Chapter 13 #2
Artoris catches my gaze. I’m frowning, deep in concentration, utterly oblivious to any of the nonsense the priest is saying.
My bridegroom gives me a stern look, but I merely sneer back at him, then turn a wooden stare back to the priest. The poor man gives a breathy homily, something about the goodness of Nornala’s plan for man and woman—two such disparate beings, yoked together so that the wife may nurture and comfort her husband in all his worldly endeavors.
I can’t help thinking it rather odd on Nornala’s part.
Why does she not want better things for her female worshippers?
It’s all very well for the gods to demand subjugation on a whim, but I’d expect better of a goddess.
The ceremony comes to a crescendo in a final gods-skeweringly damnable prayersong.
That single off-key voice seems to soar above all others.
I want to scream and clap my hands over my ears and flee the chapel in a flurry of heavy gold skirts.
Before I can act, however, Artoris rises, draws me to my feet, tucks his arm around my waist and draws me close.
“It’s done now, sweet bride,” he says, his breath hot against my ear. “You are mine.”
Thus the nightmare descends.
We are paraded forth from the chapel, up several flights of stairs, out to an open balcony above the Beldroth courtyard.
My parents stand to one side, both clad in their most elaborate royal robes, crowns on their heads, jeweled scepters in their hands.
A dignified monarch and his consort. They know the mockery this marriage is, but they will put on a worthy performance, nonetheless. Gods blight them.
A great host of faceless celebrants stand below, cheering at the tops of their voices for the princess and her new husband.
You, some dull part of my brain reminds me.
They’re cheering for you. That cheer seems to spread from the stone yard down the rocky promontory to where the city clusters below.
Bells ring out, both far and near, and a variety of hymns crop up from different quarters, all enthusiastic, none in any way harmonic.
Doves are set loose, poor things, to flutter in terror up to the battlements and away into open sky.
I find my gaze fixating on one young bird, following its flight out beyond the castle walls.
My eyes pursue it until it vanishes from sight into the deepening gloom of dusk.
There may be speeches given. From my father, from Artoris. I don’t care, and I’m certainly not listening. My ears thunder with a dissonance which quakes through the caverns of my soul. I’m unsteady on my feet as they shuffle me from here to there. Their pretty, smiling, golden-clad prop.
Pain slowly intensifies as the spellwork slips away, and I must fight the urge to grab Artoris and beg him to slip away with me to some private place where he can reassert his magic. But I don’t dare—I know what he’ll do the instant he gets me alone. I want to put that off as long as possible.
So I brace myself. When Artoris offers his arm to lead me down to the wedding banquet, I don’t cling to him for support, merely rest my fingertips lightly against the embroidered fabric of his fine Miphates robe.
We proceed to the banquet hall. King Larongar and Queen Mereth precede us and take their seats of prominence at the head table.
Meanwhile, some overeager trumpetists blare a fanfare to announce our arrival, and all the gorgeously clad court stand to greet us.
My eyes sweep the assembly. All these faces I know quite well seem like strangers to me now. As though I’ve lived a whole lifetime apart from them and returned to find no friends in their midst.
A hasty search for Lyria discerns no trace of my recalcitrant half-sister. She seems to have abandoned me, here in my final hours. Faithless wench.
To my relief, I am seated on my mother’s left, while Artoris is granted a place of favor on my father’s right. A reprieve from my new husband is just what I need, and I sink gratefully into my chair and immediately lift my goblet, signaling the servants for wine.
Mother leans heavily to one side. She still holds her scepter in one hand, like a weapon she’s ready to wield against any lurking foe. “You look terrible,” she whispers from the corner of her mouth. “You need to smile more.”
“I thought I was smiling.”
“No, you’re grimacing.” She turns her head, looking me straight in the eye. For a moment all her queenly grace vanishes in a sharp expression. “You cannot let anyone know what you truly think or feel. Ever. You must keep your armor up at all times if you hope to survive.”
It’s the most real advice she’s ever bothered to offer me. I lift an eyebrow and lean back casually in my chair. “Survive what, Mother dear?” My words are bitter. “My wedding night?”
“Life,” she breathes.
The next moment she withdraws, and her face assumes that familiar cool mask. My father says something, and she offers a chilly laugh that sends a little shiver down the back of my neck.
“A toast!” cries someone from one of the lower tables. “To the happy new couple.”
Ah! Now here is a welcome diversion. I lift my own goblet as heartily as any of the rest of the company, toasting myself before draining the contents of my cup in a single draught.
Droplets of red wine spatter on the gold silk of my bodice, like blood.
I close my eyes, relishing the immediate rush of numbness spreading through my limbs.
It cannot take away the pain or the fear, but it can make them not matter quite as much, for a little while at least.
I drain my cup, and a servant appears to fill it again. Another toast comes swiftly on the heels of the first—someone must, after all, salute the king, who just managed to unburden himself of a daughter today. “Here, here!” I cry, and drain my second portion to the dregs.
