24. Kaedryn
Kaedryn
Her eyes are open, clear and undeniably alive. But what looked like fear before has been polished down into something quieter and far more alarming. She is present because she has to be, but just barely.
The bond stirs weakly. A muted ache, like reaching through water. It tells me enough to know that whatever I’m seeing is not my imagination.
Adelina reaches the foot of the dais and stops. She lowers into a perfect curtsy for her brother and queen. “Your Majesties.” Her voice is soft and steady.
Selvara smiles, acting the part of a loving older sister. “Rise, darling. You look lovely.”
Adelina rises.
Varek’s gaze moves over her with open satisfaction. “At last. A princess of Dravaryn should know how to present herself.”
Her lashes lower. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The answer comes too quickly, like reflex with no emotion.
Sylas shifts beside me. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll confirm too much, and it is taking every ounce of self control to not take Adelina and leave.
Varek turns to the gathered witnesses and begins the formal opening. He speaks of alliances, duty, the Celestial Sea standing between kingdoms not as a barrier but as shared history, of northern strength joining southern resolve against threats in the east.
I hear almost none of it.
Adelina stands to his left, close enough that the jeweled sleeve of her gown nearly brushes his arm. Her hands remain lightly clasped at her waist and her gaze down.
When the formal words end, custom requires the betrothed pair to stand before the altar-table and affirm the arrangement before witnesses.
Varek gestures. “Come, Adelina.”
She obeys at once. I meet her halfway, taking my place opposite her with the sea-water bowl between us. Up close, the wrongness becomes sharper. She is paler than yesterday, despite the cosmetics brushed over her skin. There is a trace of strain around her mouth that no powder fully hides.
The scent of whatever oils or perfume Selvara’s women used to dress her cannot quite cover something bitter beneath it. Herbs. I know enough of Soren’s satchel to recognize what remedies smell like but this is sharper, masked with perfume.
Her fingers, when I reach for her hand as the ritual requires, are cold, and there is a faint tremor.
Her gaze flicks to mine as my hand closes around hers.
There is awareness there. A flash of it.
Enough to tell me she knows I have noticed something.
Enough to make me keep my expression smooth for the crowd.
The officiant, an older lord priest sworn to both crown and celestial law, begins the blessing.
He instructs us to dip our joined hands into the bowl of salt water.
Her fingers twitch, and when she leans forward, her upper back locks beneath the drape, quick and practiced, as if she knows exactly how far she can move before pain answers.
I cover it by firming my grip, making the action look like assistance rather than scrutiny.
The water is freezing against my skin, but Adelina doesn’t react beyond a minute change in her breathing.
When we lift our hands again, silver droplets slide down our wrists and onto the altar table. The priest speaks the words of a witnessed promise.
“Bound in honor. Joined in alliance. Witnessed by crown, stars, and sea.”
I repeat my portion. Adelina repeats hers softly, but perfectly.
Then the priest steps back, and it’s Varek’s turn to place her other hand into mine before the assembled witnesses. He does so with a performative solemnity that makes my skin crawl.
“Prince Kaedryn,” he says. “I place into your keeping the honor of my house and the future of this alliance.”
Adelina’s hand lies in mine without resistance.
Varek smiles a king’s smile. Controlled, polished, socially correct.
And I know, with cold certainty, that I hate him. If ever presented the opportunity, I would gladly set my shadows free to tear him apart.
The final part of the ceremony requires a kiss, a formal press to the back of the bride’s hand before both courts. I lift Adelina’s hand. She keeps her eyes cast down.
As I lower my mouth to her skin, I say, too low for anyone else to hear, “Are you hurt?”
Her breath catches. She hesitates. Then she answers in the same low, controlled murmur, “No, Your Highness.”
The lie is perfect.
Almost.
Because the words are right. The tone is wrong. It sounds less like reassurance than compliance, the kind of answer given because another one would cost too much.
I straighten slowly.
The chamber erupts into the polite applause of nobles and witnesses who have seen what they came to see. A successful betrothal. A northern princess secured. A southern prince satisfied.
None of them can hear the hollow space beneath it.
