“But this statement of yours,” Bianca said carefully, “won’t this sabotage your marriage?”
Being thrown together like two horses in a pen would have already sabotaged this marriage. She sighed. “Yesterday, when Gabriella told him about the Vow of Silence, he seemed… enraged.”
Bianca’s hands paused in their work, and her footsteps retreated. “Enraged? As if he would get violent?”
“Not exactly.” She held up her hair again. His reaction had seemed almost—almost protective of her. “At least not toward me.”
Bianca settled the black raven-feather funereal cloak about her shoulders and arranged the twelve-foot train over the gown while Aless let her hair fall free, and clasped the front of the cloak.
“He had this expression of fury, and he hissed… It was as if the very notion of me being sworn to silence offended him.” A good sign. She turned to Bianca, who settled the white-lace wedding gown into the trunk.
“The dark-elves’ royal line is matriarchal, right?” Bianca closed the trunk. “It is their women who hold power. Maybe he agrees that others shouldn’t dictate the course of your life—nor silence your voice when it comes to your future.”
Yes, dark-elf women didn’t “meddle” in politics—they ruled. “Maybe.”
“Well, the entire nobiltà will hear your voice today.”
Be brave, Mamma had said. She would. And ensure her voice was heard.
The familiar, overbearing notes of the pipe organ invaded through the walls and door; she stepped into her black jeweled slippers, checked her diamond earrings, then gathered her pearly-white wedding cloak.
“It’s time.” Bianca hitched up her periwinkle silk-taffeta gown, then opened the door.
Veron would be waiting beyond the corridor and outside the entrance to the nave of L’Abbazia Reale.
The pipe organ summoned her there, and she went as bid. The way from the side chamber to the entrance was quiet, only her heeled steps and Bianca’s fighting the silence as they passed the purple-clad Royal Guard at their posts.
No one waited outside the massive entry doors.
Was he coming? No doubt he was as eager for this marriage as she was.
But she took up her position, and Bianca fanned out her train behind her.
A rhythmic clopping on marble echoed from the opposite corridor.
Her head swiveled to face the sound.
The massive ebony destrier filled the corridor, muscles rippling, copious mane and tail flowing as it trotted closer.
Inside the abbazia.
Royal guards circled the enormous horse, hissing clipped words to one another, while a stoic Veron sat astride the beast, all six and a half feet of him clad in fine black-leather armor.
A bow hung across his chest.
A saddle quiver full of arrows.
A long sword and a scroll strapped at his side.
A round shield on his black-cloaked back.
Knives sheathed in his knee-high riding boots, in a baldric, and on his gauntleted wrists.
Her mouth fell open. He looked armed for war.
“Your Highness”—a royal guard stammered— “horses… are not allowed inside L’Abbazia Reale.”
His gaze locked on hers, Veron dismounted nimbly and handed the reins to the guard, then gave the beast a pat before approaching her.
No part of her would move. Not her gaping mouth, not her feet, not her hands. To stare was her only ability.
He wore no face mask nor hood today, his blue skin bared for all to see. His ghostly white hair was adorned with braids that met, intertwined, and hit to mid-back. With the Rift so recent, most of the people here today would have never seen a dark-elf, much less an unmasked one.
Was he… was he making a statement, too? Going through with this, just as she was, but not silently either?
With a confident, regal gait, he strode to her, then lowered to a knee, bowed his head, and looked up into her eyes.
“Alessandra Ermacora, princess of Silen, I, Veron of Nozva Rozkveta, offer you power”—he rested a hand on his sword pommel—“survival, skill, defense, wisdom, and partnership”—then on his bow, his knives, his shield, the scroll strapped to his belt, and he took her hand—“to harness for your ends or ours, as we walk our lives together from this day forward for as long as the Deep allows.”
His yellow irises stayed locked with hers, making her heart pound, and a breath escaped her open mouth as she remembered to breathe.
“This is my people’s tradition,” he said quietly and stood. “We call being wed ‘making the Offering.’ We give ourselves to one another, offering all we can do and all that we are.”
