His Bride

Chapter 1

Mila

My sister is getting married today.

“He’s quite a lot older than me,” she says, an excited edge to her voice. She is trying to keep her hand steady as she applies her makeup, but there is a tremor in her fingers she can’t quite tame. I see an ever so slight imperfection in the liner around her pretty blue eye. Nobody else will notice it, but she has already fixated on it. She dabs it away with a kerchief and starts again. It goes without saying that everything must be perfect.

“But he’s very, very rich, and of the House of Darken, no less. I’m going to be a lady with a capital L, can you believe it?”

I can believe it, because Maraline has done nothing but talk about marriage to a highborn for as long as I have known her, which began when she was eight and I was born. She used to dress me up as a flower girl, stuff bouquets of daisies in my hands, and make me watch her pretend to marry a broom. She liked to marry the broom because he was tall and had good hair. That was then. Nowadays, her expectations are significantly higher.

“I was starting to think I wouldn’t get a match at all,” she says, dabbing shadow onto her eyelids. “Twenty-seven is very late.”

Twenty-seven is the very last year in which one can be matched. My parents had already begun to build a spinster wing for her in the castle. I don’t know what they’ll do now. Maybe extend it into a second stable for my mother’s ever-growing collection of horses.

“But I suppose the Artifice was just waiting for the right set of circumstances. The Artifice is so wise. Much wiser than any of us could ever be.”

I have heard her grumble about the Artifice for months now, if not years. Most highborn women are matched in their early twenties. To say that Maraline has become impatient, and even a little bitter, over the years is an understatement.

We were all so thrilled when the missive came. The tablet is sitting on Maraline’s desk even now. It is a simple, restrained cobalt blue with two names written in gold. One is large, prominent, and ornate. That is the name of the man who is to be her husband:

Archon-General Lord Arthur Darken.

We know all about him, of course. The missive came with a complete packet of information, which Maraline and my parents, and yes, even I, have pored over in great detail. Arthur Darken is a war hero, a man in his forties who has distinguished himself in war and now commands entire armies. He sounds terrifying to me, but my mother and Maraline say he’s probably a complete gentleman. I can’t get over the fact that he is fifteen years older than Maraline. It’s not usual for the Artifice to match people of such disparate ages, mostly because older men are already matched, and older women are no longer eligible for matching. It’s about breeding. Seems crude to me.

“Why is he getting married so late? Did his first wife die?”

“Of course not. He would never be that careless,” she says, carefully lining her eye with dark liquid. “He’s an adventurer and a general, recently returned from the astral front. They say he led our forces to victory. He’s commanded hundreds of thousands of soldiers.”

There is so much pride in her voice.

I wonder if he will make her happy, this Archon-General. I wonder if he will be nice to her, if he will like her, if he will care about her. Maraline doesn’t seem outwardly worried about any of that.

At any rate, what they are most impressed by is his money. He is rich. His income is multiple times our own, and he lives in New Boston, one of the major cities in The State—a whole other country.

My parents have decided that the Artifice must have decided to mix some of our good breeding with his wealth and power. He was born common, but distinguished himself in battle, which I think must surely be one of the hardest ways to distinguish oneself.

We are of good bloodlines, but poor fortune, my father likes to say.

We are the poorest of the rich, my mother often replies.

The fact that we live in a house big enough to provide shelter to a hundred or more people, and that our stables contain some of the most celebrated and rare horses on the planet, does not diminish their insistence on our relative poverty. There are other noble families who own entire moons, or so I am told.

My parents are even more excited than my sister, if such a thing is actually possible. I can hear them talking out in the hall.

“This is an incredible match,” my father exclaims. “A truly proper pairing. I admit I had begun to doubt the Artifice. Some say that it is corrupt, you know, but this match makes me think we just don’t understand all the complexities.”

“Questioning the Artifice is probably why it took so long for Maraline to be matched. The Artifice knows everything about everyone. It understands complexities we aren’t even aware of. The Artifice is to be respected. Worshipped,” my mother says reprovingly.

My mother is very respectful and worshipful. She is probably the reason we haven’t been discarded entirely. The Artifice can do more than select a mate for a daughter. It can reallocate an entire bloodline’s resources if it sees fit.

“Mila, come and help me get your sister dressed,” she says, bustling into the room. “Be careful not to mess her makeup. You look beautiful, Maraline, dear. You remind me of myself on my match day, though of course I was six years younger.”

My mother has turned backhanded compliments into a peak art form.

