Chapter 28
ARLET
As soon as we reach the end of a very long trail that ends in an open, domed structure, I recognize the temple, one they say belongs to Nicnevin.
The place where Arion stands.
I feel weak.
My future husband is waiting in swathes of silver-white silk, with an intricate silver crown across his brow. His hair has been carefully brushed back from his face, and he looks striking and powerful.
There are hundreds of elves positioned in seats around the lawn, ready to watch our union.
The gardens smell of freshly cut grass and fragrant flowers.
Evening light drapes the palace gardens in gold, softening the edges of the marble statues and the pale, wide steps that lead down toward the reflecting pools.
Gods know how much time this must’ve taken to prepare.
Everything is so beautiful and precise. I feel nothing but guilt.
Breathe, Arlet.
Beyond the terrace, thousands of candles float on the water, their flames steady despite the breeze. Twilight should come soon, replacing the golden lights with purples.
You seemed to enjoy your visitor.
A red-hot blush spreads over my skin. I had done that. I am betrothed to another, and I let Vann do that to me. And worse? I don’t regret it.
I think of Vann and Enduvida and Seraph and Estela and just… ache.
Are you sure you want to do this? I could try to break through and use my magic—
This is what I want, I say firmly. Magic won’t solve anything. Besides, you can’t hurt the one who matters most.
Cursed One does not like this.
White petals form a path across the lawn. My gown’s fabric gleams under the half-light.
Thorne, Eslina, and Merlina leave my side after finally adjusting my dress and veil. Where they go, I don’t see, I just focus on the path I am meant to walk. Vesilane hangs back.
“End the king’s rule,” she whispers in my ear.
I pull back, shocked.
“What?”
But she gestures for me to go forward. “We are with you, Arlet,” she says brightly and sends me off to walk.
She’s with Mrath, I think. Suddenly, nothing feels safe. Is there going to be an attack?
I don’t know.
At the garden’s edge, an altar of carved moonstone rises beside a fountain shaped like coiled serpents. I don’t see any signs of an impending attack.
I watch Arion as he stands next to another elf with fine robes—the high priest, no doubt—and I notice his face is stern.
He doesn’t seem displeased, but he does watch me with a careful eye.
Behind him, the setting sun crowns him in light and I see a magical ward glowing around his orb of power.
The high lords and envoys are seated in rows of silver chairs, the air heavy with perfume and expectation.
Is he powerful enough to withstand what is to come?
When the herald’s voice rises, the sound carries across the gardens: “By decree of His Majesty, let the bride be brought forth.”
The music begins. They play the song that Arion played for me several times.
I hear a harp, a flute, and a drum beating in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
I start down the aisle of petals. The air is cool now, touched by the oncoming night.
Fireflies drift among the candles, mingling with the stars just beginning to appear.
Arion watches my approach. His eyes are calm, glacial, every inch the sovereign who believes the world bends to his will.
Vesilane’s words echo in my mind.
End the king’s rule.
It feels like lightning dances over my skin.
When I reach the dais, the high priest steps forward and lifts his hands. “Before the eyes of the ancients and the bloodlines that shaped our people, we gather to witness the binding of King Arion to the woman brought forth to serve his house.”
I blink. I haven’t heard this part. But the elf continues.
“Marriage among the high elves is not a thing of fleeting desire nor of simple affection. It is dominion made flesh and the continuance of lineage beyond all question. Today, Arion, sovereign of our kind, takes into his possession the bride appointed to him of his divine right and her own free will. Her body, strength, and service belong to the throne until the end of her short human days. Through her, his name and bloodline may endure. Through him, she is granted purpose.”
I pay attention to the words, all I can think of is what Vesilane said. It was the same phrase they said before the attack on the masquerade. My senses are heightened, and I study the gardens for signs of Mrath.
“Let the king take hold of his bride, that all may see she is his to carry, his to guard, his to command. Let her bow, as is custom, and yield herself into his keeping.”
Arion turns to me, extending his hand. I place mine in his.
“Bow,” he murmurs.
Despite the turmoil churning inside of me, I lower myself until the train of the gown pools around my knees. Then Arion withdraws the collar once again. It looks slightly different. A part of it glows that I hadn’t noticed before.
The priest continues. “Let the king take his bride into his keeping.”
The priest signals to an attendant. A boy approaches, carrying a silver basin, a goblet, and the ceremonial dagger.
My eyes widen. I had resigned myself to this, but now the moment is here and I feel like I want to run.
Arion draws a blade across his palm, the gesture practiced, graceful. His blood drips into the cup. He drinks first, then lifts it to my lips. The taste is metallic, thick, laced with magic, and I take it despite being disgusted by the action. The collar hums.
“By the sovereign’s hand,” the priest intones, “the bond is sanctified.”
Strange. I hadn’t given him my blood.
“Do you accept your charge?” the priest asks me. I have to hold back my thoughts, because in this moment, I don’t want to accept. I want to do the opposite. I want to run before another attack breaks out.
There is still time to run, Arlet.
I open my mouth to say something, then think of why I’m doing all of this in the first place.
“I submit.”
A stone lands in my belly with a plop.
That fucking annoying priest continues. “As it was in the first age, as it shall be in all ages: the bride is claimed, and the royal house is strengthened. By the king’s strength and by her surrender, the union is made eternal.”
The words sound distant.
Arion takes both my hands in his. “Let the world see,” he says, low enough for only me, “that you are mine.”
The priest nods. “Seal your vows.”
Arion leans closer. His breath is warm, faintly scented with smoke and honeyed wine. I recoil from him. Not just inside, but outwardly. He looks confused. Furious even.
And then a sound tears through the garden.
Not applause. Not wind. A single shattering impact.
One of the pillars of the dome above us starts to come down. I am pulled out of the way by my husband.
Guards emerge from nowhere, trampling over the flower petals and delicately arranged decorations.
From the rubble and dust, a silhouette forms—tall, broad shoulders and a cleaver in one hand.
Vann. I am frozen in my spot. My legs grow roots, fixing me in place.
No.
“Arion!” His voice breaks through the roar, rough and raw. “Release that woman.”