White petals form a path across the lawn. My gown’s fabric gleams under the half-light.
Thorne, Eslina, and Merlina leave my side after finally adjusting my dress and veil. Where they go, I don’t see, I just focus on the path I am meant to walk. Vesilane hangs back.
“End the king’s rule,”she whispers in my ear.
I pull back, shocked.
“What?”
But she gestures for me to go forward. “We are with you, Arlet,” she says brightly and sends me off to walk.
She’s with Mrath, I think. Suddenly, nothing feels safe.Is there going to be an attack?
I don’t know.
At the garden’s edge, an altar of carved moonstone rises beside a fountain shaped like coiled serpents. I don’t see any signs of an impending attack.
I watch Arion as he stands next to another elf with fine robes—the high priest, no doubt—and I notice his face is stern. He doesn’t seem displeased, but he does watch me with a careful eye. Behind him, the setting sun crowns him in light and I see a magical ward glowing around his orb of power. The high lords and envoys are seated in rows of silver chairs, the air heavy with perfume and expectation.
Is he powerful enough to withstand what is to come?
When the herald’s voice rises, the sound carries across the gardens: “By decree of His Majesty, let the bride be brought forth.”
The music begins. They play the song that Arion played for me several times. I hear a harp, a flute, and a drum beating in a slow, deliberate rhythm. I start down the aisle of petals. The air is cool now, touched by the oncoming night. Fireflies drift among the candles, mingling with the stars just beginning to appear.
Arion watches my approach. His eyes are calm, glacial, every inch the sovereign who believes the world bends to his will.
Vesilane’s words echo in my mind.
End the king’s rule.
It feels like lightning dances over my skin.
When I reach the dais, the high priest steps forward and lifts his hands. “Before the eyes of the ancients and the bloodlines that shaped our people, we gather to witness the binding of King Arion to the woman brought forth to serve his house.”
I blink. I haven’t heard this part. But the elf continues.
“Marriage among the high elves is not a thing of fleeting desire nor of simple affection. It is dominion made flesh and the continuance of lineage beyond all question. Today, Arion, sovereign of our kind, takes into his possession the bride appointed to him of his divine right and her own free will. Her body, strength, and service belong to the throne until the end of her short human days. Through her, his name and bloodline may endure. Through him, she is granted purpose.”
I pay attention to the words, all I can think of is what Vesilane said. It was the same phrase they said before the attack on the masquerade. My senses are heightened, and I study the gardens for signs of Mrath.
“Let the king take hold of his bride, that all may see she is his to carry, his to guard, his to command. Let her bow, as is custom, and yield herself into his keeping.”
Arion turns to me, extending his hand. I place mine in his.
“Bow,” he murmurs.
Despite the turmoil churning inside of me, I lower myself until the train of the gown pools around my knees. Then Arion withdraws the collar once again. It looks slightly different. A part of it glows that I hadn’t noticed before.
The priest continues. “Let the king take his bride into his keeping.”
The priest signals to an attendant. A boy approaches, carrying a silver basin, a goblet, and the ceremonial dagger.
My eyes widen. I had resigned myself to this, but now the moment is here and I feel like I want to run.
Arion draws a blade across his palm, the gesture practiced, graceful. His blood drips into the cup. He drinks first, then lifts it to my lips. The taste is metallic, thick, laced with magic, and I take it despite being disgusted by the action. The collar hums.
“By the sovereign’s hand,” the priest intones, “the bond is sanctified.”