The Temple of Arcenne stood above the town, blocks of white stone on the mountainside. Inside, incense-scented quiet enfolded me. I had rarely been in a temple since my Coming-of-Age, and Lisele’s Coming-of-Age ceremony a year after.

I breathed in, looking about. Thirty-six provinces, three each for the Blessed both old and new. The six that were, and the six who came, all watch over our land.

It was a teaching-rhyme, and an old one. The Angoulême and his armies had brought their gods, and the arms of Arquitaine had opened to both. The Old Blessed—the old gods of hedgewitchery and harvest—had greeted the New Blessed, of war and conquest, hearth and hunt, trade and sorcery. The Aryx was a relic of that time, granted by the gods themselves at the Field d’Or, when the invading army and the defending had gone to their knees on the battlefield, a great light breaking over both.

Or so twas said, and I had never disbelieved it. Or truly believed it, for that matter. Teaching-rhymes were all very well, but I preferred Tiberian histories, dry tomes of hedgewitch charms and plant lore, and the comfort of dusty pages, where scratches of ink did not require such decisions of me.

The rest of the Guard gathered outside in the falling dusk. Jierre and di Chatillon stayed behind with Adersahl, but a contingent of Citadel Guard accompanied us up the hill, Tristan on his horse and I on a docile white palfrey from the Arcenne stables. It was strange to ride sidesaddle again, let alone in the midst of a procession.

A round, smiling priest of Danshar, Jiserah’s husband, took our names, not remarking on the Aryx against my dress. He wrote out the contract, we signed three copies, and he sealed two to be kept—one in the Temple, one sent to the Great Archive in Avignienne by carrier pigeon. Though d’Orlaans might well be watching the Archive, yet it did not matter.

Even the Duc could not gainsay me in this matter.

The third copy he gave to Tristan’s parents, to be archived in the Citadel library. With that done, the Baron and Baroness took their leave to wait outside—and Tristan accompanied me into the empty main hall of the Temple.

Tristan’s arm settled over my shoulders. Candles burned before the statues of the gods, the New Blessed and those brought out of the fabled Old Country by Edouard Angoulême and our ancestors—Danshar the Warrior-King, patron of Arquitaine; Jiserah the Gentle, his Consort; Kimyan the Huntress; Alisaar the goddess of love; Cayrian the god of thieves and trade. There were foreign gods too: Taidee the Eastron Mother-Goddess; the round-bellied Hoteei, god of luck from those parts beyond Torkai.

I considered making an offering to him, I was luckier than any woman had a right to be. My fingers touched the Aryx. “Or unluckier,” I murmured.

“Vianne?” Tristan was suddenly attentive.

“Merely a thought spoken aloud.” I straightened my shoulders, gathered my skirts. There was no time for a betrothal dress, not that I minded the lack. The more quickly we could accomplish this, the better. “Where is our priestess?”

“Here,” a clear female voice drifted between the clouds of incense and the slender fleurs-di-lisse pillars. “One moment.”

We waited at the end of the hall, my eyes drawn up to the benevolent faces of the stone statues. Hoteei was to our left, squatting over an altar heaped with food offerings—it seemed Arcenne had been lucky lately.

Or the peasantry were seeking to avert the plague. Gentle Jiserah and Havarik the Physicker, Alisaar’s Consort, also had many offerings before them. Danshar glowered, since his altar was bare. None wished the Warrior King to come a-riding.

Why has the plague not struck Arcenne? I had asked aloud, earlier.

The Baron’s grim reply made my stomach turn on itself, knotting terribly. The sickness has not struck a province that has refused d’Orlaans.

The priestess came down the central walk, between the statues and the columns. She wore a dark robe, belted with silver, and her shaven head told me she was of Kimyan’s elect. My heart leapt, hammering in wrists and ears and throat like a bird struggling in a trap.

