Chapter Four - The Prince of Death #2
He must have. His eyes trailed up from the flower to meet Rosamund’s panic-stricken face.
She expected anger, outrage, that same disgust when they had first looked upon each other, but there was nothing.
Nothing but a small crease in his forehead as he regarded her.
His gaze would periodically flick to their joined hands, as if he was unable to work out why his power had not worked.
Rosamund could not hold his gaze, looking away across his shoulder to see if any of the others had noticed.
Those in the pews looked bored and irritated, a few of them taking out their timepieces, no doubt desperate to leave the hard, cold seats.
Her aunts looked concerned, but no differently than before, and most of the royals either distracted or uninterested in the proceedings.
All except one.
Elswyth, Bastian’s wife, looked with great interest at the forget-me-not that had risen from the ground, her eyes wide as she gripped the arms of her seat.
She caught Rosamund’s eye before quickly looking away at the High Luminary, feigning interest in the ceremony once more, but Rosamund watched as the woman’s gaze kept being drawn back to the flower.
She wanted to step forward and hide it with the skirts of her dress.
She wanted to crush it, but even now she drew on the strength of it to fuel her fight against the Prince of Death’s power.
She needed it. And if she were to make any attempt to conceal it then that would surely alert both Dorian and Elswyth as to who its creator was.
She tried to keep her eyes from being drawn back to it, focusing on the words of the High Luminary.
“Do you swear this promise to each other,” asked the priest.
“I swear,” said Dorian, not looking at her.
“I swear,” replied Rosamund quietly.
“Hold out your hands,” commanded the High Luminary.
Before she could let go of Dorian’s hand he snatched it away, massaging the palm with his thumb before holding it out to the priest. Rosamund tentatively did the same and the High Luminary glided the ceremonial knife across their palms. The pain of it did not compare to the ice of the death magic she had experienced from Dorian.
The priest commanded them to drop their blood into the chalice before clasping their hands together once more.
This time she was ready. With panicked realisation, she could feel the skin of her palm begin to mend together. She tried to stop it, but the rush of magic she was using to stall the decay meant that the skin slowly began to stitch together.
Meanwhile, the High Luminary raised the chalice to the ceiling and called out, “By your blood you swear to this union. Let they who tear it asunder answer to the judgement of Liathern,” he lowered the chalice to the alter and held out a long white ostrich feather quill to Dorian.
With his free hand he dipped the quill into the chalice filled with blood and wrote his name in jagged letters on the betrothal scroll.
The letters flashed red as the quill scratched across the parchment.
He handed it to Rosamund, and she too completed the process, her name glowing with the same reddish hue.
“Your highnesses, lords and ladies,” said the High Luminary as with a relieved sigh those in the Temple rose to their feet, all except Bastian, “I present to you the betrothed, Prince Dorian of House Mordane, Duke of the Umbral, and Lady Rosamund.”
Valehart, she thought, Rosamund Valehart.
There was a smattering of applause as the doors of the Temple were opened by the acolytes, “Leave this place under the light of Liathern, joined in blood.”
Still holding her hand, locked in their cycle of decay and life, Dorian led her down the aisle towards the doors.
As they left the alter, she stepped on the forget-me-not, crushing it into the marble to leave no evidence of what she had done.
Exhaustion was rising within her, especially without the strength of the flower.
She was not certain she would make it down the full length of the aisle and keep Dorian’s rot from reaching her heart.
She could feel herself listing to the side, and in a swift easy movement Dorian had pulled her closer to him with their enjoined hand, and wrapped his free arms around her covered shoulders.
She panicked, thinking that his power would intensify with the additional contact, but instead all she felt was the ice radiating from his chest as she leaned into his side.
The hand on her shoulder steadied her, holding her upright as they completed their journey towards the doors.
Rather than stop in the receiving chamber he guided her towards a small antechamber.
When the door shut behind them, he immediately let go of her hand and moved away.
Rosamund, unsteady on her feet, and exhausted from the exertions of keeping her power up, stumbled back a few paces and placed a hand against the wall.
She looked up at him and saw that he was watching her closely with a hard stare.
In one quick movement he closed the gap between them.
She tried to move away and found her back flush against the wall.
He kept his hands clenched at his side, but moved in closer to her, his height causing her to crane her neck to look up at him.
“You touched me,” he said quietly, ice in his tone.
“I had too,” she croaked, her throat dry.
He leaned in closer, so close she could see her reflection in those cold eyes, “That will be the last time you do so.”
Without another word he swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Rosamund slid down the wall to the floor as exhaustion overwhelmed her. Tears filled her eyes as she rubbed at her hand. What was she going to do? Did he know? Had he seen? Had he guessed? And Elswyth. She had seen. Rosamund was certain that she knew what had transpired.
What was she supposed to do now?