Chapter 34
“No, stop. It’s too tight.”
“Take a deep breath. That’s it. Deeper. Good girl.”
Riella did as the dressmaker instructed, inhaling until she thought she’d pass out. The bodice was laced so firmly that she could barely move. How could she save Seraphine tonight in such ridiculous garments?
“You’ll get used to it,” said the dressmaker while he tied the laces. His name was Pierre and he was from Velandia. He had a thin mustache and oiled black hair.
“What? Not breathing?” she retorted.
“The bodice is good for your posture,” said Pierre.
Riella kicked her leg to test her range of motion, catching the many layers of her chiffon underskirts. She narrowed her eyes in the mirror at Jarin, who stood behind her, having already been fitted by a tailor. He wore black trousers and a shirt, long black boots, and a smart jacket with gold edging.
“Why can’t I have clothes like he’s wearing?” she asked with a sigh. “They look far better to fight in.”
“We have to blend in with the guests,” explained Jarin. “We must look like we belong.”
Pierre paused to stare at her. “My beauty, why on earth would you be fighting? It’s a royal wedding.”
Jarin cleared his throat and gave the dressmaker a pointed look. The pirate had given him a hefty pouch of gold coin when they arrived at the studio, for discretion as much as clothing. Evidently, Pierre recalled the same, because his face colored and he fell silent.
As the dressmaker fussed with her skirts, Riella admired Jarin. He looked incredibly handsome, his stubble neatened with a razor and his hair slick. The formal attire did nothing to hide his broad, muscular frame, and his gold pendant sat on his tattooed chest. The tailor had suggested a ruffled shirt that would’ve come up to his neck, but one look from the pirate quelled this idea.
Riella’s dress was made from silk and was pale gold, with tiny pearl buttons along the sleeves and down the back. She’d met up with Odeya at the salon, who’d arranged the siren’s hair in silky waves and enhanced her features with cosmetics. The dressmaker supplied the pair with masks. Riella’s was golden and jeweled, shaped like a butterfly with eyeholes in the wings. Jarin wore a black skull mask that left only his piercing gray-green eyes and chiseled jawline visible.
They arrived at the palace as dusk descended, the huge tangerine sun setting the golden turrets ablaze. Riella was grateful for the distraction of her tight dress and the spectacle of the palace entrance, because otherwise she would dwell on the heartache of witnessing her final sunset.
Jarin, who hadn’t left her side all day, offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She threaded her arm through his and they began the long walk up the red carpet to the palace entrance. Hoards of rowdy onlookers packed the cobblestone street in front of the palace grounds, jostled by royal guards on horseback. Berolt and Silas and the rest of Jarin’s crew lurked among the onlookers, searching for Artus and his men.
“I worry that Artus will talk his way into the palace without an invitation,” said Riella.
Jarin snorted. “Trust me, he won’t.”
“Oh. Right.”
Jarin had told her he cut out Artus’s tongue, though he didn’t say why, and she told him the Count put their names on the wedding’s guest list, though she didn’t say why.
Neither pressed for details. Believing this to be their last day on earth together, Riella and Jarin came to a silent understanding to do naught except help each other achieve their ends. Whatever else happened, it was imperative to keep the Amulet of Delphine from Polinth and Artus.
Closer to the entrance, Riella and Jarin joined the chattering press of wedding guests. Everyone wore elaborate clothes and masks, and spoke in an array of foreign dialects. Spectacular blue birds paraded around the manicured lawn, fanning their iridescent tail feathers at will.
“Peacocks,” said Jarin. “Tempestuous and vicious when provoked, but very beautiful. Reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who.”
He snorted with amusement while Riella glared at him.
“How about you keep a lookout for Polinth?” she asked. “Instead of teasing me.”
“I am. But he’ll be masked, at the very least. Or he could’ve taken on another form altogether. I daresay we won’t find him until he wants to find you.”
Riella drummed her talons nervously on Jarin’s jacket sleeve. “Then, let’s hope he does want to find me. At this rate, Sehild may’ve done me the largest of favors, if she did set him after me. We have mere hours left.”
At her last words, the muscles in Jarin’s arm stiffened, but he said nothing.
“Name?” asked the royal guard at the door, when it was their turn.
“Uh, Riella,” she replied. “And guest.”
The guard ran the nib of his quill down a long piece of parchment while she held her breath. What if the Count did not keep his word? Or simply forgot to put her name down?
“Ah, here you are,” said the guard, his quill coming to a stop. “Very good.”
He gave a small bow and gestured for them to enter.
Like the salon, the inside of the palace reminded Riella of beneath the sea. The ceilings were high, with ornate gold and turquoise-blue accents. Murals of forests and fantastical creatures were painted on wall panels, and balconies oversaw the cavernous foyer. Compared to the outside, the interior was cool and dark and tranquil. She was beginning to realize that peace and quiet were synonymous with wealth in the human world.
With his hand between her shoulder blades, Jarin guided her to the temple where the marriage ceremony would take place. They chose a spot toward the rear, to better survey the crowd of plucked and perfumed nobles. A man in a purple robe presided over a carved wooden pulpit at the front. Thousands of candles lit the temple.
“Is the High Magus here?” asked Riella.
“They’re coming in now,” muttered Jarin in reply, inclining his head at a side door. “A delegation from Starlight Gardens. He’ll be among them.”
Royal guards held the door while a group glided into the temple wearing identical black robes. Except for the tallest one, Riella noted, whose black robe had a crimson hood. A hush fell over the room, followed swiftly by ripples of excited murmurs.
The group sat apart from everyone else, toward the front. As soon as they were settled, the ceremony began. A string quartet played elegant music from the chancel.
