Chapter 9 - ILSEVEL
ILSEVEL
Bells sound in the village below. Celebratory bells for my wedding, perhaps, but there’s a frantic air to them that makes me unsettled. Granted my own less-than celebratory feelings may influence my perspective, sensing alarm where I’m meant to hear joy.
I stand close to the window, gazing out, though I can see nothing beyond Beldroth’s courtyard wall. Whatever takes place in the town below is entirely separate from me, and my curiosity fades as swiftly as it was roused.
Frowning, I look down at the gown in which I am clad—a long column of soft white with a deeply plunging neckline.
A cloak fastens at my throat and falls gently over my shoulders, picked out in complicated patterns of gold thread, depicting the sacred knots of Nornala and holy unity.
My hair is gathered up in a gold net, off my neck and away from my face.
It is the ceremonial heartfasting gown, worn by unwed maidens for the sacred rite preceding their wedding nuptials.
I’ve participated in many an entourage for brides of my father’s court, seen this dress worn by many a blushing maiden.
The priest of Nornala agreed to let me skip my Maiden’s Journey.
Considering recent events, it was deemed unnecessary for me to go through that process again.
But he had insisted on a heartfasting, which must take place before the wedding ceremony itself.
Mine is to happen this morning, followed by my wedding at sundown. An eventful day.
A heavy swath of beaded fabric weighs down my hands.
I bow my head, studying it, turning it slowly this way and that to catch the light.
It is much like the prayer veils favored by Aurae.
For some reason I cannot explain, that thought sends a dart of pain straight to my stomach, there and gone again.
I’m starting to get used to that singularly unpleasant sensation.
“What is it, Ilsevel?” Lyria says, dragging my attention abruptly her way.
She has been my only attendant this morning, as I banished all my other eager ladies-in-waiting for giggling too much.
Lyria herself is not disinclined to indulge in a good giggle now and then, but her face is very solemn today, her eyes shadowed as though she did not rest at all last night.
One would think she was the one being married off to a death mage.
“Are you in pain?” she asks, coming toward me, reaching out to take the veil from my grasp.
“Another memory,” I answer softly. “Trying to work its way through.” My mouth downturns in a grimace. “It hurts sometimes.”
Lyria nods, her gaze fixed on the side of my face.
Then she tilts her head, and her eyes move to the low-cut front of my gown and the prominently exposed skin of my bosom.
She seems to be looking at something, some mark or flaw, but when I crane my head, I see only my own smooth flesh.
Rather more than I care to display, if I’m honest. “What are you looking at?” I demand sharply.
Lyria’s brow puckers, and her eyes flick to meet mine. “It’s best if you don’t remember,” she says, as she has many times over the last few days. Blight her.
“And why not?” I rub three fingers roughly against the skin between my breasts, as though I might feel something my eyes cannot perceive. “What is it that worries you so much about my memories?”
She hesitates. Which is disturbing in itself; Lyria is not a woman given to hesitation.
“It’s some kind of obscure witchcraft,” she says at last, choosing her words carefully.
“Very dangerous. I—they—the Miphates, you know—they’ve done their best to root it out of your system, but it seems as though there are residual strands. ”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Did Artoris tell you this?” I cannot imagine him or any Miphato wasting any time on witchcraft, which everyone knows is considered low magic and an abomination. They burn witches in some parts of Gavaria even to this day.
Lyria hums softly, neither denial nor affirmation, merely a sound of acknowledgement.
She won’t quite meet my eye. “They say the curse will die off naturally if you do nothing to strengthen it. But even a stray memory could feed it, could make it stronger. Strong enough to kill you even now, if you do not take care.”
Turning from her, I study my reflection in the long dim mirror standing close to the window to catch its light.
So many mysteries! So much emptiness in my head where there should be clarity.
It’s strange to look back to my last clear memory, to the night of my betrothal, and see in that space a girl who is so little like me.