I do as I am told, ever the dutiful little sister. I am too young to be matched, at only nineteen years of age. Normally nobody is married off by the Artifice until they are twenty-one, so I have almost two years before I have to start worrying about all of this.

Maraline’s dress is exquisite. She may not be getting a wedding in the traditional sense. Her husband lives in another country, and technically a marriage is legal and binding as soon as the Artifice decrees it. My mother will not be denied her chance to dress her daughter up, however, and she has ensured that Maraline has a gorgeous dress. The fitted bodice flares out into a dramatic long skirt, with an even longer train. Thousands of little diamonds have been affixed to the fabric in delicate floral patterns. The maids have spent hours doing her hair.

This is the most beautiful she has ever been.

“Go and get ready, Mila!” My mother immediately begins fussing at me. “Maraline needs to depart shortly, and look at you!”

I have brushed my rusty-golden hair back into a ponytail, put on a dark beige dress, and I am wearing sensible boots. I am well-presented enough, and I’d rather be accused of looking too plain than commit the cardinal sin of being perceived as pulling focus from Maraline. I usually wear eyeliner and a little lip color, but I’ve avoided both today.

“Yes, when are you getting changed?” Maraline glances over at me. “Not that it matters much what you wear when I am handed over. You may as well wear what you have on right now.”

“Oh, no, she can’t possibly! She’ll look like a servant!” My mother trills with laughter, rather liking the idea, I think.

“We’re going to be late,” Maraline says. “She’ll have to go as she is. Just tuck her out of the way in the photo.”

This has all been planned down to the last detail. We will drive Maraline to the Temple of the Artifice, which of course stands in the town square. There, the officers of the Artifice will take custody of her and deliver her safely to her new husband. There is a flight, we’ve been told, one that goes up and over the ocean.

Once again, that sounds terrifying to me, but Maraline insists it will be fun. She is so positive about this experience it is almost sickening. If it were me about to be taken away from all I have ever known and loved, I’d be losing my mind. I’d be rushing down to the stables and saying tearful goodbyes to all the ponies—and I’d be asking if I couldn’t marry someone nice and close to my age.

I know we don’t actually get a choice in that matter, but it feels like we should. The Artifice assigns us to our husbands as if we are pawns on a chessboard, or pieces of cake. We get handed out and I’m not sure what happens after that. Maraline has told me many times it’s happily ever after, but I don’t think that theory holds up to much thought.

“It’s time to go!” my father booms. “I’m getting the old beauty out, and anybody who isn’t in it in five minutes won’t be going to meet her new husband today!”

Maraline laughs. She is in high spirits as we all rush downstairs and tumble into the old car that has been in the family for generations. The mood is infectious, and we all laugh and sing as we drive into the little town that used to house the people who served our family in the distant past.

The Temple of the Artifice is the largest building in town by a factor of seven. This has always been an underdeveloped old farming area. But the Artifice requires a great deal of space in which to function. The old marketplace, stockyards, and auction house were commandeered, and more was added on. Most of the buildings in town are very old, but the temple has large shining windows and a big red A in the middle of a golden circle.

We all know the story of how the temple came to be constructed, because we have to. The Artifice is the center of our society. At one stage there was a government, but we don’t have one of those anymore. Instead, we have the Artifice. An all-knowing authority that makes the decisions we proved we could not be trusted to make for ourselves.

As we step out of the vehicle, there is a brief moment in which she looks nervous. There are lots of stairs going up to the doors, because the temple is significantly elevated above street level.

I look at my sister with no small amount of admiration. She looks every inch the noble bride. She might be petty to me sometimes, but I love her, and in moments like these, I admire her. She is living proof that there are still bloodlines of power. Ours is one such family. But the family Darken is one of the most powerful. That is why Maraline’s new husband can forego the formality of coming here for a wedding—which is what a gentleman would do—and why we have to drop Maraline at the temple, as if she is a package being posted.

Maraline doesn’t care. We could wrap her up in brown paper and she would be just as happy. She just wants to be married. All she cares about is having a position in society. That is what will give her value for the rest of her life.

I don’t think I’ll be this excited when it’s my turn. I hope I don’t have to go far, and I hope whoever I am matched with is closer to my age. I don’t even want to think about it. I like our home. I can’t imagine leaving the big old house with the horses and the open fields. Everything is blue and green and perfect. It’s where we come from and where we belong.

