to hear, “Don’t hit me, okay?”
“Okay,” I breathe.
Then he kisses me. His lips touch mine. They flutter as if asking a question. For a split second, I think he’s about to pull away because this is just pretend. We’re fooling Dietan’s soldiers and the priest—even the Oracle.
But then his arms encircle my waist, and he draws me even closer.
I wrap my arms around his neck, and we’re pressed against each other, and everything around us melts away.
He opens his mouth to mine, and I do the same, breathing him in.
The press of his tongue against my own sends fire racing to every inch of my body.
He nibbles on my bottom lip, and now every part of me is burning.
His body is all heat and muscle against mine. I tilt my hips a little, which makes him groan. My fingers weave through his silky hair, and he draws me tighter against him. For all his secrets and denial, this man wants me, and that alone makes me want to give him everything.
Then Marcus coughs.
Shit. I blink my eyes open, and my cheeks burn hot. Shit, shit, shit.
Dietan chuckles. “I forgot where we are,” he murmurs, still holding me in his arms. Then he releases me, and my body is numb everywhere we touched.
I blush and smooth the front of my dress. I can hardly look at the priest. I enjoyed that so much, I damn near forgot everything, including my own name. I wonder how much of it was just for show. Based on Dietan’s quick breaths and flushed cheeks, maybe none of it…
Dietan grins at me, and I grin back. I got what I wanted. I’ve waited all my life for a kiss, and that was one for the ages.