by Jill Myles
It seemed as if an eyeblink had passed, and then it was her wedding day.
Or rather, wedding night, since the Blood slept through the day.
She twitched as women bathed her and dressed her for the wedding ceremony, piling on layer after layer of the gown. Eight pale, shimmery layers of petticoats went under a deep- ruby brocade overdress. A pearl-and-jewel encrusted corset cinched her waist tight, and a long veil was attached to her braided hair. Sacred oils were anointed on her neck and throat, and the priests came in to bless her once more.
Last came her pinching shoes, with long pointing toes and hard soles that clattered as she walked. She hated them the most, even more than the corset.
“You look beautiful,” Kiane said softly when the preparations were finally over, her hands clasped with joy over her uniform; the maidservants had been given gowns of muted red to match hers.
“Just one more thing.” Idalla fussed, gathering her skirts and heading to Seri’s side. She fixed the high-standing collar of Seri’s dress. It framed her face and her upswept, bejeweled hair, but left her neck and the swells of her breasts open and bare. “There. You’re beautiful, my lady,” Idalla said, tears shining in her eyes.
Seri felt frozen in place, noting how golden her skin was against the thick, lush red of the fabric. “It should be Lady Aynee wearing this, not me. An Athonite lady, not me.” She trembled with a mixture of fear and nervousness. Surely the gods had not really wanted this for her?
“Lady Aynee would not look half so exotic as you,” Idalla said, ever loyal. “She is pretty, but she is not right for the prince. You will win his heart this day, Princesse.”
Seri wanted to laugh hysterically. She didn’t want his heart. She wanted his life. She wanted him and his race to leave her lands and free her people.
“May I have a moment to myself? To pray?” She gestured at her altar.
“Of course,” Idalla said, and with a few waves and soft clucks, she shooed the rest of the women out of the chamber, leaving Seri alone.
It was quiet, ominously so. Her head felt heavy, and her feet ached from the narrow shoes. She was hot, the layers of her dress itched, and the perfume was cloyingly sweet. It was difficult to walk, but she managed to move to her bed and grab the satchel she’d hidden under the heavy mattress. She found the packet of poison and tucked it into her dress, shoving it under her left breast, and then rearranged her cleavage.
The crimson banner hung from her window. The poison was close. The dagger was under her pillow. She was ready.
For one weak moment, her fingertips strayed to her mouth as she thought of her brief kiss with Graeme. His soft lips on hers, the warm feel of her palm in his hand . . .
“My lady.” Idalla burst into the room, and Seri spun around guiltily, as if she’d been caught doing something illicit. “It is time! The priests are coming!”
Seri smoothed down her dress. Only a few more hours and she’d be free.
In a few hours, she would be a murderer.
A hero.
A widow.
And quite possibly a martyr.
Forcing her mind from such thoughts, Seri plastered a wan smile on her face. “I’m ready.”
Then the priests were in the room and the tallest one came to her side. He was dressed in a heavy yellow robe, vines clustered around the edges in thick embroidery. His face was lined and his eyes were kind as he took her hand. “Are you ready, my princesse?”
Seri touched the underside of her breast again and took a deep breath. You do this for your people. Your path is clear. The gods will forgive what is done in the name of justice.
A vision of Prince Graeme’s elegant face swam before her eyes, and she could have sworn she felt a pulse of his tension from afar. “I’m ready.”
Time blurred. The priest held his elbow out for her to take and then led her out of her chambers. Servants lined up outside the hall. Several had tears in their eyes and they touched her gown as she passed them, and she heard prayers from a hundred lips as she walked. No one was spitting at her or calling her “savage” or “wild girl”.
Somehow, this would be so much easier if they all hated her.
Seri swallowed hard, her mouth dry as the priest led her through the halls of the castle. The walk seemed to take forever, her steps mincing and slow, the shoes pinching and clacking with every lift of her feet.