She stopped before us, a woman with the sharp face of Arcenne, her eyes a clear, light gray, disturbing in her hawklike face. I could see why this woman was one of the Huntress’s—she certainly looked like Kimyan’s statues. The Huntress took maids, or those sworn to celibacy, and with her twin-Consort Torvar they ruled the harvest and the hunt. Yet many women cried to Kimyan in childbirth, and she and her adoptive brother were said to watch over fools and drunkards as well.

“Greetings.” The priestess placed her hands together, bowing. Her gaze moved over me with no surprise at all, and if the Aryx gave her a start she concealed it well. “You are here to contract a Consort before the gaze of the gods.”

Tristan’s arm tightened on my shoulders.

Courage, Vianne. This is not so difficult as slipping unremarked through the Palais or scrubbing pots, now, is it? The answer was mine to give, so I gathered myself and gave it. “I—yes.” My voice fell flat in the fragrant smoke of incense.

The priestess nodded. “Follow me to Jiserah’s altar, then, and may the gods smile upon you.”

“My thanks,” I managed around the lump in my throat.

“So there is something that frightens you,” Tristan leaned down to whisper in my ear. A mad snicker rose up inside me, was choked by propriety, and died away. Yet it left relief in its wake. As long as he was with me, this would be easy.

Or if not easy, then at least conquerable.

We walked, Tristan’s arm over my shoulders, and childhood training rose inside me. My mother had been religious, or so I had been told, a devotee of Jiserah. Her tiny, gem-encrusted statuette of the Gentle One remained at Court, in my rooms—or perhaps it had been taken for some reason. The thought of my mother’s statue in d’Orlaans’s limp white hands hurt me somehow, though I had seldom looked at its calm face since my arrival at Court lo those many years ago.

As things stood, I could perhaps see becoming slightly less irreligious.

Kimyan’s priestess halted before Jiserah’s altar. The Gentle’s statue was white marble, polished to a creamy shine, threads of gold inlaid in her robes. Her eyes were closed, her face unlined and serene; yet the jewel set in her forehead sparked with its own light, peering into the hearts of men and women alike.

The priestess turned to face us, producing a long cord of white silk. I glanced up at Tristan, who studied the other woman intently. “Left hands,” she said, kindly enough. “Your names, an it please you.”

Tristan did not let loose of my shoulders. I lifted my left hand. “Vianne Athenaisse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, in the sight of the gods.”

The Aryx spoke, a rill of muted melody. The priestess smiled. “Peace be with you, Vianne.”

“And also with you.” My throat was dry and my heart knocked afresh against my ribs.

Tristan’s right arm was over my shoulder, but he reached across his body to take my left hand in his. “Tristan Dijian d’Arcenne, in the sight of the gods.”

“Peace be with you, Tristan.”

“And also with you.” He sounded so calm, while my knees shook. What if he changes his mind? Oh, gods, I am not brave enough for this.

I remember little of the actual vows, except that they were—it gave me a shock to hear—the old pledges, longer and more archaic in their phrasing, as well as more violent in their content. No yearlong liaison, but a permanent Consort contract.

This meant I could divorce myself of him with traditional ease simply by returning the marriage band, but he was not free to do the same unless I repudiated him in a Temple and he took a year-vow of seclusion.

Such things are not done nowadays. At least, not often.

Tristan had produced the copper marriage bands while we signed the papers. They glittered in the temple’s smoky light. He spoke his “So I will” in a clear firm voice, and I as well, though my hand shook and my heart did its best to free itself of my chest and go merrily running toward the woods.

The priestess, her fingers quick and deft, wrapped the cord around my wrist, around his, tied the complex knot. “Bound in the sight of the gods, let nothing separate your hearts now. One in thought, one in word, one in deed; be honorable, honor each other and the gods will smile upon you.” Her clear gray gaze searched first my face, then Tristan’s. The Aryx glittered, power sparking from the serpent curves, its gemmed eyes winking as the metal writhed, tiny scales rasping cat-tongue at my dress. “By my hand and my vows, I pronounce you wed from this moment. Go forth happily, and may peace be with you.”

“And also with you,” I answered, Tristan’s voice matching mine. It was strange to hear us speak in unison.

