Chapter 64
You can say one thing of the Bards. They really know how to throw a party.
It never fails. If revelry is in order, you want a Bard at hand.
The wedding hall was grotesque in its gaudiness. Gold filigree. Gem-dusted frescos of ancient wedding rites and debauchery. Pink marble columns wrapped with stone grapes and vines. Sweeping arches hung with swaths of purple silk.
If you didn’t know Luvic, you’d think the wedding hall he’d conjured was an accurate reflection of his personality.
Ostentatious. Loud. Flamboyant. Grandiose.
A Bard.
Basically, his illusion contained every quality Last had listed that she hated about him.
But Luvic wasn’t ostentatious or showy. If he’d been designing this space for his wedding to Cora, he’d have left it simple.
Quiet. Like his room at the Bard mansion.
Sure, there might have been a bit of gold or a dusting of flowers, but he wouldn’t have wanted anything to distract from what mattered.
This gaudy hall was so far from the true Luvic it made a very loud statement. Unfortunately, no one could hear it but me.
It wasn’t as if Last weren’t making a statement too.
She’d choked Luvic’s columns and arches with poison vines.
She’d cracked his frescoes and muddied his river.
His marble and gold was smothered in stinging nettle.
She’d crushed his creation with giant, ugly boulders.
Last’s knots were formed like a vine wrapping tightly around a tree, slowly killing Luvic’s illusion with strangulation.
If I had to guess, I’d say the entire hall had a week at most before the illusion collapsed in on itself.
But if you managed to look past the poisonous vines and the cracked frescoes, the wedding hall was the perfect setting for a conjurer wedding. The setting sun streamed in golden waves through the windows, and a sweet, apple scented haze swirled around the hall.
I was certain the haze was euphoric, but my blood was so agitated all I could feel was a tight foreboding.
At the front of the hall, a string quartet quietly sawed at their instruments.
There were nearly a hundred conjurers here—all of them Bard or Clark—and as the music shifted to a formal march, they quieted and looked toward the back of the hall.
Last appeared in the entry as if she’d blown in on an evil wind. Her black wedding dress shifted like a miasma, and when a group of Bards gasped, she gave a satisfied smile. Her gaze passed over the hall until she found Luvic standing beneath the stone wedding arch.
His face was pale, but that was the only sign of his discomfort. Everything else pointed to him being a perfectly happy groom. He took in Last’s wedding dress, her hair studded with smoky diamonds, her black lips, and her silver-dusted skin.
“She’s beautiful,” someone whispered.
Luvic’s mouth curled into an appreciative smile, and his eyes warmed. He looked like a man worshiping his bride. Like a man incredibly happy he was marrying the most terrifying woman in the room. Like he didn’t care that she planned to kill him shortly after the wedding.
If I’d ever wondered what a man looked like when the love of his life walked down the aisle—now I knew. He looked like Luvic Bard watching Last step toward him.
He may hate acting, but he was brilliant at it.
I pressed my nails into the fleshy part of my palm.
As Last started forward, following the trail of the muddy indoor stream, I bent down and grasped her train, lifting it from the ground.
I walked slowly, the lace scratching my hands, not looking at anyone.
The quartet plodded on. Luvic’s gaze stayed on Last. Primus stood next to Luvic. He didn’t watch his sister. He watched me.
My skin crawled as Last stepped under the arch.
One hundred conjurers watched as the Bard, his wife, and the Clark stood and joined us at the front.
“When a conjurer marries,” the Bard began, his rich voice trickling over the hall, “they enter a lifelong commitment that cannot be broken. They are two souls that entwine. Entangle. Become one. When an heir marries the scion of another house, it is important to remember this joining isn’t merely metaphor—it is reality.
The promises said here today will echo for eternity. ”
I shifted on my heels, uncomfortable with the weight of Primus’s gaze.
He stood behind and to the left of Luvic.
Since I was mirroring him but behind Last, he was facing me instead of the Bards or his father.
The edge of his lip twitched. I looked away and focused on Luvic.
A teardrop of sweat was trickling down his temple, and his cheeks were red. He held Last’s hands loosely.
Herman Clark twisted his hand and held out two black wedding bands. “The rings.”
I leaned forward. The rings were illusion made real and tied with true lover’s knots. The black metal was etched with intricate designs. There were no stones.
The Clark placed the rings on a small marble pedestal, next to a golden cup filled with wine.
My stomach twisted at the smile on Luvic’s face.
Where were Ragnor and Celia?