When they reached the main floor, the double doors of the ballroom opened and the priest left her side. Ahead of her was the room full of finely dressed nobles, the temperature stifling and warm, a visceral reminder of the awful Betrothal Ball just four days ago, when everything had changed.
Her heart pounded in her throat as she saw the sea of faces. There was Lady Penella, weeping unhappily. There was Lady Aynee, a calm expression on her lovely face, and Lady Mila with her catty smirk. A few of the lords that she’d seen Prince Graeme speaking with bowed as she walked past, her train scraping the ground and rustling behind her.
Ahead of her was Prince Graeme—the terrifying, beautiful monster she was to marry.
And she felt him. Even without looking at him, she could feel him before her, like the sun on a warm day. He stood at the base of the dais, wearing a gold brocade tunic trimmed with red. A tooled sword belt hung at his waist, and he wore a thick golden torque over his neck, encrusted with the symbols of the Athonite royalty. A thick red cloak swept over his shoulders.
He held a hand out to her. “My Eterna.”
Seri faltered, thinking of the Vidari handfast she’d planned with Rilen, and how instead of wearing a fortune in jewels, she’d simply wear a crown of flowers and a new dress that would serve her for many annums to come. She would be surrounded by laughing, smiling friends and they would celebrate for hours.
Graeme’s dark eyes focused on her, and Seri felt trapped under his knowing gaze. It was like he could see deep down inside of her, knew her fear and uncertainty. Did he know she carried poison and was plotting his downfall? Or could he only feel her turbulent emotions?
She studied his face. His expression did not change but the hand he extended toward her meant something. She placed her own small, callused one in his and felt it enveloped in his cool grasp.
“My prince,” she said, nodding her head.
The priests came to the front of the dais, and Prince Graeme led her forward. They blessed their joined hands and began to speak in a language Seri did not understand—the hard, jerky syllables of old Athonite. Seri’s breath caught in her throat. Dear gods, she was marrying the enemy. The prince. A monster. All so she could murder him. The room swam as the priests grew louder, exultant, and the glow began to descend on them once more. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t—
“Breathe.”
A gentle squeeze on her hand startled Seri, bringing her back to the present. Her eyes flicked to Prince Graeme’s impassive gaze as he regarded her. That calm, aloof demeanor reminded her of her mission, and she felt the small packet of poison chafe the underside of her breast.
The look he gave her was solemn, his dark eyes intense.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“Good,” he whispered.
The glow around them grew brighter and brighter until she could barely see for the light. It was like the sun itself had descended, and she looked over at Graeme. Beads of sweat dotted his pale skin, and she wondered if the light hurt him.
The priest spoke one last word, then looked at them expectantly.
Prince Graeme raised her clasped hand above them. “My Eterna. Thanks be to the Goddess.”
His voice was dry, almost insulting. It didn’t sound as if he was thankful at all, and she resisted the urge to rip her hand from his and smack him with it.
The fierce glow around them softened to a dull, sweet color that surrounded them in a gentle bath of light.
“Now, the kiss of
joining,” the priest said in a wobbling, ancient tenor. He nodded at them, his lined face kind.
Prince Graeme turned her toward him. Seri’s eyes went wide as he reached for the front of her dress, where the high collar choked her. As if he sensed her startled reaction, he leaned in a bit closer.
“It’s just a kiss on the neck. Calm yourself.”
“Ah,” she said softly. Another strange Athonite custom. She held herself stiffly as he opened the button at the top of her dress, revealing her bare neck. She heard a few titters from the crowd, and her cheeks grew hot.
He leaned in, smelling of clean soap and spice, and kissed her throat on one side.
She ignored the bolt of pure longing that shot through her and closed her eyes.
The crowd burst into giddy murmurs.
Just like that, it was done, and Seri, a Vidari goosegirl, was married to Prince Graeme of Athon.