The priestess’s fingers flicked again, freeing us. She took the cord to Jiserah’s altar, up three steps. A copper brazier fumed there; she tossed the cord onto the coals. There was a brief burst of perfumed smoke, and Tristan d’Arcenne was my Consort, in the eyes of the gods and the law.

My knees threatened to give. Tristan steadied me. “There,” he said quietly. “Was that so horrible?”

I bit back another shaky, relieved laugh. “I seem to be a coward.” My fingers tightened in his. “Tristan, she spoke the old vows. I—”

“I wished it so. There are those who would say that I forced you into a contract to secure a hold on power. There are those who would—”

“I would not believe them,” I interrupted.

He seemed almost to wince. “Then I am content. Gods grant me the strength to honor your trust from this moment.” He glanced up, his forehead furrowed. “Where did she go?”

“I should beg your pardon,” a woman’s voice came from behind us, echoing down the columned hall. “I am late, I know, but there was a fevered sister, and I had to wait until someone could relieve me.”

We turned to find a priestess of Jiserah hurrying down the central aisle, her green and white robes glimmering in the dim light. “I am Danae,” she said, her round cheeks scarlet as she puffed. “D’mselle, chivalier, pardon me, and if you will just give me a moment, we shall have the ceremony.”

“We already did. The priestess of Kimyan—” Then I realized the priestess had not given us her name. “The gray-eyed one. She was at the altar but a moment ago.”

Danae stopped short, her robes shushing. She had a round, pleasant face, with laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. “Your pardon, d’mselle. But we have no priestesses of Kimyan here. We have not for two years. There are two priests for the Huntress—Shoyo and Dijirich—but they do not perform weddings. We have none of Torvar’s Elect either.”

“Then who—” I turned to gaze at the statue of Jiserah.

As I did, the Aryx sparked again, the serpents moving. The priestess gasped and fell to her knees, her face open and transported. Blazing, shocking in the dark torchlit gloom, the statue of Jiserah pulsed with light.

I did not kneel—my knees were now locked. The Aryx filled me, a rushing tide of melody prickling at my skin, as if I were a fruit bursting at the point of ripeness, light and song and power straining at the borders of my consciousness. The doors inside my head trembled on the verge of opening, I sought to look away, to deny the power rising in me.

No. Not now. Leave me in peace.

Tristan’s arm fell from my shoulders. He sank to one knee, his face upturned. I knew this even though I dared not look, the light filling my vision. The statue glowed, scorched, sizzled, white marble running with life. Iron bands seized my skill, the brightness threatening me with the half-head—strong light is dangerous, it can trigger the pain swiftly.

As quickly as it had happened, though, it was gone. Welcome dimness returned to my dazzled vision, and the Aryx’s melody quickly faded, draining away. I sighed and sagged, reached blindly for my Captain’s shoulder. What was that?

“Tristan?” My voice was a pale shadow.

He rose slowly, his face tilted up to the statue of Jiserah, now mute and dark, only torchglow running over the marble. “Vianne.” Hoarse and pale, drawn and sweating, he seemed awakened from a dream. Or a nightmare. “Do you doubt yourself, even now?”

I found I did not know how to answer.

“I…I am sorry. Your Majesty.” The priestess rose behind us, I could hear her robes moving, cloth against cloth. “I think…” But she did not say what she thought, and I did not care to guess. “I did not know. Forgive me. I did not know you were—”

Oh, gods. This is the last straw the cart-horse can bear. “Not a word of this. I shall have your silence, m’dama priestess.” I forced myself to turn away from the statue, chills roughening my skin into gooseflesh. “An it please you.”

She was pale, her apple-cheeks now flour-white. And the way she gazed upon me was uncomfortable, for it was the same face I suspected she turned on the statue of her goddess during prayers. “But—but the goddess—that is a blessing, and you are the holder of—”

“No. Not a word. Your oath, m’dama.” My tone took on an unwontedly hard edge. “Swear by your goddess, not a word of this.”