Did… did he expect her to respond in kind?
She swallowed, her gaze wandering the many offerings he’d brought. “Veron, prince of Nightbloom, I…”
She blinked. What was she offering him? Could she truly offer anything, when her heart hadn’t even been in this? When, more than anything, she wanted to follow in Mamma’s footsteps? “I…”
A huff came from behind him; his companion from the day before. The sharp-eyed female guard. She wore fine leathers today, too, and no face mask nor hood to cover her midnight-blue skin and short, spiky white hair.
The footmen opened the doors, and the pipe organ’s volume was almost deafening as it blasted forth.
Veron offered her his arm, and remembering to close her mouth, she took it. They entered L’Abbazia Reale’s nave on the long, crimson runner leading to the front, compressed into its lengthy, narrow path. A susurrus mounted as they entered, wide-eyed guests eyeing Veron as if he were Nox himself, come to claim their souls and drag them to the Lone.
Light poured in from the unattainably high windows, crowning the massive statue of Terra that held court at the front, overwhelming and breathtaking. Imposing. Demanding quiet obedience.
Not today. From either of them. With her dressed in a blood-red gown and a funereal cloak and Veron in black leather armor and weapons, all of Silen would believe that while they swore vows, neither of them did so without objection.
But Veron, by his words, had done this from a cultural perspective. Had Papà not mentioned human wedding customs? Assumed that the dark-elves did the same?
Despite his sincerity, Silen would see a different symbolism in his attire today. Unintended, certainly, but the people wouldn’t know that.
As they proceeded to the time of the pipe organ, she pulled the clasp on her wedding cloak and let it fall from her shoulders, revealing her raven-feathered statement.
Gasps rippled from the nobiltà crammed into the pews. Veron’s arm contracted slightly, just a soft creak from the leather armoring his bicep. But no more. They did not stop.
No reaction from the royal box up in the right balcony, removed from the abbazia proper and separate. No shouted orders. No Royal Guard closing in.
Success.
The music continued, and so did they.
Padre Graziano, the former High Priest of Monas Bellan, awaited at the front, towering on a dais just below the massive statue of Terra looking down at them all. His wide eyes speared her blood-red gown, the shock wrinkling his lined face even more than old age already had.
Good. This was a royal wedding. News would spread far and wide, the nobiltà and the paesani would talk, object, and this would have to stop. At least for the next generation.
When she reached the front, she knelt, as did Veron. While Padre Graziano shook his face to alertness, Veron’s gaze meandered toward her.
“Willing?” he whispered, so low she wondered if he’d spoken at all.
It was a simple question, but the answer wasn’t so simple. To spare her sister a walk through fire, she would walk it herself. But was that willing? Veron seemed kind, reasonable, and if she had to marry a strange dark-elf, there could have been far worse men. But if she had to, was that “willing”?
Padre Graziano cleared his throat. “Please join hands.”
Veron held out his pa
lm, and she placed her hand on his.
Padre Graziano wound a golden ribbon about their hands. “As your hands are joined, so are your lives, as you support one another, protect one another, strengthen one another.”
He then offered the vow to Veron and bid him repeat.
Veron turned to her, his pale eyebrows drawn as he assessed her. “I, Veron of Nightbloom,” he said hesitantly, “promise you, Alessandra of Silen, that from this day forward, I will be your husband, your ally, and your friend.” His uncertain look lingered as Padre Graziano offered her vows.
“I, Alessandra of Silen, promise you, Veron of Nightbloom, that from this day forward, I will be your wife, your ally, and your friend.”
She met his gaze. No, she hadn’t desired this marriage, but she did participate in this ceremony willingly. For Bianca’s sake, and for the sake of future Ermacora women. Hopefully Veron would be open minded about finding another way to forge the peace between their peoples instead of the second ceremony at Nightbloom. She nodded to him.
The tension in his bearing visibly lessened, and his expression softened.
“Veron of Nightbloom and Alessandra of Silen are now bound to one another. What Holy Terra has bound, let no man sever,” Padre Graziano announced as he removed the ribbon.
