Chapter Four - The Prince of Death
CHAPTER FOUR
The Prince of Death
DORIAN LOOKED AWAY, raising that cold stare to the domed ceiling, the colours from the stained-glass dancing across his face.
Rosamund wondered if he too was offering a prayer to the goddess.
Praying for some miracle to strike between them so that neither of them would need to go through with this.
A red flush rose up from Rosamund’s chest to her face as she stared down at the paving on the floor.
“Goddess, bringer of light, Liathern, we call to you now to witness the union of your dedicates,” called out the High Luminary, raising the knife and the chalice in his hands.
She wanted to run. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and this man, but her feet were frozen in place.
She doubted she would even make it to the doors if she did.
There were guards in royal livery positioned at all the exits.
They would capture her and bring her back.
Or perhaps they would not bother with the effort and strike her down.
I need to get out of here.
Lost in planning her escape she realised that there was a silence awaiting a response.
She snapped her attention back to the Prince to see that his gaze had returned to her, the same look of revulsion on his face as he held his gloved hands out to her.
Rosamund looked to the High Luminary who nodded to her with a look of irritation.
“S-sorry,” she stammered as she held her own hand out.
She gently brushed the leather of his gloves, a tingling cold travelling up her fingers as she went to grasp his hand.
With a gentleness she did not expect he carefully closed his fingers around hers, holding them in place like he had just caught a butterfly.
She had expected firmness, roughness even, not this delicate gesture.
Rosamund dared to glance at him again and found that his attention was fixed on her.
It was hard to read those icy eyes, but she was certain she had seen something else in them.
Once again, she was pulled from her musings as the High Luminary cleared his throat.
A flash of irritation crossed the prince’s face as he turned to look at the priest, whose eyes flicked down to where the prince held her hand.
When Dorian did not move, he quietly whispered, “Your highness…the gloves.”
Again, he did not move.
The Priest cleared his throat again and said, “Your highness, you must remove the gloves.”
“No,” he said, in a deep, firm tone.
He had not raised his voice, but the word echoed around the temple and a whisper rose from those gathered in the pews. She went to remove her hand from his grasp and found his fingers holding on to her just a little bit tighter.
“Continue,” he said in the same smooth tone that brooked no argument and turned back to Rosamund.
The High Luminary remained silent. Instead, he turned to the other royals. Rosamund watched as Bastian, lounging on his carved marble chair with his legs apart, rolled his eyes and lazily rose to his feet.
“Brother,” drawled Bastian, “take the gloves off.”
“I will not,” replied Dorian.
“For goddess’ sake, the sooner we get this charade over with the sooner we can get to the feast,” complained Bastian with a sigh, “take the damn gloves off Dorian. You’re not going to catch anything, she’s not diseased. Probably.”
Another flush rose within he. This time anger won out, and she sent a fiery glare in the direction of Bastian and his smug grin.
Though, she quickly realised that she was not alone in this.
It was not irritation that crossed Dorian’s face but a red flush, of anger or embarrassment she could not decide.
Dorian dropped her hand, the gentleness gone, and he tore off the black leather revealing long white fingers.
He tossed the gloves to one of the High Luminary’s acolytes.
With a snort, Bastian resumed his slouch and gestured for the priest to continue.
“If you would please, join hands,” repeated the High Luminary.
Rosamund watched as Dorian flexed the fingers of his hand and clenched them.
Does he honestly think I have some kind of disease?
Was his revulsion for her so deep that he could not bring himself to touch her, even for this?
While she felt some relief at that thought, it was quickly replaced with a growing fear; what does a prince do with a wife he cannot touch?
It looked like the High Luminary was once more going to call on Bastian to intervene, but Dorian slowly raised his hand out to her, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Tentatively she reached out to take his hand.
Before she even grazed his skin, she could feel a sharp tingling sensation travel up her fingers, like a frost creeping over the ground.
No, not frost. Decay. Cold decay. Her hand stopped, hovering above his own.
