Somewhere, a horn blows. And the crowd responds, turning toward the palace in unison, a sea of eyes. I feel each look as we step forward, onto the landing, down the stairs, into the jaws of a Silver spectacle. The last time I saw a crowd here, I was kneeling and collared, bloody and bruised and heartbroken. I am still all those things. My fingers tremble. Guards press in, while Kitten and Clover stick behind me in simple but suitable gowns. The crowd pushes closer, and Evangeline is so near she could knife me between the ribs without blinking. My lungs feel tight; my chest constricts and my throat seems to close. I swallow hard and force out a long breath. Calm down. I focus on the dress in my hands, the inches in front of me.
I think I feel a drop of water hit my cheek. I pray it’s rain and not nervous tears.
“Pull yourself together, Barrow,” a voice hisses. It could be Evangeline’s. As with Maven, I feel a sick burst of gratitude for the meager support. I try to push it away. I try to reason with myself. But like a dog starved, I’ll take whatever scraps I’m given. Whatever passes for kindness in this lonely cage.
My vision spirals. If not for my feet, my dear, quick, sure feet, I might stumble. Each step comes harder than the last. Panic spikes up my spine. I drown myself in the white of Iris’s dress. I even count heartbeats. Anything to keep moving. I don’t know why, but this wedding feels like the closing of a thousand doors. Maven has doubled his strength and tightened his grip. I’ll never escape him. Not after this.
The stone beneath me changes. Smooth, square tiles become steps. I bump on the first but right myself, holding up the train. Doing the only thing I’m still able to do. Stand to the side, kneel, shrivel away, turn bitter and hungry in the shadows. Is this the rest of my life?
Before I enter the maw of the Royal Court too, I glance up. Past the sculptures of fire and stars and swords and ancient kings, past the crystal reaches of the glittering dome. To the sky. Clouds gather in the distance. A few have already reached the square, moving steadily in the wind. They dissipate slowly, unraveling into wisps of nothing. Rain wants to gather, but something, probably Silver storms, controlling the weather won’t let it. Nothing will be allowed to ruin this day.
And then the sky disappears, replaced by a vaulted ceiling. Smooth limestone arches overhead, banded with silver spirals of forged flame. Red-and-black banners of Norta and blue banners of the Lakelands decorate either side of the antechamber, as if anyone could forget the kingdoms whose union we’re about to witness. The murmurs of a thousand onlookers sound like humming bees, increasing with every step forward I take. Ahead, the passage widens into the central chamber of the Royal Court, a magnificent circular hall beneath the crystal dome. The sun climbs across the clear panes, illuminating the spectacle below. Every seat is full, ringed out from the middle of the chamber in a halo of flashing color. The crowd waits, breathless. I can’t see Maven yet, but I can guess where he will be.
Anyone else would hesitate, even a little. Iris does not. She never breaks pace as we cross into the light. A thousand bodies standing up is almost deafening, and the noise echoes around the chamber. Rustling clothes, shifting movement, whispers. I stay focused on my breathing. My heart races anyway. I want to look up, note the entrances, the branching passages, the pieces of this place I can use. But I can barely walk, let alone plan another ill-fated escape.
It feels like years pass before we reach the center. Maven waits, his cape just as opulent as Iris’s train and nearly as long. He cuts an impressive figure in flashing red and white instead of black. The crown is newly made, wrought of silver and rubies worked into flame. It gleams when he moves, turning his head to face his approaching bride and her entourage. His eyes find me first. I know him well enough to recognize regret. It flickers, alive for a moment, dancing like the wick of a lit candle. And, just as easily, it disappears, trailing a memory like smoke. I hate him, especially because I can’t fight the now-familiar surge of pity for the shadow of the flame. Monsters are made. So was Maven. Who knows who he was supposed to be?
The ceremony takes the better part of an hour, and I have to stand through all of it alongside Evangeline and the rest of the bridal parade. Maven and Iris trade words back and forth, oaths and pledges urged on by a Nortan judge. A woman in plain indigo robes speaks as well. From the Lakelands, I assume—maybe an envoy of their gods? I hardly listen. All I can think about is an army in red and blue, marching across the world. Clouds continue to roll in, each one darker than the last as they pass the dome overhead. And each one disintegrates. The storm wants to break, but it just can’t seem to.