She swore, finally, in a trembling voice, her gaze fixed on the Aryx, still shifting lazily against my chest. Tristan said nothing until she was finished.

“Do we ask for another wedding, then?” He took my hand. But his own fingers shook. However irreligious one may be in the whirl and glitter of Court, when the Blessed speak, tis wise to listen.

I did not know what this sudden light and strangeness meant. Later I would speak privately with this priestess, and discover what I could. For now, I simply wished to escape, backing away from the sense that a stricture had been laid on me, or that the gods had bent their gaze to earth and suddenly noticed the Seal they had gifted to Arquitaine was alive and in new hands.

Which brought me to the question of whether the gods had been paying attention to the King, his brother, and the tax farmers. And the bandit villages in the Shirlstrienne. And—

But my attention was called in a different direction. I rallied. “I suppose so. Though I might faint, if tis anything like the first.” Might? No. If that happens again, if the Aryx seeks to take charge of me again…but Tristan is here. Nothing can harm me if he is here.

Such faith I had in him.

“Twice-vowed, bound all the more surely.” Very quietly. “To be certain, Vianne.”

I eyed the priestess of Jiserah, who was still chalk-pale. “You do not intend to disappear as soon as the ceremony is over, do you?” I sought for levity. After the fantastical, laughter serves to smooth the fabric of life.

She shook her head, gravely. Her hood fell back, her gray-threaded hair lying sleek-braided. “No, Your Majesty. I am merely a priestess, and an uncertain one at that. The gods have pronounced their will; I can only follow.”

“Wise of you.” Tristan mercifully did not sound as sarcastic as I suspected he wished to. “Let us continue, then, before I lose my courage.”

The second ceremony was a little easier than the first. The priestess stumbled over some of the words, her eyes round as she watched the Aryx’s slow shifting. When she tossed the silk cord onto the brazier, the same puff of perfumed smoke burst free. I waited, nervous, but the priestess came down the steps, turning back to the statue of Jiserah to genuflect quietly, murmuring an old prayer and pulling her hood up to cover her hair.

It was a relief when it was finally over. We thanked her, and Tristan let out a long, jagged breath. “Shall we leave, m’chri?”

“Before aught else happens? Absolutely.” My voice was high and nervous now. I could not seem to take my accustomed tone. “There is a reason why I never went to Temple. Gods have a way of disarranging one.” It was something Comtesse Rochburre might have said. “I have no desire to tarry.”

I half-expected one of the statues to take me to task, but we escaped the Temple without mishap. Standing on the white stone steps, night gathering close, yet another shock awaited me. For when I raised my hand to greet the assembled people, I heard a cheer that fair threatened to shake the Temple off the mountainside.

The townspeople of Arcenne had gathered, drawn perhaps by the procession of armed nobles. Torches flared. The Aryx responded, shaking the air with a welter of melody. I waved, thinking of Lisele’s Coming-of-Age and the crowds in the Citté d’Arquitaine, and the way their cries had blown the snapping silken banners away from the wind.

I had never thought to hear such a baying for me.

I have tied myself to this course even more securely. I glanced up at Tristan. He nodded, his blue eyes dark and thoughtful, spared me a smile that warmed me all the way down to my chilled bones. But he looked strained, and worried. Nothing will ever be right again. Lisele is truly dead, and I am Queen of Arquitaine. Queen without a throne, with a murderous half-uncle nipping at my heels.

I smiled, waving, and arranged my face so the sudden fear would not show. I had practice, after all—I merely wore my accustomed Court mask, and even though I had not had cause to do so for months, it still felt familiar. Not natural, but not strange either.

Tristan helped me to mount the white palfrey, who stood obediently flicking her tail. I lifted a hand as I had often seen the King do. The cheering was immense, I was newly wed, the Aryx was singing—but the weight of responsibility settled on me, grinding into my shoulders more heavily than duty had ever weighed. I did not have time to stop to wonder if the light from a god’s statue was a blessing, a warning, or merely a symptom of the Aryx’s wakefulness.

If I had wondered, I might have felt even more afraid.