“First, we drink,” the Bard’s wife said.
“We share the cup of plenty and sorrow. We pledge our loyalty and combine our fates.” She stepped forward and pressed her hand to Luvic’s cheek.
She hadn’t been seen much since the closing ceremony.
She’d always been thin, pale, and as fragile as an orchid, but today, she was even more so.
Her voice was reedy, and her hand shook as she pulled away from her son.
She picked up the golden cup and held it out to the Bard. “My husband—”
She was cut off as a giant clap of thunder shook the hall. Conjurers screamed, and then their screams were clipped short as a violent gust of wind charged down the wedding aisle and battered the arch.
Last’s dress flew around her like a flock of ravens. My tulle and satin swirled, rising like a storm cloud. The wind tugged at me, and I braced against it. Last wobbled on her heels, and Luvic gripped her arms and held her upright.
The Bard grabbed the cup before it spilled and steadied his wife.
The wind screamed around us, rattling the poison vines and tossing tainted flower petals in the air. And then, as suddenly as it had roared through, it was quiet.
Everyone looked toward the entry at the sound of footsteps coming near.
The Bard held out his hand, ready to conjure. Primus narrowed his gaze on the back of the hall.
Then Jacob sauntered in, his hands in his jeans pockets, his T-shirt a wrinkled mess.
Did he always sleep in his clothes?
He blinked owlishly at everyone, looking around the wedding hall as if he was surprised to find himself there.
“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows rising in surprise, “did you start without me?”
“Ward,” the Bard said, and by the timbre of his voice, it was obvious he wasn’t pleased.
Jacob tilted his head and smiled. “Yes?”
“What are you doing here?”
Jacob frowned, looking around the hall. He took in the conjurer guests—the Bards in their colorful dresses and suits, the Clarks in their somber blacks and grays—and then he studied the wedding party. He quickly moved his gaze over me, instead focusing on Last and Luvic.
“Hmm? What did you say?” he finally asked after the silence had stretched to an unbearable tautness.
“What”—the Bard ground his teeth—“are you doing here?”
Jacob looked around the hall and then down at his wrinkled clothes and his dirty shoes. He scrubbed his hand through his blond hair, trying to smooth it down, but it only made it worse.
“I got your invitation.” He smiled happily, and I felt a swift tap on my heart, like he was letting me in on his joke.
“You were not invited,” Primus said.
Conjurers in the back rows were quietly slipping out, casting Jacob nervous glances. He didn’t seem to notice his presence was having a deleterious effect on attendance.
“I wasn’t?” Jacob frowned, his brow wrinkling. “Huh. I was sure . . . no . . . hmm . . . well, never mind. I’m here now.”
He moved to a recently vacated row—at least two dozen conjurers had fled—and sat down in a chair. He crossed his ankle over his thigh and then looked at the wedding party expectantly.
The Bard’s wife paled and whispered, “Dagrid?”
He shook his head. At least half of the conjurers had snuck out the back. They weren’t taking any chances.
Jacob was the Ward, and no matter how harmless he looked, he could turn their minds inside out and upside down in half a second.
“Are you here to make trouble?” the Clark asked. His voice was a thin, hostile hiss.
Jacob looked around as if he were trying to find who the Clark was talking to, then he pointed in surprise at himself. “Me? Here for trouble? No. I’m here for cake.”
I held back a snort, flattening my mouth into a thin line.
He tapped again, and it was a ticklish, funny feeling that made me want to laugh.
It was going to be okay. Jacob was here. Celia and Ragnor would come. Luvic wouldn’t marry Last.
“Let’s get on with it,” Last hissed, glaring at the Bard’s wife. “The wine!”
She startled and then regained her composure, holding the cup out to the Bard. “First, we drink.” Her voice shook. “We share the cup of plenty and sorrow. We pledge our loyalty and combine our fates.”
The Bard took the cup and swallowed a mouthful. He handed it to his wife, who drank. Then the Clark drank. He began to hand it to Primus, but then the cup slipped from his hands. It clattered to the floor. The wine ran over the marble, coating it bloodred.
Then, like a game of dominos, the Bard collapsed, the Bard’s wife collapsed, and the Clark collapsed.
Last tore her hands from Luvic’s and bent over her father. She pressed her fingers to his throat and looked up at Primus.
“Dead,” she said.
Luvic bent down and felt his father’s pulse, and then his mother’s. He shook his head.
Dead.
This time, there was no scream. There was only a harsh, wheezing laugh.
“I told you they’d try something,” a man called.