The lead coach rolled to a stop and Queen Makhi emerged. She was tall and lean, and though there was some resemblance to Princess Ehri, Makhi looked like an artist’s illustration of a queen come to life—her toffee-brown eyes luminous, bronze skin without flaw, black hair falling in lustrous waves to her waist. She wore silks of leaf green, a pattern of silver falcons taking flight from the hem, and a crown of massive green stones that would have put the Lantsov emerald to shame. She was quickly flanked by two ministers in dark green.
The Taban queens didn’t take husbands but had multiple male consorts, so no man could claim any child as his nor make any bid for the throne. Makhi would never wed, but her sisters would. For alliance.
Nikolai bowed deeply. “Queen Makhi, we welcome you to the Grand Palace and hope you will find it to your liking.”
The queen glanced around, the faintest sneer on her lips. This was her first opportunity to insult his country.
“The celestial throne of the Shu and wearer of the Taban crown greets you. We are most grateful for your hospitality.” At least they were beginning well.
Nikolai offered her his arm. “It would be my honor to escort you to the royal chapel. Or perhaps your party would like a chance to rest themselves and have some refreshment?”
The queen glanced at her ministers, who remained stone-faced. She gave a brief sigh and slid her hand into the crook of Nikolai’s elbow. “Best this distasteful business was done quickly.”
Nikolai led her down the path, and in a great wave of velvet, silk, and sparkling gems, their party processed toward the royal chapel, which lay almost exactly halfway between the Grand Palace and the Little Palace.
“The chapel is said to have been built on the site of Ravka’s first altar,” said Nikolai. “Where the first Lantsov king was crowned.”
“Fascinating,” she said, then added beneath her breath, “Are these niceties strictly necessary?”
“No, but I find they help ease the way when meeting with a woman who tried to engineer my death and the overthrow of my rule.”
Makhi’s hand tensed slightly against his arm. “Where is my sister? I would speak to her before the ceremony.”
No doubt, but there would be none of that. Nikolai ignored her.
The chapel had been carefully restored after the Darkling’s attack, and Fabrikator craft had ensured that its dark beams and golden dome had been made even lovelier than what had come before. The whole place smelled of wood polish and sweet incense. Its pews were packed with guests in their finest: Ravkan nobility in fashionably cut coats and gowns, Grisha in their jewel-hued kefta.
“Who will perform this travesty of a ceremony?” Makhi asked, peering down the aisle at the gilded altarpiece of thirteen Saints. “I hear your priest is occupied elsewhere. To imagine my sister will marry a bastard.”
It seemed Makhi’s supply of civility was expended. “I didn’t think the Taban queens gave much care to whether a child was born out of wedlock.”
Makhi’s brown eyes flashed. “Did you read that in a book? Marriage is a pretense. But bloodline is everything.”
“Thank you for explaining the distinction. Vladim Ozwal will perform the ceremony.”
The young priest already stood at the altar, wearing a long brown cassock emblazoned with a golden sun. He was one of the Soldat Sol who had abandoned their service to the Apparat to follow Alina Starkov. He had fought beside the Sun Saint on the Fold and had received her powers, and if Zoya’s story was true, he bore the handprint of the Sun Summoner as a brand upon his chest. When the Apparat had slithered off to Fjerda, Ravka’s priests had scrambled to appoint a new head of the church who would serve as spiritual counselor to the king. There had been older, more experienced candidates, many of whom were little more than the Apparat’s cronies. But in the end, the new guard had won out and Ozwal had been chosen. Apparently, it was hard to argue with a man who bore the fingerprints of the Sun Summoner seared into his own flesh.
“I can barely see,” said Queen Makhi. “We should be at the front of the chapel.”
“Not just yet,” said Nikolai. “Ravkan tradition.”
Adrik and Nadia rose and faced the guests, side by side in their blue kefta, their cuffs embroidered in Squaller silver, Adrik’s bronze arm polished to a high shine. They began to sing in close harmony. It was an old Ravkan folk song about the first firebird and the sorcerer who had tried to capture her.
David and Genya had already begun their slow walk down the aisle. Genya had chosen an extraordinarily long train.
“Who are these people?” Makhi asked. “Where is my sister?”
“They are two members of the Grisha Triumvirate, David Kostyk and Genya Safin.”
“I know who they are. What are they doing here? I will march to the front of this chapel and stop this whole proceeding if—”
Nikolai rested a hand on Makhi’s silk sleeve, then removed it at her glare.
“Do not think to lay a hand on this, the most holy body of Queen Makhi Kir-Taban.”
“My apologies. Truly. But I do think it would be best not to make a scene.”
“Do you think I care about creating a spectacle?”
“No, but you should. I don’t think you want all these people to know where your sister is.”
Makhi tilted her head back, looking down her nose at Nikolai. He felt less victorious than wary. This queen was ruthless and brilliant and very dangerous when cornered. But corner her he must.
“David and Genya were wed with little pomp on a rather hasty trip to Ketterdam,” Nikolai said. “They never had a chance to exchange their vows in Ravka.”
But they were speaking them now.
“Here, witnessed by our Saints and our friends,” Genya said, “I speak words of both love and duty. It is not a chore but an honor to swear faith to you, to promise love to you, to offer my hand and my heart to you in this life and the next.” They were the traditional Ravkan words, spoken at the weddings of nobleman and peasant alike.
The Grisha vows were very different.
“We are soldiers,” David recited, low and shaky. He was unused to speaking in front of a crowd. “I will march with you in times of war. I will rest with you in times of peace. I will forever be the weapon in your hand, the fighter at your side, the friend who awaits your return.” His voice grew stronger and louder with every word. “I have seen your face in the making at the heart of the world and there is no one more beloved, Genya Safin, brave and unbreakable.” The vow rang through the chapel. Genya’s face was shining, as if those words had kindled some secret light.
Tolya, towering over the bride and groom, set a thorn-wood crown upon David’s head and then one upon Genya’s, as Vladim said the blessings. Nikolai would have liked to be a part of the ceremony, to stand with his friends in this moment of happiness when there was so much uncertainty before them. But this wedding had been constructed for the benefit of Queen Makhi, and there was no way he was leaving her side.
“You will answer my questions,” Makhi hissed. “We were brought here for your wedding to my accursed sister.”
“I don’t recall the invitation saying any such thing.”