Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nienna
Radaanian queens wore green to their weddings; a symbol of the life they would bring to the kingdom. I stood patiently as my handmaidens and a woman named Alma fussed with the seamstress over the application of fine silk flowers in a royal fitting room.
Lenses framed in delicate gold perched on Alma’s pixie nose, far too large for her face. Rich brown curls pinned into a bun sat atop her head, but rather than appearing docile, they looked like the tendrils of an octopus reaching for its next victim.
“No, the red is too much.” Alma batted away the rose, selecting a soft violet instead. “Purple will accent the celadon green.”
She might’ve been half-dwarf for her small stature, barely level with my chest, but the woman Kallias offered as a temporary Advisor to the Queen carried authority without effort.
With a quick flick of her wrist, she shoved her glasses back up her nose, then placed two violets into Edith’s hands while rummaging through the cart of fabric flowers the seamstress had brought.
“She’s Draconis—what about snapdragons?” Freya flashed a mischievous smile as she hemmed my dress.
“Better than the fire lily,” Alma mused. “And the lotus or water lilies.”
Edith hummed, placing the violets at my waist. The advisor joined her with handfuls of flowers, pinning them along my hip and up my side.
The dress was gauzy, feminine perfection.
Though the halter neckline clung to my throat; a vain attempt to conceal the bandage streaking across my collarbone.
My arms were bare, scandalous in Reem, but progressive, as Alma informed me.
The mantle would press down on exposed shoulders, a symbol of my willingness to bear Radaan without barrier.
Everything she advised carried purpose and reason. I liked her.
The wound along my neck pinched and stung as I shifted; a reminder of how dangerous Tallon was.
After the wedding, we would find him. We’d make him pay for his treason or chase him over the Craggs.
He deserved nothing less than death by fire, but I knew if he fled over the mountains, Kallias would let him go.
For all the killing Kallias had done, he hated it. He would protect what was his, reclaim his home, defend his people, but he would not venture into Vellos looking to spark another war.
It wasn’t worth fighting for the rest of his life.
The dragons would be stationed at the Craggs, and if they saw a Velli, they were to burn them on sight.
Therefore, I wanted Tallon caught before he escaped.
Edith’s hand pressed into the small of my back. I sniffed and straightened at her gentle reminder. Chin lifted, I stared at the woman in the mirror who would rule at Kallias’ side.
No. Not would—did rule. I was queen. This was only a show for the people.
While the women fussed with my dress, my thoughts wandered. My husband would ask the blessing from his god yet again. He had magic; I knew it. I didn’t understand his relationship with the divine, but I respected it.
“Tell me, Alma,” I said, “did Kallias’ father call the light of Elohios on his wedding day?”
She glanced up from the flowers she was pinning, adjusting her glasses over gray eyes. “Oh no, Your Majesty. He never had the visible blessing of the gods.”
“Never?”
Shock sharpened the word. When I was betrothed to Tallon, I knew the stories. Rumors and legends, but I heard them. I expected it to be hereditary.
“Our king is favored,” she explained, pleased. “We’ve not had a sovereign so blatantly chosen in several generations. When he lit with Elohios’ light, it was a joyous day for all of Radaan. His parents were so proud.”
“You saw?” Jealousy crept in despite myself.
“I was naught more than four years,” she said, smoothing a violet petal. “But I remember. There’s a depiction in the western hall near the solar. I could take you, if you wish.”
“I would. And the records before, the light of Elohios, they’re the same accounts? How do people know it’s the same blessing?”
“King Sunspear’s grandfather, five generations back, shared the affinity. The portrait was removed to the archives, but it is enough that it happens every time King Kallias calls upon Elohios. There is no other explanation.”
Besides magic.
She continued, “King Ulgari only used the gift once in history, when he took the Crater in the north. Beyond that, he never showed it again.”
My husband was rare not only because his god answered, but because the light came so often.
Pride warmed my skin. I would have loved him if he were a simple farmer and I, a plain maid.
But he was special. Unique. I needed to see the paintings, learn more about this.
It was all so strange to me, impossible to grasp.
A blind calling, a prayer rooted in faith.
Elohios had never spoken to him, never appeared, not even in dreams.
Belief alone carried the power.