Two goblets of wine on an empty stomach, and suddenly the world seems much brighter, much merrier than it did a short while ago. And the pain awaiting me in the next hour or two? That’s a problem for future Ilsevel. I needn’t concern myself with such things, not when there’s more wine to be drunk.
The court musicians begin to play. One of the pipes is ever-so-slightly out of tune, and my quick ears immediately pick it out from the rest of the cheerful noise. I throw back my head and laugh maniacally at the sheer awfulness of it, which no one else can hear.
Mother leans over once more and snarls, “Pull yourself together, Ilsevel.”
I merely laugh again and stand, catching myself on the table for a moment as both wine and pain cause the room to spin. “I am ready to dance!” I declare, my voice pitched rather high.
Artoris starts to rise from his place beyond my father, but I don’t give him the chance to claim me.
Another wild laugh spilling from my lips, I slip away from the high table and down to one of the lower tables set to the side of the banquet hall.
Selecting a random fellow, who looks simultaneously frightened and pleased, I drag him to the dance floor.
I’m much too intoxicated to recall the exact steps of the dance, but who cares?
I may not be gods-gifted with Aurae’s natural grace, but I’m spritely and determined to feel none of the pain even now clutching at my gut.
So I move my body, move my feet, even as tears spring to my eyes.
My partner, whose face I cannot quite discern, leans in close and whispers, “Are you quite all right, Princess?”
I only laugh at him.
Other dancers approach the floor, and I push away my first partner and blithely steal someone else’s.
No one protests—I am the bride, after all.
This is my night, or rather, my portion of the night.
For when the dancing is through, the night will belong to the bridegroom, as everyone knows.
What happens to me then may be subject to some speculation, but it doesn’t take a great imagination to conjure all the ways a husband may punish his new wife for indiscretions at their wedding feast.
The songs progress, one after another, and I dance on.
Claiming partners at will, interrupting the patterns of the dances without a thought.
No one speaks out against me, and only once do I hear Artoris’s voice sternly speaking my name.
It’s easy enough to flee him, plunging deeper into the crowd, which by now fills the floor.
It almost feels like magic, so multitudinous are the merrymakers and their gorgeous raiment.
I could almost believe someone cast an illusion spell to make the crowd appear denser and offer me a little shielding from my husband’s gaze.
I make a turn, my arms over my head, my long sleeves fluttering like wings.
As I come fully about, I find myself facing a broad chest, which strains at the seams of a dark green, velvet tunic.
I tip back my face, bleary eyes struggling to make sense of this new partner.
Long black hair, unbound, falls so as to cover his ears, and a strong jaw is made even stronger and sharper by the definition of a neatly-trimmed beard.
I lift my gaze farther, focusing for a moment with exquisite intensity on a pair of beautifully formed lips.
Great gods! How had I never noticed before that lips could be so very beautiful?
Almost as though they are begging to be kissed.
Artoris’s lips are not like that, though I’ve kissed them often enough.
Too thin, too needy . . . while this mouth seems to promise a sumptuous generosity that makes my stomach feel suddenly cavernous with craving.
I don’t bother to look more closely. I simply reach out, grab the front of that tunic, and pull the man into my wild dance, laughing at the sheer audacity flowing in my veins, pulsing in time with blood and wine.
A powerful hand slips around my waist, gripping me fast. Strange that it feels so supportive.
Not like Artoris’s caging grip. This is the sort of grasp which can sustain one through tempests, an offering of strength, even goodness.
I whirl again, wholly given over to the madness of song, no longer even caring for that one sour pipe, which winds its way through the rest of the melody.
I throw wide my arms, bend my spine, lean my head far back, allowing my center of gravity to veer wildly off course as I spin and spin, kept upright only by that powerful hand.
My skirts form a billowing maelstrom around me and this faceless new partner of mine.
Suddenly I open my eyes. I don’t know how it happened, but I am no longer standing in a torchlit and crowded space.
Shadows crush in on every side, and cold stone walls echo hollowly with dancing music from far away.
I blink hard, my vision doubling, but manage to recognize the long gallery into which I’ve somehow been drawn.
Drawn by that large hand, which still rests at the small of my back.
Another hand grasps my fingers, assisting me as I stagger along.
I shake my head. “Where . . . what . . . ?” I cannot think straight, struggle to form a coherent question. With an effort of will, I pull my brain into some semblance of order. “What are we doing out here?”
“I had to speak to you,” a deep voice murmurs from the darkness over my head. “Privately, zylnala.”
Zylnala.
That word again.
“Songbird,” I whisper.
Then I crane my head, peering through shadows. A gleam of moonlight falls from one of the high gallery windows, splashes across the face of my escort. It’s the beautiful stranger from the garden.
“You,” I breathe.