Chapter 40

Valentyna stood forlornly in a grand chamber at Stoneheart, her heart as cold as the dark stone surrounding her. Madam Eltor had permitted only her most senior and trusted assistant to help her dress the Queen. Valentyna sensed rather than saw the surreptitious glances between the two older women as they took in her grief-stricken expression.

“Come now, my queen,” her seamstress tried once more. “Please don’t stain your face with tears.”

“There are no more tears left within me,” Valentyna replied.

“This is your wedding day, your highness. The happiest day ever for the people of Briavel and Morgravia,” the assistant risked.

“Not for me, though,” the Queen replied, not caring that her words provoked a raising of the assistant’s eyebrows and a stern gaze from her superior.

The women had worked fast and fluidly. Valentyna was already stitched into her gown, although Madam Eltor had tut-tutted, warning, “You’ve lost weight, my girl. This was perfect last week.” Valentyna just shook her head. “Let’s get this over with.”

“That will be all, Maud,” Madam Eltor said, dismissing her assistant. “I hope I don’t need to remind you that what is discussed in our presence always remains private.” Maud curtsied and left hurriedly, the news no doubt already spilling out of her that the Queen was going to her wedding as full of grief as when she had attended her father’s funeral. “Valentyna!” the seamstress snapped. “Stop this!”

“I don’t love him,” she said, balling her fists and closing her eyes, trying to get a grip on her spiraling emotions.

“We don’t care!” Madam Eltor replied, deciding that harshness was the only solution now. “He brings us peace. I regret that you are the currency with which we buy it, your highness, but it is too late for you to turn back.”

Valentyna was stung. “Yes. Of course, you’re right. Forgive me.” The seamstress’s voice softened. “Be stout of heart, Valentyna. You are Briavel’s jewel. The brightest jewel now in Morgravia’s crown. Imagine how proud you would make your father today.”

“Yes, by marrying the man who murdered him,” Valentyna muttered.

Her companion gave a gasp of shock and Valentyna realized too late that hurting Madam Eltor achieved nothing. The truth of Valor’s demise did not change the fact of his death or her decision to marry Celimus. She hated the way she veered between courage and weakness: One moment she felt she could make the marriage work, would bear his children, would make Briavel safe and prosperous. The next, she plunged into gloom, remembering that passionate hour in Wyl’s arms. How could she wipe that from her thoughts? How could she lie with Celimus this evening and not feel anything but revulsion?

Because you must, she told herself in a small, urgent voice. Because Briavel’s future rests upon it.

“I’m all right,” she reassured her seamstress. “My nerves are jangling. I’ll be fine once we leave for the cathedral, I promise. Put the veil on.”

Madam Eltor did not believe her, but she obediently draped the exquisite veil over Valentyna’s head and face, then stepped back to admire her work. “You are breathtaking, your majesty. The Morgravians will fall in love with you instantly.”

Valentyna found a small smile for her lifelong friend. “I’m ready,” she said.

Celimus had had ordered a glistening white carriage to convey his bride to the cathedral. It sported the new device linking Morgravia and Briavel: the intertwined initials of the King and Queen painted in their national colors. Four stunning white horses, imported from Grenadyne, pulled the carriage.

Accompanying the Queen were members of the Briavellian Guard, beautifully outfitted in emerald and violet. A proud Commander Liryk waited, as did all the crowd, for the first glimpse of the Queen.

As if Shar himself had ordained it, the sun appeared from behind a cloud and bathed the main square of Stoneheart in a dazzling golden light. The people screamed their delight as the Queen appeared on the steps of Stoneheart’s main entrance in that same moment. Trumpets sounded above the din, and without a male family member to do the honors, it was left to Commander Liryk to walk stiff and proud up those stairs to escort her. He bowed low before her, as did all gathered.

Valentyna was moved. A lump formed in her throat and she recalled the similar tumultuous welcome she had been given on her arrival into Pearlis. She and Celimus had had a deafening, exhausting couple of hours making their way through the cheering city. Everyone had seemed to be waving squares of linen in the colors crimson, black, emerald, and violet, creating a sea of moving color that mingled the two realms more effectively than any device she and Celimus could have arranged.