First, King Leonid was helped to the altar by a pair of footmen. He wore a mask, like the guests, and an intricately embroidered gold and red cape. His posture was stooped, his skin pale, and tufts of hair stuck out from underneath his jeweled crown, which sat slightly crooked on his head.
The bride entered on the arm of an imposing man, who walked her up the aisle to meet her betrothed. Both wore masks and a crown sat atop the man’s head. His attire was designed to resemble armor, and his crown was made of silver metal and rose-cut diamonds.
“King Reynard Garstang of Morktland,” said Jarin. “Accompanying his sister, Meliohr. Now we know why it’s a masquerade.”
“I don’t,” whispered Riella. “Why?”
Jarin lowered his voice farther and leaned into her ear. “Reynard is deformed, and very sensitive about it.” He shrugged. “Or maybe they’re using the masks to hide Leonid’s ailing health.”
The young bride had golden blonde hair and excellent posture. Riella gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of having sex with King Leonid, as the new queen would surely be required to do, in exchange for her family’s increased wealth and power.
Impatient for the ceremony to finish, she resisted the urge to fidget. The man in the purple robes recited a prayer, then talked about the kingdom of Zermes enjoying stronger new relations with Morktland. Finally, he spoke aloud the vows for the bride and groom to repeat.
“ . . . you promise that you will honor and protect her, until you leave this earthly realm?”
A deep heaviness formed in Riella’s chest as she listened to the vows. She tried not to dwell on the pain, but the more she tried to ignore it, the heavier it became. Perhaps Jarin felt it too, because his hand tightened on her own. By the end of the vows, he gazed directly at her through his mask instead of the royal couple. Riella blinked back tears, determined to be strong.
The ceremony ended when the newlyweds walked arm in arm down the aisle and the string quartet filled the temple with joyous strains.
“Thank the gods that’s over,” said Riella, standing and surreptitiously dabbing her eyes beneath her mask. “Let’s go kill Polinth.”
The people in the row in front of her turned around in shock. Jarin ushered her along the pew, into the crowd filing toward the temple doors. “As much as I love your enthusiasm, let’s try not to get arrested first,” he said with a wry chuckle.
Night had fallen, patches of black sky and glittering stars framed by the high windows.
The reception party was held in an enormous mirrored ballroom in the northern wing of the palace, with twinkling chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
Musicians played in a band on a stage and entertainers danced on platforms. The dancers had painted faces and wore animal costumes. Waiters in black and white suits wove through the crowd, brandishing trays of fizzing wine in crystalware.
In the very center of the room, a grand wedding cake shaped like the golden palace stood tall on a plinth.
The party took off with swiftness and ease. Guests downed flutes of champagne and traded gossip and danced to the spirited music. The High Magus and his acolytes were conspicuously absent, to Riella’s disappointment, as were the royal couple. Naturally, though, the one person she did not wish to see was preening himself in the mirrors nearby.
Count Zemora was so absorbed in his own reflection that Riella spotted him before he spotted her. She pulled Jarin into the crowd, out of the Count’s line of sight. The last thing she needed was to be waylaid by the fawning of that peculiar man.
“What if Polinth isn’t even here?” she asked Jarin in dismay, as she looked carefully at every passerby. “What then? We’ve left so much to chance.”
Jarin’s warm palm between her shoulder blades calmed her fractionally.
“Trust that you are where you need to be,” he said, his low voice audible under the cacophony of the party.
She sighed. “Perhaps I’m to die by some freak accident that has nothing to do with any greater cause. A falling chandelier, or food poisoning, or?—”
A knot of people on the other side of the room parted. Riella’s heart missed a beat when found herself staring at Polinth’s devious, pointy face. Then, she blinked and the crowd shifted. He was gone.
“Polinth,” she said, grasping Jarin’s arm. “He’s here.”
They pushed their way through the carousing guests to the other side of the room, but the sorcerer had vanished. Growing increasingly frantic, Riella barged into circles of partiers in search of him. But if he was using sorcery, he could’ve taken any form and she’d never know.
“We have to find him,” she said, gazing at Jarin in despair.
“We will. Did you see Seraphine?”
She shook her head. “We should talk to the High Magus. If anyone can deal with Polinth, it’s another sorcerer.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He looked around. “Let’s return to the galleries. The Starlight Gardens delegation will be here somewhere.”
They made for the closest exit, stepping into the quieter hallways and foyers. Royal guards were stationed every few paces, but several other guests wandered freely and no one tried to stop the pair.
Riella and Jarin were descending a marble staircase, headed toward the temple, when a telltale black robe swept along the deep blue carpet in the hallway below.
“It’s one of them!” she said, hurrying down the stairs.
They tailed the acolyte to a gallery and moments later, Riella peered around the doorframe with Jarin at her back. Marble statues populated the room, candlelight illuminating the features of the carved stone faces. People stood amongst the statues, but unlike the ballroom, the gallery atmosphere was subdued.
In a corner, King Reynard of Morktland spoke gruffly at his sister, Meliohr, and the High Magus. King Leonid sagged on a chair nearby, staring at the floor. The kings both still wore their masks, but Meliohr had removed hers, revealing a beautiful face with high cheekbones.
The acolytes drifted between the statues in small groups, murmuring to each other from beneath their black hoods.
“Riella,” whispered Jarin. “Guards.”
A pair of royal guards were indeed patrolling the hallway. She and the pirate needed to get out of sight, but she was loathe to give up the golden opportunity before her. The High Magus was just paces away.
“Come on,” she breathed to Jarin, pulling him into the gallery.
They slid through the inky shadows, hiding behind a towering statue of a man wrestling a three-headed snake.
But then, an acolyte turned and looked right at her.