The feast hall was as opulent as the ballroom. Banners of perfumed red silk hung from the rafters, and candelabra lit every corner of the room. Platters of hare, stag, and veal were set out on gleaming wood tables, and the courtiers lined up to sample delicacies as they chatted and drank wine.
Seri’s own plate was empty, her stomach too knotted to do anything but drink the goblets of wine that servants kept pouring for her. She sat at the head table with Graeme, neither of them eating or talking, though her sweaty, trembling hand was still clasped in his. Prince Graeme seemed almost as tense as she was. All the while, the nobles of the Blood watched her and Graeme with fascination.
The revelry seemed to go on forever until finally she saw dawn cresting through the windows overhead, and the sky turning purple and pink with the rising sun. She stifled a yawn, her head swimming from the wine and the noise.
Lady Mila and Lady Aynee approached the head table, surrounded by a flurry of other court women in bright dresses. Lady Aynee’s expression was friendly, and Lady Mila wore a smile, though Seri could tell that it was not, and would never be, friendly. “Is your lady finished with her dinner, Prince Graeme?” Lady Mila’s sweet tones cut through the boisterous crowd. “She must be eager for the bedding.”
The prince looked over at Seri’s empty plate and her nearly empty wineglass. He leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Do you wish to leave, Seri?”
It was the first time she’d heard him call her by name, and the effect was a startling one. “I . . . I don’t know.”
He stood and brought her to her feet as well. “The princesse is tired. Please see her to the chambers.”
A titter rose through the crowd, and Lady Mila gave the prince a knowing look. “Indeed. We shall help her prepare for . . . sleep, your grace.”
The crowd cheered, and catcalls filled the air. A blush rose on Seri’s face and her heart thumped with fear. The women grabbed her arms and led her through the ballroom and out of the throng, into the twisting passages of the castle.
They carried her into a room, and to Seri’s dismay, it wasn’t her own chamber. The room they were in was far more opulent, the ceiling overhead covered in soaring frescoes. There was an enormous bed with thick, heavy canopies pulled back and bright red sheets, the same color as her dress.
“Where are we?”
Lady Aynee’s voice rose above the other women’s as they began to unbutton her dress, chattering rapidly. “Why, Princesse, this is Prince Graeme’s chamber.” The easy smoothness of her words suggested that she had been here many times. “You will stay here tonight.”
Oh no.
She’d been so stupid. She thought of the red cape hanging from her bedroom window and the dagger under her pillow. She wanted to cry. Rilen expected her in that room, not here on the far end of the castle. After she . . . after she killed the prince, she’d have to run back to her room, assuming she could even find it. Either way, the chances of getting out of this alive were slim.
She cleared her throat. “I’d rather go back to my own bed.”
“Will it hold two?” Lady Mila asked cattily.
“I . . . I don’t know.” Seri felt her cheeks heat. She hadn’t been thinking of that, actually. But before she could protest more, they were pulling layer after layer of the dress off her, tugging the jewels from her hair and neck, and loosening her braid until her hair hung around her shoulders. As they undid her corsets, she clutched to her breasts, hiding the tiny poison packet between her fingers.
Then, she was naked in front of the staring, whispering noblewomen. A quiet hush fell across the room as they stared at her body.
“You’re . . . that odd color all over,” Lady Mila said, making it sound like a flaw rather than a normal characteristic of her people.
Seri stood straight and tall, refusing to hide her golden-brown body. “I am as the gods made me.”
Lady Aynee clapped her hands, breaking the rising tension in the room. “Well, now, we should dress her before the men come into the room.”
Seri was given a loose dressing robe, the fabric completely sheer. Her hair was left rippling and flowing down her back, and they dabbed perfume on her, paying special attention to her neck. Then, they ushered her into bed. One of the ladies left a decanter of wine on a nearby table, and Seri sighed with relief at the sight of it, the small, sweaty packet tucked in her fist reminding her of her duty.
But once she was in the bed, the women didn’t leave. Instead, they sat around and chattered, waiting for something. Or someone. A wondering blush crept over Seri’s face, though she kept her voice steady and modulated. “Will you be staying here all night?”