I think we’re all starting to realize all the ramifications of the fact that the Darken family lives on another continent entirely, and on the far side of it. Visiting will be practically impossible. This is likely the last time we will see Maraline until she is pregnant, and she does not seem to be a bit bothered by it.

Is getting matched and married really this important? She doesn’t know the man. All she knows is that he is a man, and a rich and powerful one. I would need more than that. I would need to want to be in love.

“I hope I don’t ever match,” I tell my mother.

“Oh, hush,” she says, as she always does.

My father is escorting Maraline up the stairs, ensuring she does not trip on her dress. The train flows down the stairs behind her, very dramatic and elegant. My mother takes a picture, and then another. I swear she has taken over a hundred pictures of Maraline in the last hour alone. I know why she is doing it. It is because she is going to have to say goodbye to her daughter very, very soon.

My father and Maraline are met at the doors of the temple. The rest of us won’t be permitted to go inside. They are tall men and women, wearing fancy red coats edged in gold. A whole contingent is here to greet us. At their head there are two officers. One has gray hair, and the other is younger. They look similar because they share a family resemblance. Those who serve the Artifice do so in family lineages unless the Artifice decides to deploy them elsewhere.

“We have come to present our daughter,” my father says. I can see Maraline shaking a little, steadying herself on his arm. I wonder if she is starting to get scared, or if it is just her natural excitement.

“Mila Seraphine?” The Artifice officer intones a name. The wrong name.

My blood runs cold, and suddenly there is a ringing in my ears.

That is my name.

“No, we are presenting Maraline Seraphine,” my father says, blithely unaware of the terrible thing that Maraline, my mother, and I have already completely understood. The plaque that was sent to us just said M Seraphine. We all assumed it was for Maraline. It wasn’t for Maraline.

“Mila Seraphine has been chosen,” the officer says.

At that point, my mother rushes up the stairs, putting herself between me and the officers, who are ignoring Maraline entirely and staring at me.

“There must be some mistake! Mila is only nineteen! She is not of age.”

“She is more than a year older than required. I do hope you are not suggesting the Artifice has made a mistake.” The officer’s tone is cold, cruel, and threatening.

I gasp, clasping my hands to my face. My mother has just committed blasphemy in front of an officer of the Artifice. It is an unthinkable error, one that could have far-reaching consequences.

Maraline’s cries are filling the town square. This is now officially a scene. She is in absolute despair. My heart is breaking for her, and for myself. This can’t be happening. This is everyone’s worst nightmare.

The older officer sighs. “We do not have time for the dramatics. Take the girl and let’s go. The shuttle will not wait, and the Archon-General certainly will not.”

“Mommy!” I use a word I have not used since I was small as the officers come down the stairs toward me.

I am not prepared to leave home. Maraline has a whole set of luggage devoted to preparing her for her new life, but I have nothing. I am not ready. I am not dressed for this. I am barely old enough for this. The man they are saying I am already married to is forty-two years old, more than twice my age. With that thought, the ringing in my ears intensifies. This can’t possibly be real. I see Maraline turning toward me, an expression of betrayal on her perfectly porcelain face. It is as though she is wearing a perfect mask of complete disappointment.

To her credit, my mother is arguing on my behalf.

“She’s not dressed for it. She’s not ready. She’s too young. She hasn’t learned any of the precepts of womanhood, bearing, birthing, or wifely duties.”

“That’s your failing,” the officer says. “Mila has been chosen as the mate of the Archon-General.”

“He’s more than twice her age!”

“And I am sure he will enjoy her all the more for it.”

The officer is lewd, crude, and common. We are told that the officers of the Artifice are chosen from lowborn people in order to maintain a sort of impartial fairness. They have no skin in the games of the highborn. But they certainly seem to enjoy causing us pain as and where they can.

“She is just a baby.”

“She is anything but.”

They are coming down the stairs toward me now. I descend, wondering what will happen if I simply run.

“Don’t,” the younger officer says, catching my thought. “I will chase you down, and you will be punished.”

I freeze as he speaks to me bluntly. I am not used to being threatened by strangers. I am not used to being treated like an object. But that is precisely what I am now. Everything I was afraid of for Maraline is now happening to me.

“I won’t go!” I declare. “Send Maraline! She wants to go!”

“So the Seraphines are a family full of disobedient blasphemers,” the older officer smirks. “This will be noted on your record.”

That stops us all in our tracks. We know well enough there is no choice to be had in this matter. To be seen as resisting the Artifice is to commit one of the primary crimes of our society. We fall silent as one. My father will not look at me. Maraline cannot stop staring at me. It is my mother who tries to give me some small comfort.

