Chapter Three - Whispers #2
“But then maybe you’re right Aurelian,” said Bastian as he took a step closer to Rosamund, his gaze travelling down her neck to her chest, “perhaps I ought to,” he paused, “interview the lady, ensure she is the right match for our darling little brother.”
Rather than lean back or turn her face away, as every inch of her body was telling her to do, Rosamund held her ground.
She swallowed and held her breath, refusing to be overwhelmed by the smell of him.
He quirked an eyebrow in response when she did not back away, and the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.
She jumped when there was the echoing stamp of something smacking against the stone floor. For a moment, she thought her Aunt Cecily had dropped her cane, until she heard a Priest call out, “Your highnesses. My lords and ladies, you may now take your seats.”
“It would seem we are out of time,” said the last man of the group, with a deep rich voice.
His mop of dark brown hair fell down to where it met a full brown beard, and there was a scar that ran down the right-hand side of his face across his brown, almost reddish, eyes.
Where Aurelian had his arms on show, and Bastian’s doublet was open revealing thick black hair across his chest, this man was covered completely in dark brown leathers.
He held out a large meaty hand to Lavinia who grimaced and took it.
She gave Rosamund one more look and huffed a laugh, “Good luck,” the man pulled at her hand, and she quickly followed with a, “Ugh! Cedric!” and grabbed her hand back as she walked ahead of him towards the now open golden doors of the ceremony hall.
“Another time then,” said Bastian as he lifted her hand and kissed it, “Lady Rosamund.”
As his moist lips pressed against her skin a shiver ran up her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck rising.
It took every ounce of her will not to snatch her hand away from him and wipe it against her dress.
Dropping her hand he held his own out to Elswyth who, eyes on the ground, took it and followed him into the ceremony hall.
Aurelian nodded to her and held his arm out to the smaller plump woman.
Both only nodded to her, the woman’s more encouraging, before they followed the rest into the hall.
The other ladies and lords of the court followed, and the whispers began to cease.
Once the last one stepped through the doorway, Rosamund wiped her hands against the dress, every inch of her feeling unclean.
Aunt Beatrice rushed forward and took out a hanky, kneeling to wipe at the hem of the skirt, “I thought we would have a little more time! I don’t think I can get this out! ”
The tension in her shoulders began to rise as the Priest called to the aunts to take their seats.
“Enough Beatrice,” said Aunt Cecily sharply, “it will have to do.”
Rosamund could feel her breathing picking up pace as her chest tightened.
Now that the moment was here, everything was telling her to run.
These people, this place. She could not survive it.
She could not survive them. She imagined it; years spent in the company of those people, their cruelty, their teasing, their indifference, their disappointment. It would ruin her.
Or it would kill her.
“I can’t, I can’t…” pleaded Rosamund.
“You have to,” said Aunt Cecily firmly, though Rosamund could see the beginning of tears swimming in her normally cold gaze, “you have to.”
And she did. She knew she did. There was too much at stake to throw it away now.
Aunt Cecily stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, “It will not be easy. They will try to break you; in many ways they may succeed. But always remember one thing Rosamund,” she leaned in close and whispered, “you are a Valehart, and from the ash, we bloom.”
“Yes, Aunt Cecily,” said Rosamund, feeling a spark, hearing those words.
From the ash, we bloom.
Words that had been banned by the King. Words that had been burned to ash when her father was executed. Valehart words. Her words.
Aunt Cecily moved towards the doors as Aunt Beatrice enveloped Rosamund in a tight embrace, “Be careful.”
“I will,” said Rosamund, hugging her back just as tightly.
She watched Beatrice leave through the golden doors and finally, she was alone.
Rosamund fought the urge to collapse to her knees and instead turned to look at the towering stone statue of Liathern.
Through the white shroud that had been placed around her the Goddess looked serene, her hands to the side of her, upturned; welcoming, caring.
Looking around, Rosamund saw the empty plinths of the other gods and goddesses.
There was a time where the goddess of magic had many brothers and sisters, but now she stood alone, the weight of her people’s prayers on her shoulders.
In Temple, she had learned that the old gods had become corrupt in their power and if it were not for Liathern’s light and magic, they would have destroyed the mortals.
However, her father had once told her a different story, from a book she now knew was forbidden.
She had buried the story deep within her after her father’s death, believing that even thinking it might be cause enough to drag her to the pyre for heresy, but it tugged on her now, begging to be remembered.
She pushed it down and copied the gesture of the goddess, unclenching her hands and holding them to the side in the same welcoming gesture.
Rosamund closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer to the goddess.
Protect me.
Help me see this through.
Guide me.
Show me how to endure this.
Strengthen me.
Teach me how to survive him.
A gentle hand was placed on her shoulder and Rosamund spun on her heel to meet the kindly face of one of the Sisters of the Silver Eye. The shrouded woman inclined her head to her and said softly, “It is time Lady.”
“Yes, th-thank you,” said Rosamund as she stumbled over her words and turned to follow the Sister to the large golden doors.
The Sister walked ahead of her; a lantern held in front to represent Liathern’s light.
Rosamund followed behind, hands clasped in front of her.
It was usual for the betrothed to keep her gaze on the floor in a show of modesty, however as she entered the grand temple hall she could not help but look around.
The entire room was made of the same marble as the receiving chamber.
Wide sweeping arches towered above her, intricately carved designs sprawling over the ceiling and down to the smoothly paved floor.
Grand oval shaped windows lined the walls on either side, each of them filled with the same multicoloured panes as the domed ceiling.
The pews had been carved of the same stone, and each of them had been filled with a smattering of lords and ladies.
It had felt like there were so many of them in the other room, but now she could see that there were maybe only twenty in total.
There was a cordoned off area to one side that looked similarly bare except for the three royal brothers and their wives.
The throne, the symbol of House Mordane carved into its head, was empty in the absence of the king.
A small spark of rage ignited within her as her skin became flushed. This was of such little significance to the King that he would not even witness his own son’s betrothal. The rage quickly transferred to fear as she considered what kind of man she was walking towards.
She had heard the rumours, the whispers of the court; the Prince of Death.
Ahead of her lay the alter, through the gauze that hung from the high arches she could make out the figure of the High Luminary, the chalice and knife in each hand, and another dark figure.
Through the gently fluttering drapes, the man towered over the High Luminary, though the priest was several steps up on the dais.
His thick black hair was ruffled and unkempt, like he had made no attempt to tame it for the ceremony.
His long black coat fell down to his ankles, with a high collar that fanned out behind him, lined with gold.
It felt like iron had been attached to her feet, every step towards the alter felt heavy.
Her skin raised with little bumps as a chill rushed through her the closer she got to him.
She stared at his broad shoulders and the gloved hands he clasped behind his back, silently pleading for him not to look round.
Before too long she was stood beside him and kept her gaze on the High Luminary.
She could not bring herself to look at him, to see the man she was to spend the rest of her life with.
However, the High Luminary gestured for them to face each other, and she had no choice but to turn.
She fought down a gasp. Compared to his bronzed brothers, his skin was bone white, made only worse by the thick dark fringe that fell haphazardly to one side.
His lips were full but pallid, his cheekbones and jaw carved from the same cold marble as the Temple.
His eyes were of such a light grey as to be almost white.
She was caught. Prey trapped in the gaze of its predator, her neck craning up to look into those beautiful, terrifying eyes.
The High Luminary began the ceremony. Rosamund did not hear him. She stared into the face of her betrothed, the furrowed brow, those beautiful lips twisted in disgust and knew one thing for certain.
Prince Dorian of House Mordane, Seventh Son of King Ovidian, despised her.