Veron helped her up, and holding hands, they faced the nobiltà, who clapped softly and stared—at Veron, at her gown, some craning their necks to look into the royal box.
She followed those looks to Papà’s seat. The white of his teeth didn’t show, nor even a smile that she could discern. Just a hard, expressionless mask.
He wasn’t happy. Good. Then he was beginning to understand how she felt, how Bianca would have felt, probably how Veron felt. Even if Papà hadn’t wanted to see her as more than a chattel, he’d have to now.
Down the aisle, they passed Luciano and Tarquin Belmonte, and Tarquin—rigid as that statue of Terra herself—stared a hole through her, his carnelian gaze fixed upon her with such intensity that it felt like he looked through her. What was he seeing?
She shivered as they walked past him.
Veron walked her out of the abbazia and out to the cobblestone drive, where a grand white coach-and-six awaited.
He stepped in front of her, barring her path with his arm.
The sky darkened, enormous shadows cast upon the cobblestone streets, and a wave of gasps and withered cries rolled through the crowd outside.
Veron reached for the shield at his back as two winged creatures soared overhead, bright sunlight glittering on iridescent violet and tan scales.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, and Holy Mother’s mercy, she couldn’t even if she tried. Every part of him was rigid, focused, honed to the point of a blade as he kept his eyes fixed on the creatures.
“Th-those a-are…”
“Lesser dragons,” he answered quietly. “En route toward the sea. Uninterested in us, by the looks of it,” he whispered, “so perhaps on some Dragon Lord’s order.”
Lesser dragons… Dragon Lord…
Her entire body trembled, like a mouse under a broom, and there was no stopping it.
The shadows passed, and Veron’s bearing relaxed, his arms slowly falling to his sides as he stepped away from her.
“M-maybe it’s g-good you wore armor,” she offered, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat.
“I’d love to think so.” His mouth curved as the footmen opened the doors to the carriage. “But if they’d wanted us dead, armor or no armor, we would be.”
A nervous laugh escaped her as Veron helped her into the carriage and then sat across from her. Bianca and the sharp-eyed dark-elf guard entered after them, eyeing each other silently.
Dragons. They’d just seen dragons. Beings she’d only ever known from books.
But the door closed, the driver called, and just like that, they were on their way to the feast and their wedding night.
* * *
As the coach jostled over cobblestone, Aless stole a glance at Veron sitting across from her. His keen eyes scanned their surroundings beyond the window, and with his many weapons, he was as intimidating as any guard. More so, even.
While the entire crowd had gasped and trembled, he’d stood firm in the face of dragons. The next time those dragons appeared, they might not ignore the city, and if her people were fortunate, the dark-elves would help them.
Veron didn’t need weapons to be intimidating… That imposing physique made him strong, as strong as any guard—no, stronger. He rested a clawed hand over a knife sheathed at his wrist. Those claws—and those fangs, although she dared not look at them—meant he never needed a weapon.
He’d come to the wedding ceremony armed like a warrior. He’d said it was a dark-elf tradition, but… had he known how it would appear to humans? The dark-elves seemed to know vastly more about human society than humans knew about theirs.
But then, she hadn’t considered how her own statement would appear to the dark-elves. At all.
She’d made her point to Papà, and to everyone, about choice. But… she clenched the tulle fabric of her blood-red gown in fists. It hadn’t been her intention to oppose Veron, but that was how it might’ve looked.
No doubt the whole of the nobiltà already gossiped about her unwilling bridegroom armored from head to toe. Rumors would be spreading far and wide about how even a dark-elf only reluctantly wed the Beast Princess.
Considering the rumors about her, too, it would serve her right. She bit her lip.
The sharp-eyed guard next to Veron was glaring at her, and mustering the confidence to say anything to him beneath that glare was a losing battle. Maybe her statement had gone over even worse with the dark-elves than she’d thought. Later on, once she and Veron were alone, she would have to apologize to him.
Maybe he’d be relieved once she told him they didn’t have to wed. She’d lied in her promise, but maybe he’d overlook the lie in favor of freedom for them both.