She curtsied low and long to the people. The gracious acknowledgment drove them into even wilder applause. Liryk smiled at her action. “You are already their queen,” he said, his breath catching.

Valentyna thought she might cry again. “I hope my father is watching,” she managed to say.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “He will be cheering alongside your beautiful mother, both of them so proud.”

“Thank you, Liryk, for all you have done for me. I’m sorry I have been difficult in recent times.”

“Your highness,” he said with genuine reverence. “I am your servant.” Valentyna was warmed by the sentiment of her commander and the pride his words evoked within her.

She vowed once again to somehow exist alongside Celimus without fracturing the peace their two realms considered so very precious.

“Come, Liryk. Lead me to my husband.”

Wyl could hear delirious cheering as he was led out of the dungeons into a courtyard he had never seen before.

“Has the Queen left the palace?” he asked one of the senior soldiers, a man he recognized.

“I think so,” the man answered, embarrassed by his task. This was a king, after all, and they had been led to believe a peace agreement had been made with the Mountain dwellers.

“And where do you take me now?”

The man hesitated and checked that the manacles were secure on their prisoner. “We have orders to move you. King Cailech.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, soldier,” Wyl insisted. “I asked where.” To his credit, the soldier looked directly into the hard gaze of the Mountain King. “To the block, sire.” Wyl sighed. “I see.” Celimus was wasting no time in executing his northern rival. He wondered if the cruel sovereign would force Valentyna to witness the death. He knew that Celimus would revel in the grisly notion. And she would have no choice. Executions were something royalty had to face whether or not they had a stomach for it. And Valentyna would not be watching a stranger die, as Celimus assumed; she would be watching the head of the man she loved be severed and lifted in triumph above his slumped corpse. He hated to think about how this would hurt her very soul, and did not want to ponder how she would respond to his transference into Celimus.

Wyl heard the crowd cheer again and imagined the Queen of Briavel’s procession to the cathedral. She would be serene, he decided; she would rise above her sorrow and do her realm justice. Her gown would be simple, with little if any adornment, as was her way. He imagined she would wear her raven hair loose, and smiled sadly to think how the bridal veil would be a welcome sheath between herself and the reality of her situation, a barrier between herself and Celimus. But not for long. Once their vows were exchanged, the King would claim a kiss to seal the holy pact made before Shar, raising the veil and tearing away Valentyna’s last protection.

Wyl could not help but recall how he had fallen in love with Valentyna at first sight. Dusty and dressed in riding breeches, she had had smudges on her cheeks and her hair had been falling about her face. She had reeked of horse and leather. Yet it had been his pleasure to kiss her hand and his heart’s desire to ask for it in marriage, even on behalf of another. A smile had broken across her face like new sunlight; he had bathed in its warmth and his heart had become instantly hers.

But that was over now. It had all gone so terribly wrong. Above the roar of the crowd he could hear the cathedral bells pealing, heralding the impending marriage. Soon she would be the Morgravian Queen, married to his enemy, and he himself would be past caring about.

Wyl felt sick. He stumbled slightly and the soldier walking by his side instinctively threw out a steadying hand. “I’m not used to being in chains,” Wyl lamented. The man nodded, clearly awkward.

And so I move between Kings today, Wyl thought, and then I die. He had not lived out the great Thirsk tradition of death on a battlefield; instead he would succumb to death enmeshed in a battle of magic he could not win. He was nothing more than an unwilling puppet.

“Wait.” Wyl stopped, suddenly anxious. “The King will be present, I take it?”

“Yes, sire.”

Relief flooded him. “Good. I want him to share my death,” he said, surprising the Legionnaires around him by smiling fiercely.

Aremys had arrived only hours before the wedding procession, exhausted and dirty but relieved that he had made it to Pearlis in time. He used his strength to bully his way to the front of the crowd, earning disgruntled grumbles. One man risked hurling his displeasure at the bear, who simply turned and scowled at him through dark, hooded eyes. “Shut up!” was his reply, and all within earshot did just that.

