“I care little for court opinion,” he muttered, almost inaudible.
All thoughts of the bedding and his fine face snapped apart. Erida refused to roll her eyes. I’ll have a lifetime to teach him how wrong he is, but I don’t need to start this instant.
“How lovely that must be,” she said dryly.
Erida had never dreamed of her wedding, though her ladies-in-waiting had often asked. She’d made things up to satisfy them. A cathedral filled with flowers, milk-white horses, Madrentine lace, the marriage sword bright as lightning, a veil as long as a river, gifts from every monarch in every corner of the Ward. Some of those things had come to pass without much effort.
But what Erida had truly wished for on this day, not even a ruling queen could acquire. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. Neither Konrad Righand nor Alisandra Reccio had lived to see their daughter crowned or wed. She tried to feel them with her, as she’d felt the gods in the cathedral, but it was like reaching through open air. The usual emptiness remained. It was an old wound, but today it bled anew. It was difficult not to look for them, even when she knew they would not appear.
With the feasting hall in tatters, the ruins of her father’s chandeliers smashed all over the floor, the reception took place in the palace gardens, beneath hastily assembled tents, with an armada of servants waving long fans. At least a good breeze blew off the lagoon, through the only gap in the palace walls.
Their table was separate from the rest, isolating the new couple from all but each other. Even Erida’s council sat apart, arranged around a long table with Ronin glowering in their midst. She pitied Lady Harrsing, who tried in vain to engage the wizard in talk.
Erida sat, taking her hand from Taristan’s. His blood ran too hot for summer. He did not seem to mind the temperature, despite his thick red doublet and the heavy gold chain strung between his shoulders. His cheeks remained pale; there was no sweat on his brow.
A servant offered him a goblet of wine. He took it without drinking, assessing the facets of the crystal cup, letting it catch the light. Taristan of Old Cor was noble in blood but not birth. He was not accustomed to the riches of royalty, nor the expectations.
“Are you going to gawk at me all day?” he said, raising his gaze to match her stare.
She didn’t blink, unfazed by the challenge. “Where are you from?”
His answer was quick, stoic. “I am the blood of Old Cor.”
Erida resisted the urge to roll her eyes once again. Instead she pulled at her wine, using the seconds to cool her frustration. “I mean, where were you born?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging without thought. “My parents were either dead or gone by the time I had the sense to look for them.” His fingers played over the crystal goblet, looking for flaws. “The Elders took my brother to Iona and made him there. The rest of the world made me.”
Thoughtful, Erida tried to listen between his words, to read thoughts as they raced through his mind. But his abyssal eyes were stone blank, as inscrutable as his face.
Taristan nudged the wine away. Unlike most rogues, he did not seem to have a taste for drink. “I spent my days in wandering.”
“Even as a boy?” She pictured an orphan growing up harshly, with no money and only his wits, then his fists, to rely upon. And then his blood, his great lineage, buried like a diamond waiting to be discovered.
“Corblood do not grow roots,” he said sternly. “I dislike this interrogation, Your Majesty.”
Erida sipped at her wine before answering.
“I am your ruling queen; I follow my own will.” The agreement is already made, our lines drawn. But I might as well remind him.
“Do as you like,” he said, shrugging. The court glittered before them, eager to eat and drink even in the hot air. But they were as jumpy as rabbits. The events of the night before were not so easily forgotten. “Your will bothers me little, so long as we keep sight of the same goal.”
The realm beneath the Lion, an empire of Galland, the Ward in my fist. The glory of Old Cor reborn. In her mind, the map on the wall of the council chamber bloomed with green, like grass in springtime. She could already feel all the world laid out, the hopes of her forefathers realized in a woman’s hands. My father’s dream made real.
She ducked her head to hide a smile, using her hair as a shield from the rest. Conquest was in her blood. It sated her better than any feast.
The first of twenty-one courses—twenty for the gods and one for the kingdom—was brought out quickly. The original plan had called for soup, but in the heat, the kitchens had wisely pivoted to a spread of herbs, cold sauces and spiced jams, cured meats, and thick, white cheeses.