A squeeze of her hand—Bianca intertwined their fingers and didn’t let go until the coach pulled up to the palazzo’s main gate. A crowd had already assembled, clapping and cheering to the bright fanfare of brass horns and rain of colorful confetti. Footmen opened the carriage door, and the sharp-eyed guard exited first, then Bianca, and then Veron, who held out his hand to her.
Those exotic eyes met hers, yellow like a lion’s, and she shivered, but he didn’t waver. Her heart pounding, she extended a hand to his, and he helped her exit, a sharp claw just barely grazing her wrist with a scratch. She suppressed a wince and schooled her face, willing no reaction to show.
The crowd pushed in, even against the line of Royal Guard, cheering and shouting and staring wide eyed, but Veron’s form was regal, and he held her hand as they ascended the crimson carpet into the palazzo.
Inside, shimmery bright-red roses gladdened the cavernous foyer, the loveliness of the blooms too beautiful for reality; she had seen their like only in dreams, and even then, they hadn’t reached out with color so vivid it could touch her, a scent so embracing it wrapped her in familiarity and comfort. Where had they come from?
Next to her, Veron seemed unaffected, looking only ahead toward the distant figures of Bianca and his sharp-eyed guard, but his hold on her hand wasn’t cold—it was warm, gentle.
Even if neither of them had wanted this, he’d given her no reason to deserve the rumors she’d caused.
“I wanted you to know,” she whispered, and he eyed her peripherally, “that I was trying to make a point to my father about choice. With the red dress and raven feathers. I wasn’t trying to offend you, although it occurred to me that that’s exactly what might’ve happened. I’m sorry.”
“What point was that?” he answered, just as quiet, looking ahead.
She exhaled lengthily. “That we should have a say in our own futures.”
He stiffened. “You didn’t have a say.” That steely velvet voice was low, icy.
A dreaded conclusion?
Wi
lling? he’d asked during the ceremony.
He had cared. Maybe more than she’d assumed.
Her face turned abruptly toward his, then she looked away again, wiping a damp palm on her gown. “I… I did. Although not in the way you might expect. My father betrothed me to my sister’s love. I offered to trade places with her.”
Those vivid yellow eyes widened, infinitesimally, for just a moment.
She could imagine him summoned to a throne room much like Papà’s, his towering figure lowered, kneeling before a dais where his mother held court, surrounded by dour, silent subjects bearing witness from the shadows. His head kept bowed as she decreed her orders that he marry a woman so different from him, so undesirable. Orders he refused to disobey, no matter his feelings on the matter.
“Did your mother ask you whether you wanted this?” she thought aloud.
“No.” The answer was matter of fact, as if there could only ever be one answer. “The queen does not ask. She expects. And we rise to those expectations. Such is the life of a prince, and of any dark-elf. Ready to sacrifice for the good of the Deep, for the good of all dark-elves.”
“Sacrifice,” she whispered, repeating the word, and her voice trembled a little.
He would never have been eager for this marriage, and that suited her plans—her plans to convince him that they didn’t need to complete the second ceremony in Nightbloom—but there was something so very sad about him having no say in his happiness, something that squeezed at her heart. He was bound up, wrapped in duty like a curse, one he couldn’t break.
In this, they were the same.
His hand tightened around hers, just a little. “Forgive me,” he said deeply, quietly. He leaned in, toward her, his nearness making her quiver as those vivid eyes met hers and softened. “I spoke without thought.”
So near, so close, that terrifying, if alien, beauty was hard to ignore. The slate blue of his skin was the color of distant mountains, blue-gray behind a veil of mist. The color of ancient rock formed in the earth before she had been born, before humans had.
Before she could reply, the doors to the great hall opened, and both Bianca and the sharp-eyed guard stood aside as she and Veron entered. The guests had not yet arrived, but the hall certainly wasn’t empty. Servants bustled back and forth, carrying all manner of platters, bottles, glassware, and viands. The musicians were already setting up in the corner, and massive floral arrangements adorned the outskirts of the hall, matching ostentatious centerpieces on tables.
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