Valentyna caught her breath at the first sight of the famed cathedral of Pearlis. Bells were pealing and heralds trumpeted her arrival into its grounds. She tried to imagine what Celimus was feeling inside the cathedral. Satisfaction, she decided. He had won. It seemed he always did where she was concerned.

Meanwhile, inside the hushed cathedral, King Celimus took the nod from Jessom that the Queen’s carriage was pulling into the compound. The man looked thinner and more vulturelike than ever. Celimus had heard the whispered jokes about his chancellor’s likeness to a carrion bird. It was actually a very good description, particularly today, he thought, wondering what was passing through Jessom’s sharp and slippery mind. He did not trust him as he once had. There was defiance lurking behind that well-guarded facade. The King was not fooled: Jessom would switch allegiance in a blink if he thought the cards were going to fall the wrong way. And Celimus had begun to believe that the Chancellor might be considering his future quite carefully.

Jessom’s fierce disagreement with the King’s latest idea regarding King Cailech’s execution had further fueled Celimus’s mistrust. Where did the Chancellor’s interest lie that he would advise so strongly against taking the Razor King’s life?

“Is everything ready?” he whispered.

“Her majesty arrives, sire, yes,” Jessom confirmed.

“Not her, you fool. Cailech?”

Jessom nodded in that slow, reptilian manner of his. “As you ordered, sire.”

“Good. Now get out of my way. You’re blocking the view of my latest conquest. This is a good day, Jessom. A very good day. Two monarchs will be brought to their knees before me.” He laughed quietly, straightening the front of his black jacket. He knew he was resplendent in dashing crimson and noir with flashes of gold and a cape of the blackest yarn lined with the fiery red of Morgravia. He was looking forward to claiming Valentyna’s maidenhood tonight and did not plan on being gentle about it. A husband must impress on his wife that he was in charge.

Aremys watched with a heavy heart as Valentyna alighted from the carriage, aided by Commander Liryk.

He had mixed feelings about the Briavellian who had helped him escape while at the same time aiding in the capture and imprisonment of King Cailech.

The Grenadyne assumed that Wyl was already cooling his heels in Stoneheart’s dungeons. During the frenzied dash from Werryl to Pearlis, he had focused only on getting to the capital and finding a way to help Wyl. The promise he had made to Wyl burned brightly in his mind now. Would he be able to do it?

Could he murder his closest friend? He had watched Wyl’s strange journey through three lives and had come to love him in the way that King Cailech had once described his feelings for Lothryn: brotherhood, friendship, loyalty. Aremys felt an intense sorrow for Wyl’s suffering, but he was not sure he could find the courage to kill the man he loved as a brother, even out of kindness.

Aremys pulled himself out of his dark thoughts as Valentyna approached. She looked more beautiful than he could ever have imagined, gliding alongside Commander Liryk, smiling softly to the crowd and carrying herself proud and erect. As she passed, and the cheering around him increased to its highest volume, he roared her name, not really expecting her to hear. Amazingly, she did, swinging around toward his voice.

When she saw him she faltered. “Aremys,” she mouthed as she passed, and he lifted a hand in greeting.

They were both thinking the same thing: Wyl. When she cast a last glance over her shoulder, looking at him through her veil, he nodded his encouragement to her.

And then she was gone in a fanfare of trumpets, through the massive double doors of the cathedral, swallowed into its dark depths and an uncertain future.

Crys Donal had seen the bride too, but had not been able to make eye contact with her—not that she would have recognized him if he had. His yellow hair was now a deep brown and he sported a beard and mustache, also darkened. Gone were the fine clothes, replaced with the uniform of a Legionnaire. He blended into the crowd perfectly, and as neither King Celimus nor those he kept close knew Crys Donal by sight, he felt relatively secure.

He used his height and newly assumed status to shoulder his way through the crowd toward the cathedral. It was acceptable for him, as a Legionnaire, to be seen crossing the unmarked line that separated onlookers from the participants, particularly when an officer hailed him.

“Soldier, are you on duty?”

“No, sir,” Crys answered crisply. “Just part of the cheering crowd.”

“Well, you’re back on as of now. Get down to the cathedral’s entrance and move that mob back. The happy couple won’t be able to get out of the church if we don’t create space for the carriage to come through.”