Lady Mila tittered at the question. “I rather doubt the prince would want an audience, my dear girl. It won’t really matter to the court if he consummates your marriage or not, though I daresay he won’t be able to help himself if you taste half as good as the legends say.” She gave Lady Aynee a knowing look and then smirked at Seri. “At any rate, you’re a lucky girl to have the prince in your bed.”
The thought made her even more nervous, and she tucked the packet of poison carefully under the blankets and wiped her sweaty palms on the bedspread. She cleared her throat. “What kind of stories? Wedding-night stories?”
But Lady Mila didn’t respond, just watched Seri with a curious look. “You have had a man before, haven’t you, my dear?”
Seri stiffened at the implication. “Of course not.”
The room fell silent. “You haven’t?” Lady Mila’s words rang out with delighted incredulity. “Do you mean to tell me that your little goatherd people are prudes as well as savages?”
Her hands fisted in the fabric. “Among my people, women who give themselves to men when they are not married are considered loose.”
The room fell silent. Lady Mila didn’t rise to the bait and simply gave Seri an amused smile. “Poor Prince Graeme is in for quite a surprise tonight then. It’s a well-known fact he’s not fond of virgins.”
“Or Vidari,” Seri added, with a sneer of her own. “I find myself rather disgusted by the Athonites myself, so I imagine we’ll have an interesting night.”
And so would the rest of the castle when they found their dead prince in the morning.
Too soon, rumbling male voices echoed in the hallway outside the prince’s chambers, and a heavy pounding sounded at the door. The ladies flew into a flurry of activity, hastily picking up Seri’s discarded clothing and exiting the room. Lady Aynee cast Seri a curious look and smiled again before following the women out. The last one to leave was Lady Mila, and she opened the doors in a rather showy gesture and then pulled them closed behind her so no one could see into the room.
“My prince.” Seri heard Lady Mila over the drunken calls of the men. “I am afraid that I have rather distressing news for you.” A theatrical pause, then, “Your princesse is a virgin.”
Seri twisted the sheets with anger. Damn Lady Mila. That hateful woman sought to humiliate her any way
she could. The calls and laughter in the halls increased, and after a moment, the prince staggered in, repeatedly clapped on the back before the door shut once more behind him. His normally perfect black hair was mussed and hung over his forehead in inky locks, and she sensed that he was every bit as disconcerted by the crowd outside the bedroom door as she was.
Seri pulled the red coverlet higher, hiding her breasts as the prince approached. He paused a few feet away from the massive bed, regarding her. As if sensing her unease, he changed course and moved to the far side of the bed. He pulled the heavy rings from his fingers and dumped them in a nearby silver tray. “Are you feeling well? You looked pale in the throne room.”
“I’m fine,” Seri said, edging farther away from him. The noise of the crowd finally died away. A candle flickered near the bed, casting long shadows on the wall. The room felt ominous with tension. She had to act soon, didn’t she? If he joined her in bed, he’d be distracted by things other than drinking wine.
Blushing, she sat up straighter and looked over at him as he unbuttoned the ornate cuffs on his jacket. “Would you . . . would you like a drink of wine?”
“If you wish.” His voice was bland, careful, and disappointment swam through her. Gone was the flicker of humanity, and in its place a pretty, aloof statue.
It would make her job all the easier. “I’ll fix it for you,” she said, trying not to seem too eager. She slipped out of the bed and crossed the room, letting the shadows hide her jerky motions. “Are we done with the ceremonies?” she asked as she opened the small packet of poison and dumped it into the bottom of his goblet.
“I’m afraid not,” the prince said. “The last time there was a royal wedding, the festivities continued for four turns of the moon.”
Four turns? “That seems like a very long time to celebrate.”
“It is. There are different celebrations throughout the period, and then it’s ended with a ball to celebrate the Goddess’s blessing.”