Her immediate reaction was to pull back, the same way a child would when reaching out to a flame.
She looked up and saw the prince watching her, waiting.
He wanted her to stop. He wanted her to pull her hand away.
And then what would happen? Would that be the end of the betrothal?
Lady Rosamund refused to marry the Prince of Death.
Even a fallen woman such as she would not touch him.
She and her aunts would be cast from the city, their last chance ruined. He wanted this.
She would not give it to him.
With what little defiance she had left, she reached down inside her to find the courage to close the gap between them and firmly grasped his hand.
Pain shot up her arm, travelling along her veins.
One moment it felt like her blood was being transformed into ice, and in the next it felt like her skin was burning.
His hand instinctively gripped hers, locking her in place as the pain intensified.
Rosamund could not help the hiss through her teeth as it felt like her arm was rotting from the inside out.
The High Luminary leaned towards her; concern etched on his face.
“Are you-” he started to say.
“Get on with it,” said Dorian firmly.
The High Luminary looked like he might have objected when Rosamund nodded to him and said through gritted teeth, “Yes, continue, please.”
Reluctantly the priest did so, “Today you dedicate yourselves not just to the goddess, but to each other. A solemn promise to join under her light.”
She understood now why they called him the Prince of Death. They called him a necromancer, the darkest of all the magic gifted to the nobles by Liathern. Was he choosing this? Was he showing her what he was capable of?
Does he expect me to last the ceremony?
The pain was unbearable. Through the gauze of her dress, she could see parts of her skin begin to blacken. It had moved from her arm to her chest. Further panic set in as she considered what would happen if this decay reached her heart. It would kill her.
She had to do something.
Instinctively she called upon her power.
In her mind she saw the verdant green gardens of Hartwood House.
The touch of the long blades of grass as she and Todric would lie there, eyes closed, feeling the ground move beneath them.
The scents of the roses she and her father had carefully curated.
The memory vivid in her mind, Rosamund used it to channel her power to push back the decay.
A gentle warmth began to build, gliding across her skin and through her blood to melt the chill.
She looked at her sleeve and saw the rotted black skin on her arm slowly begin to heal as the glow of her power pushed it back.
Slowly she pushed the rot back to the source, like a bubble of light expanding within her. With relief the pain began to lessen.
However, she could not relent, when she eased off her power the pain and the rot returned with force. As the ceremony progressed, she found it harder and harder to maintain, her jaw clenched with the effort of it.
I can’t give up.
As the pain began to lessen, she looked up at Dorian to see that he was looking down to something past their hands, a deep frown upon his brow. Rosamund followed his gaze to the ground and her eyes widened in horror.
Through the small gaps between the marble tiling a green shoot had risen between the crack and began to unfurl.
Rosamund watched as the familiar blue petals of a forget-me-not began to unfurl and blossom.
In her shock at seeing the flower she had forgotten to keep up her barrier and the rot crept forward with renewed force.
She scrambled to push it back and keep her breathing under control.
Had she done that? In her attempt to push back the prince’s magic she had failed to recall where she was.
The magic granted by Liathern to her followers was gifted only to the male bloodlines of the nobility.
Those who developed magic outside of this were either bastards who were quickly adopted into the household, or murdered.
Or were branded heretics. Such power was not for women.
Those women who exhibited signs of magic were sent to the House of the Silver Eye.
They were taught to Scry and use their ‘tainted’ magic for the benefit of Valdyr.
Otherwise they were burned as witches.
Her father had taught her alongside her brothers.
She had known it was forbidden and was sworn her to secrecy, but her power had been evident since she was a little girl playing in the Valehart Estate gardens.
The flowers would bloom where she walked, the trees bent to listen to her, and all the cut fingers and scraped knees of her siblings were quickly healed.
All of them had kept the secret. And now here, in the city where witch burnings were common, she had publicly used that power.
And Prince Dorian had seen it.