“You must be brave,” my mother says, clutching my hands in hers. “And you must be obedient. You know nothing else, so just do as you are told.”

Rough hands reach for me, grip me by the arms. There is no elegance or refinement in this handling. I am a prisoner being taken from my family by force. As I approach the doors of the temple, Maraline begins to cry and curse at me, blaming me for taking what she thought was hers. She hates me. I know this because she keeps screaming the words over and over again.

“I hate you, Mila! You’ve always taken what’s mine. This is Banjo all over again!”

“Please, my dear, calm down,” my father tries to intervene.

“ This is Banjo, all over again! ” Maraline shrieks.

Banjo was a pretty eleven-hand palomino pony that she outgrew by the time she was ten and I was two. She graduated to a full-size pony, and I got to ride Banjo. Maraline was not happy about that at the time, and she is not happy about it now.

I don’t think Maraline has ever forgiven me for anything. I know she won’t forgive me for this.

My parents are still occupied with comforting her as I am led away through the Artifice doors, never to return.

The other side of the doors reveals the interior of the Temple of the Artifice. It’s not the actual Artifice itself, of course. That is everywhere and nowhere. But this is where those who serve the intelligence that has replaced all forms of government on planet Earth work. This is a sacred space, and I know I am fortunate to be seeing it.

There is a picture of the men who are credited with having created the Artifice many years ago. We all know their names: Yokohama, Wallace, and Patel. Those names are canon in our world. People swear on them the same way they used to swear to god. They’re long gone now, of course, but what they helped create remains, guiding us all.

The interior of the building looks a little like the inside of a filing cabinet, if the filing cabinet had nothing inside it. There are a great many officious-looking workers, all wearing the brown and beige of their status. Men and women alike work here, all of them unmatched to any romantic partner, but called to serve a greater purpose.

I walk between the two officers who continue to handle me with what I can only describe as respectful disdain. They respect the fact that I have been chosen by the Artifice, but they do not respect me. I am a pawn being moved across the board, no more and no less.

Maraline would have hated this treatment. She thought that they would bow and scrape and praise her. She should have known better, and so should I. Angeland’s officers are known for their stiff demeanors and solemn exteriors.

“M Seraphine,” they say, as they take me to another officer waiting at one of the internal doors. I am shocked, and unable to take in much of the fine detail of the place.

“Where is this one going?”

“To The State.”

A brow is raised at me. “This one? To The State?”

The State is what remains of what used to be the most powerful country on the planet. Back in the days of human governance, it was a collective of unified states. Nowadays, it is a single state, under the Artifice.

The State retains some of its history and many cultures. It is regarded as being at the forefront of entertainment and commerce. The Darken family is one of the highest ranked families in the nation.

It is just beginning to sink in that I am going to be joining that family. My name will no longer be Seraphine, but Darken.

Mila Darken.

It sounds like the name of a villainess. Maraline Darken sounded better, I think.

My sister was supposed to be here. This has to be a mistake. The Artifice must have made one.

I feel uncomfortable for having had that thought. I try to have others to cover it. They say that the Artifice cannot actually read minds, but there are plenty who believe that it can. It is one of the many Artifice-related topics that goes around and around at dinner parties and such.

I try to think more positive thoughts about the Artifice, and what is happening.

I am being honored, after all. I have been chosen to be the lifelong mate of a very important man. That means the Artifice must see something in me that I don’t see in myself as yet. Yes, that’s it. This will make sense once I get to him. I don’t need to be afraid. The Artifice would never do anything to harm me.

“Do I need to sign anything?” I blurt the question in the effort to appear like I am cooperating.

“Sign anything?” A female officer looks down her nose at me. “Whatever do you mean?”

“For the wedding or the… you know, marriage.”

“The paperwork was generated when the Artifice made the match. You have been married since you were notified.”

“But my sister made a dress…”

“Yes, it’s common for newly paired couples to hold a wedding. It is a good opportunity to maintain social connections. The Artifice approves of it. It’s merely ceremony, however. The legalities are long in place.” She looks at me again with that expression of disdain. “Have you been taught nothing?”

“I don’t think anybody expected me to be selected.”

Her gaze runs up and down me, and she gives a swift that makes sense sort of nod. “Come with me,” she says. “You need to be inspected before you go.”

“Inspected, for what?”

“For purity, and other relevant traits.”