Once the fitting ended and we were content with the dress, Alma agreed to take me to the portrait of young Kallias, but only after I saw the healer again. The scab itched, and the ointment used to relieve the sensation would hopefully prevent any scarring.
I sat on the bed in the small room as the healer picked at the sticky bandage, nerves clear in the tension of his hands.
The royal medical ward was cozy, disguised as another bedchamber, only smaller and crowded with dressers.
Shelves lined the wall, sunlight catching in amber bottles and scattering gold across the stone.
When they pinched my skin, I winced, swallowing the hiss that climbed my throat.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. Forgive my–”
“I was raised among dragons, healer,” I ground out. “I can manage. Just rip it off.”
He blanched, his swallow so forced I heard it. Alma lingered in the doorway, her smirk hidden behind the papers she pretended to study.
The wound itself was not the worst of it. The sap they used to adhere the cloth clung like resin.
With a sharp jerk, the bandage tore free. My nails dug into my dress as fire raced along my skin. White cloth dangled from his hand while the healer stared at me, mouth parted, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just done.
“Thank you,” I said, teeth clenched, forcing the word through a smile.
The sound of my voice snapped him back into motion. He tended the wound while Alma droned on about the order of the wedding ceremony. I committed each ritual to memory, interrupting when clarity demanded it.
“Our hands?” I asked as she explained the blood mingling.
She pursed her lips, considering. “‘Tis tradition, yes. Though Queen Samyntha once chose her forearm.”
“The palm is more prone to infection,” the healer added, attention fixed on my neck as he applied fresh dressing.
“Has King Kallias voiced any preference?” I asked.
“Not that I am aware of,” Alma said, brow creasing.
“I request the forearm, in the tradition of old.”
My concern lay less with myself than with his grip faltering in battle from a cut across his palm. He had fought wounded before, but Tallon would not offer mercy.
I would not be the thing that held Kallias back.
“Noted.” Alma darted to the dresser, stealing the healer’s quill to scratch the change onto parchment.
The healer smiled to himself while spreading sap with a thin stick, convinced he had influenced me.
I let him believe it. Infection was no trifling matter. If I could prevent one, I’d catch two fish with one hook.
Once the bandage was secure and Alma finished tightening the laces beyond comfort, we moved through the halls.
The walls no longer felt bare; their former glory was returning piece by piece.
Vines followed newly set hooks in the sandstone, stretching toward high windows.
Paintings I pulled from the archives filled the gaps.
Our portraits of dragons would join them soon—as well as my own one day.
“Ah, here it is,” Alma said as we reached a massive painting tucked into a quiet corner of the palace I had yet to explore.
Kallias hadn’t changed much.
The glow surrounding the young man standing atop the wall between the Golden Palace and Reem obscured his features, but his stance pulled a grin from me. Boots planted wide. Shoulders squared. Spear lifted toward the sun. Strength radiated from him even then.
He could not have been much more than a boy.
“How old was he?” I asked, studying the crowd gathered below him.
His parents stood at the base of the wall, both wearing mantles. The king bore the same one Kallias wore now. The queen’s was delicate, shaped from single leaves bracketing her shoulders.
“Fifteen years,” Alma said, awe softening her voice.
I stepped closer, tracing the shock of gray in his father’s hair. Deep lines carved his brow, intensified by the proud smile lifting his cheeks. His mother glowed with joy, mouth open in laughter, her hand wrapped around her husband’s arm. The artist captured the tenderness in that grasp.
A pang of longing tightened in my chest. I would never meet them. They looked kind, and I had never heard a cruel word spoken against them.
“He was so young,” I murmured, eyes drawn to the vivid garb. It was so different from today’s drab, undyed styles. Color filled the canvas; a world before scarcity. Before war stripped people down to survival.
Once, Radaan knew peace for centuries, troubled only by bandits and border disputes.
Now, people were content to just survive. Clothing served function. Coin fed families or paid workers; no longer wasted on frivolous, indulgent things like pigment.
“I want to meet whoever oversees the color merchants,” I said, leaning back before a sharp sting along my scab reminded me to straighten.
“Pigments, dyes, or stains?” Alma asked, unfazed by my request.
“Dyes—clothing, specifically. I want to see people dressed like this again.” My fingers lifted toward the painting. “Radaan has been in survival mode long enough. It is time for her to thrive.”