Angry, defiant, frustrated, and trapped, yes.
Futile in all her endeavors, brimming with mingling self-righteousness and self-loathing.
I am still she, perhaps—but I cannot help feeling that I have become more.
If I could only remember, if I could only rediscover that version of myself who knew how to take up arms against my troubles rather than sitting by in furious passivity.
But she—whoever she is—seems to be lost in those blank spaces in my mind.
I turn slightly, taking in the sight of myself in that ceremonial gown.
Strange to think I wore it only recently, when I underwent this same heartfasting ceremony with King Vor.
That moment came and went from my life without leaving any lasting impression.
I can’t help thinking something happened .
. . something I should recall, but cannot put my finger on.
Artoris’s dark spellwork still encases my body.
I lift a hand, watch the liquid-like play of magic moving across my skin, not truly visible to the eye, but strangely present nonetheless.
Clinging, cloying. Like a black oil spill.
My intended bridegroom has returned several times over the last few days to reassert the spell.
Lyria has always been present on those occasions; otherwise, I’ve seen little of him.
I wonder if his spellwork has suppressed my emotions as well as my pain.
I suspect I should be much angrier at the prospect of being married off to Artoris, but as it is, I just feel a numb sense of inevitability.
My eyes move in the murky glass, rising from contemplation of the gown to meet my own gaze.
“Got what you deserved in the end, didn’t you?
” I murmur. The version of myself in the mirror smiles without mirth.
“It’s time,” Lyria says. She carefully arranges the heavy veil over my head and face, a shield for my maidenly virtue which strikes me as utterly incongruous.
I feel neither maidenly nor virtuous as I turn from the mirror and march for the door, still a little unsteady on my feet, despite days of healing.
Pausing at the door, I turn to look back at Lyria, who carries the train of my gown.
“I want to thank you,” I say, blurting out the words rather abruptly.
“For standing between me and Artoris these last several days. It . . . it meant a great deal to me.”
She looks unhappy, her mouth severely downturned. “Ilsevel,” she says in a low voice, “after the wedding, I won’t be able to—”
I cut her off with a sharp gesture. “I know. I know it was probably useless in the long run. But I appreciate your efforts even so. Just knowing you tried to protect me makes me feel a little less . . . alone.”
The bells continue ringing below, an obnoxious clamor. I cast an irate gaze out my window and mutter, “What are they making all that racket over?” Then, gathering my skirts in both hands, I leave the chamber behind.
Artoris will be escorted in silent procession down to the sacred courtyard at the bottom of the garden where the heartfasting vows will be exchanged.
My father will be part of that party, along with all the chief members of his court and any young men Artoris invites to participate.
Their voices will be raised in taunts and jeers, making a mockery of the holy ceremony.
The bride’s procession is rather different.
I too have an entourage, made up of noble ladies of the court and unwed maidens, all dressed in a brilliant garden of colors, singing sacred songs as they go.
My own entourage is not so impressive as one might expect for the last surviving princess of the House of Cyhorn.
My mother waits to meet me at the top of the garden, clad, not in black, but in dark, somber blue, as close to mourning garb as she can manage without overtly offending the traditions of this occasion.
She has three ladies of court with her, including my father’s mistress, Fyndra, who hovers ever close to the queen’s side, an inescapable thorn in her flesh.
Fyndra smiles in greeting; my mother does not.
Queen Mereth surveys me with cold disinterest as I approach, Lyria at my heels.
She does not wear the face of a mother whose child has been returned to her from beyond the grave.
“You look well, Ilsevel,” she says after a long appraisal.
Her gaze seeks mine beneath the heavy beading of my veil. “So. Here we are again.”
I bite my lip, but cannot seem to stop my wayward tongue. “Not quite the advantageous match you once envisioned for me, is it, Mother?” I tilt my head to one side, offering what might pass for a smile. “Are you really going to stand aside and watch me throw my life away on a mage?”