Chapter 16 #2
Amris the Golden-Haired defeated the Seragians in Elmar three hundred years ago, wiped them off the map, sent them running over the mountains with their tails between their legs.
After that, all the Seragians could do was harass the people along the border, sending the most desperate, angry bandits with nothing to lose to pillage and burn.
No emperor had tried to lead an army across the border again, to conquer Elmar, to take Syr once more.
As a child, Melia was taught to believe it had been so because the Elmarrans guarded the border so well, and the Empire had never dared to escalate the skirmishes into a full-blown war.
Looking at the galleys in the harbor, three out of the three hundred the emperor supposedly had at his command, Melia realized the history she’d been taught was a child’s tale.
Yes, the Elmarrans fought hard, yes, Elmar was a narrow, deadly strip of desert protected by some very sharp mountains, but it was nothing when compared with the size and might of the Seragian Empire.
Seragians poured out of the galleys as soon as they docked.
First the guards in their uniforms, armor gleaming in the midday sun.
Then the servants in black and gold liveries, bearing gifts.
Then musicians, clerks, diplomats, noblemen—a mass of foreign people, perfectly orchestrated on the stone piers.
They reminded Melia of a clockwork mechanism, they were so smooth, so perfect, so deadly.
Their order, their coordination, the sheer beauty of their perfect disembarking surpassed any army she had ever seen.
The emperor who commanded such obedience, who had such skill at his disposal, could do anything he pleased.
What if he decided to attack Abia from the sea and send an army over the mountains at the same time, with this level of discipline and dedication?
What if all the might of the imperial army turned upon this little kingdom?
They had no Amris now, no half-mad, half-divine hero whose unmatched talent was to conquer and triumph. Who would defend them now?
Watching the imperial grandeur unfold under the eyes of the whole court and thousands of common people, she could not help feeling overwhelmed.
She tore her eyes away from the magnificent guests to watch the reactions of the people she knew.
The king, fidgeting on a makeshift throne, looking far more anxious than triumphant.
Amril, with an immovable smile plastered on his face, and Amron behind him, pale, with his eyes wide open.
Her gaze then slipped down to where the nobles stood, to the familiar crowd in red and black.
Her father was too far away for his expression to be readable, and from Melia’s high position on the dais, he looked small.
All his schemes, all his anger.…In this sweeping historical moment unfolding before their eyes, her father seemed like a puny troublemaker, a reckless farm boy prodding a sleeping dragon with a sharp stick.
The thought almost comforted her. After all, what could Roderi of Elmar do to spoil this?
There were hundreds of guards around watching the crowd.
Captain Darin stood on the pier with his men, each one armed to the teeth.
Together with the Seragians, they were an army.
What could Roderi of Elmar do to provoke them?
Little page boys walked around the dais offering refreshments, and Melia snatched a glass of iced lemonade from the tray. It was so cold her teeth ached.
“Do you think we’ll stand here until sundown?” she asked the princess, watching the galleys spit out their precious cargo as if there would be no end to it.
“No,” Amielle whispered back. “The wedding’s at noon. Look, the bride is coming now.”
A ripple went through the Seragians on the pier, and the vibrant mass parted to open a path that led straight from the galleys to the main square and the foot of the dais where Amril stood. It looked like magic, like the sea splitting in two, like sunlight carving a golden road through the waves.
“How are we going to recognize—” Melia started and immediately stopped when a figure stepped on the gangplank of the main galley.
She was dressed in white, but a white so bright it made all other shades of white look gray, so brilliant it looked like the fabric was spun out of the light itself.
She walked slowly, carefully, and alone.
As she stepped onto the pier, a procession of women formed behind her, dressed in the imperial purple and gold.
Music followed her footsteps—not loud, brash fanfare, but dreamy strings, gentle as the lapping of the waves and the whisper of the wind.
The crowd in the square fell silent and not a soul moved.
You could have heard a pin drop as the Seragian carevna walked to the dais.
It was five hundred steps or more, and she took her time, allowing everyone to ogle her attire.
The wind picked up the fabric of her overskirt and sleeves, diaphanous and so light it created an illusion of weightlessness.
The bodice and the skirt underneath encapsulated her body in heavy satin, shining like polished steel.
The belt and the diadem that held her veil were encrusted in pearls set in white gold.
“I expected this,” the princess said, “and yet…”
And yet. Melia closed her eyes to protect them from the imperial flare, and her mind wandered back to the weather-beaten stones of Syr, to the empty rooms with worm-eaten furniture and threadbare carpets, to the austerity and the grind of the endless war.
Every pearl in that diadem was drenched in blood, and the carevna’s wedding dress was just as red as Melia’s had been.
As the Seragian procession approached, Amril stepped down from the dais, followed by Amron and a dozen noblemen, including Amielle’s husband, Erian of Leven.
It became clear to Melia why Queen Orsiana had fussed so much about the clothes for the ceremony, why every fabric, every shade, and every cut had to be approved.
A tiny spark of admiration for her flickered in Melia’s chest. It was a hard task not to be completely overshadowed by the Seragian women’s attire, but Amril and his men managed to pull it off.
The crown prince, in a blue so dark it was almost black, was the perfect contrast to his glowing bride.
They met on the square beneath the dais, in a large circle formed by the guardsmen. Even with the diadem on her head, the carevna barely reached his shoulder.
“Welcome to Abia, Carevna Aratea,” Amril said in Seragian.
His bride lifted her veil, revealing a heart-shaped face so pale it matched her dress. From where she stood, Melia could see enough to decide she was no great beauty, just a short girl with thick red braids framing her serious face.
“Thank you,” the carevna replied in perfect Amrian. “My father the emperor sends his greetings.”
Amril took her hand and the procession moved on a carefully planned route that took them through the widest streets of the town, scrubbed until the stones shone for this occasion, and strewn with flowers.
Every street corner offered a new scene: landscapes painted so vividly you felt you could step into them, plays and songs, and people cheering.
Melia searched for disgruntled faces in the crowd and couldn’t find a single one.
Food was free for all, and so was the wine, and it looked as if it were really that easy to make people happy, at least for a day.
The procession circled around Abia and came back to the royal dais on the main square, which was now empty and had transformed into the wedding altar. A priestess of Lada, crowned with flowers and dressed in red, waited to bless the union.
As Amril and his bride faced the priestess—their figures perfectly visible from any corner of the square—as they said the words and performed the rites, Melia expected to see something magical happen.
Every scene, every move that led from the arrival of the ships to this moment, had been so masterfully arranged.
This was the finale. Surely, the gods would give a sign that they blessed a union as great as this.
She prayed for a sign. If the gods approved of this union, then any kind of rebellion was futile. The future of the kingdom had already been decided, and it was peace.
But try as she might, Melia saw no special signs of divine goodwill.
Oh, it was beautifully arranged: the golden chalice adorned with rubies that glimmered in the sunlight, the trained alto of the priestess, projecting perfectly over the crowd, the choir hidden behind the dais, with their celestial voices. The crowd surely thought it enchanting.
And yet, all Melia could see was Amril’s impatience and contempt hidden behind his beautiful mask.
And the bride: She didn’t even believe in these gods, they were powerless in Seragia, where their one god, the almighty Sha, ruled with an iron hand and an army of priests.
Their promises were as solid as the clouds sailing over the brilliant sky.
Melia’s eyes filled with tears; she blinked and the scene fell into colorful fragments like a stained glass window shattered by a gale.