The ceremony ends without incident and the receiving line begins, pleasantries exchanged as socially expected. Adelina stands through it all with a control so absolute it starts to feel unnatural. There is only that same terrifying perfection and absence.
Selvara clings to her side whenever the witnesses draw near, adjusting a sleeve here, a strand of hair there, acting every inch the attentive queen.
Twice I see her fingers settle at Adelina’s back through the draped fabric, both times in the same place, just below the right shoulder blade.
The touch is light enough to look affectionate.
Adelina’s reaction is not. The first time, her mouth thins by the smallest fraction, and her hand trembles.
The second, she goes rigid, her throat bobs, and her face drains of what little color it has.
I move before I have decided to.
It is a small thing, nothing a single witness could name.
I step in at her side as though drawn by the next noble in line, fit my hand to the curve of her elbow, and turn her a half-step toward me and away from the queen.
The motion is proprietary. A betrothed prince claiming his bride for the introductions. The room will read it as nothing more.
At this point, I don’t give a shit what they think. All that matters is that Adelina is hurting, and that bitch they call queen is the cause.
Selvara’s hand falls from her back. My shoulder now between her fingers and Adelina.
“Forgive me,” I say, easy and warm for the gathered courtiers. “I have hardly had her to myself.”
The queen’s smile does not falter. “Of course, Your Highness.”
If anything she looks pleased, and I realize I have confirmed something useful to her.
The bond pulls low where my hand wraps her elbow, and under it, that same buried ache, fainter now but there.
Adelina does not lean into it. She goes the other way.
Her eyes cut to mine for half a breath, and what is in them is not relief.
It is warning me that anything I do in this room she will be the one to pay for, and she has already done the arithmetic.
I let her go, still smiling, because the alternative is to stop. I cannot afford that yet.
By the time we move to the dining hall for her final dinner in Dravaryn, my restraint feels like a wall braced against floodwater.
The hall is warmer than the audience chamber, all long tables, torchlight, silver service, and banners hanging heavy from the rafters.
Musicians have been placed discreetly in the alcove overlooking the room.
The food is lavish in the northern style.
Roasted game, dark breads, spiced roots, cream sauces, mulled wine.
A feast meant to display abundance and continuity.
A feast meant to convince everyone present that this kingdom is stable.
Adelina is seated at my right hand at the head table, between me and Selvara, with Varek directly across from us. It is, I suspect, a deliberate arrangement. The queen gets to supervise. The king gets to watch. I get to witness them both pretending to care.
For the first few minutes, the room’s attention remains on us.
Toasts are offered. Blessings muttered. Courtiers watch the couple they have come to see.
I play the role expected of me because there is no other choice in this room.
I lift my cup when required. I answer politely when addressed. I incline my head at the right moments.
All the while, I watch Adelina. She does not eat.
She cuts a sliver from the roast on her plate and moves it around.
She breaks a piece of bread in half and leaves both pieces untouched.
When the wine is poured, she does not reach for it until Selvara glances her way, and even then she only wets her lips.
This, at least, is something public enough to question.
“You should eat,” I murmur. “You are pale.”
Her hand pauses over the knife. “I am well, Your Highness.”
“You look as though a strong breeze might carry you off.”
Another woman might have smiled at that. Or bristled. Or said something clever in return. Adelina only lowers her gaze. “I’m only tired.”
“Tired enough not to eat?”
Before she can answer, Selvara’s voice glides in smooth and bright. “The poor girl has scarcely rested since being recovered. I’m sure the prince understands that travel and distress can dull the appetite.”
I turn to the queen. “Travel has never stopped soldiers from eating.”
Selvara’s smile does not shift. “Adelina is not a soldier.”
No. She is something they have all learned to cut more quietly.
I look back at Adelina. “Do you want different food?”
Her lashes lift. For one brief second, confusion touches her face. No one has ever asked the question expecting a real answer. Then the moment is gone.
“No, Your Highness.”
There it is again. No thought of preference. Only the safe answer.
I lean closer, lowering my voice enough that the nearest courtiers cannot hear. “You do not have to answer every question as if the room is full of traps.”
At that, something almost like pain moves through her eyes. “Don’t I?” she whispers.
The words are so faint I nearly miss them.