“Understood, sir. Right away.”

“Good lad.” the officer said, and moved on.

Crys was jogged down the street in front of yet another sparkling new carriage designed for this special day. Black with crimson flourishes, it bore the King’s personal device and its gold dragons glinted in the sunlight while bunting in emerald and violet flickered in the spring breeze. Other soldiers had been sent in as well and Crys joined them in pushing back the happy mob.

“If you tread on my foot again, I’ll rip that beard off your chin, sonny,” one big fellow said.

“Hello, Aremys,” Crys murmured, and won the shocked gasp he expected. “It’s Crys.” Aremys grinned in spite of his bleak mood. “Good to see you, Donal.” Crys looked around to see that no one was watching them. Not only could no one hear, but no one cared. The mood was festive and fun-filled. All the people wanted was their new queen and they chanted her name ceaselessly.

“The King won’t care for that much,” Aremys commented.

“He’ll have to get used to it. It’s her they’ve turned out in the thousands to see.”

“Crys, I heard about your family. Shar, I’m so sorry, lad. I wish—”

“I know,” Crys said softly. “Everyone does.”

Aremys nodded. “Where’s Elspyth?” he asked, then wished he had not when he saw how the youngster’s face darkened.

“Come with me,” Crys said. “They’ll be an age yet and we need to talk.” He dragged Aremys out of the crowd and away from the main entry of the cathedral, finding a slightly more quiet spot around back. Crys told him everything but saved the worst until last. “A new infection has her in its grip. She seemed all right for a while and I assumed she would recover after the physic in Pearlis pronounced her wounds in good shape, but the trip to Argorn was too hard for her. By the time we got there, she was feverish again and high-colored.”

“Why did you leave her?”

“Knave arrived—you know, that strange dog of Wyl’s?” Aremys nodded. “Out of the blue, just walked into Argorn Manor.”

“And…?”

“Elspyth rallied slightly at seeing him; she obviously understood better than I that he had come for us.

Don’t ask me how he knew where we were.”

“You don’t want to know,” Aremys said. “It goes hand in hand with the Quickening and magic.” He grimaced at the news of pretty Elspyth’s sickness. “Is she under good care?”

“Yes. She had to stay in Argorn, of course, no chance of more travel. Another physic has seen her, but you know, Aremys, it’s a bit like she’s given up on herself, as though she doesn’t want to fight anymore.

It was so nasty what she went through.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I just think she’s accepting death.”

“Go back there, then. Make her fight!”

Crys shook his head. “No, I’m no good for her. It’s tricky—there are two other women there. Lady Bench and her daughter, Georgyana. The daughter is…well, she’s lovely, and…”

“And what?” Aremys quizzed.

“Shar, but you can be dense sometimes, Farrow. I like her and she likes me. I think being around us makes it worse for Elspyth. She’s so in love with Lothryn, as you know, and it hurts her to see us falling for each other.”

“But that can’t kill her, surely?” the big man growled.

“No, but that infection might, especially when she denies herself food, fights the medication, can’t sleep—won’t even try. She talks about leaving to find Lothryn, weeps that he’s in pain, that he’s been changed somehow.” Crys ran his hands through his newly dark hair. “But she was lucid when Knave arrived. She seemed to know that he wanted us to go with him. I’m ashamed to say we had to tie her to the bed to stop her trying to accompany us.”

“She’s no good to anyone here,” Aremys said gravely.

“I’m not sure any of us are any good here. She wept when I left, said we’d never see each other again.

It’s left me hollow, I can tell you.”

“You’re sure the women are safe there?”

“No one knows they’re there, and Argorn has sealed its collective mouth. What about your story—what’s happened since we parted? Where is Wyl? More to the point, who is Wyl?”

“Would you believe me if I told you he is currently King Cailech?” It was Crys’s turn for disbelief Aremys told him the whole story.

“So he’s here right now? That’s why Knave came for us.”

“In the dungeon. I have no idea what’s planned for him. though.” The Duke of Felrawthy turned ashen. “I think I do,” he said. “Hurry, we must get to the dungeon. But first we need to disguise you as a Legionnnaire.”