Is that how you asked Father to marry you? Alaric had wanted to know, young as he was back then, small and ignorant of so many things.
Sancia’s eyes had hardened. No, little dove. He was the one who asked and there was no talk of stars or hearts. It was a true Kesathese proposal in every sense.
The door to the alcove swung open and Commodore Mathire peered in, jolting Alaric back to the present.
“Your Majesty, your bride is here.” She then vanished with the air of someone ticking off yet another arduous task in a long mental checklist.
Once Alaric was alone again, he took a deep breath. Even as he did so, he castigated himself for the sudden onslaught of nerves racking his system. He was Master of the Shadowforged Legion and the Night Emperor of Kesath; he had stormed countless battlefields and made entire kingdoms bend to his will. A marriage ceremony was nothing in comparison.
There was no putting it off any longer. He stepped out of the alcove and into the Hall of Ceremonies.
Located beneath the Starlight Tower’s belfry, the chamber’s glass walls provided not just a sprawling panorama of the city below but also copious amounts of natural light. More minimalist in design than the ornate interiors of the Roof of Heaven, the hall nevertheless sported a breathtaking ceiling strewn with stained-glass panels that scattered hues of cobalt, rose quartz, jacinth, and lilac across the floor and over the hundreds of people occupying the pews. These people all fell into a decorous yet tense silence at Alaric’s entrance. Stone-faced, he ignored them and strode over to the raised platform housing the altar that was the hall’s focal point.
Perched atop columns fashioned from pure alabaster, the altar had been carved in the likeness of a dragon, crouched low with predatory intent, tail pointed to the ceiling, wings tucked into its sides, and the curve of its neck twisted forward so that it stared down the length of the hall with blazing sapphire eyes, a bronze censer dangling on a long chain from jaws stretched open in an eternal roar. Streaming down behind it were ceiling-mounted banners with insignias—the silver chimera of the Night Empire against a field of black, the gold dragon of the Nenavar Dominion rising starkly from silk that was as blue as a summer sky.
Alaric took his place at the base of the platform. The officiant was already standing at the top of the steps in front of the altar, draped in rich scarlet robes.
Willing himself not to fidget, Alaric maintained a blank expression as he surveyed the crowd. His officers, smartly turned out in their dress uniforms, occupied the first few rows along with Urduja, Elagbi, and the Nenavarene aristocrats who were highly positioned in court. Everyone looked positively grim.
“I’ve seen happier faces at funerals,” Alaric heard the offi ciant remark to the two initiates who were assisting her, and he fervently—if silently—agreed.
The music started, courtesy of the orchestra in the choir loft. First, a brassy gong was struck three times from up high. Then came the xylophones and reed pipes, soon joined by plucked strings to form a stirring melody punctuated by soft drumbeats. The main doors slid open. Talasyn walked in.
And, for several long moments, Alaric ceased to breathe.
He was dreaming. He had to be.
There was no way that she was real.
The Dominion had spared no expense on their Lachis’ka’s wedding gown. Spun from lustrous lotus silk the color of magnolia petals, the gold-trimmed bodice was a snug-fitting affair with a scalloped neckline, stiff butterfly sleeves, and a fitted waist melting into a dramatic full skirt that probably qualified as a feat of architecture. It was layer upon layer of chiffon and organza lavishly embellished with diamonds set amidst constellations of gold and silver thread, the back half sloping into a train that glided whisper-soft over floors made of glass. Talasyn’s chestnut hair had been gathered into loose curls and pinned atop her head, adorned with a gold-and-diamond tiara from which streamed a veil made of the finest gossamer, shot through with more diamonds and more silver thread to create the illusion of a starry sky. Clutching a bouquet of snow-white peonies that caught the rain of colors from the stained-glass ceiling, she floated down the aisle toward Alaric on the bright, airy strains of the arched harp. She was utterly exquisite in the fiery light of day’s end, heartbreakingly lovely in white, silver, and gold.
And she was going to be his wife.
Alaric paid no attention to the appreciative murmurs rippling through the crowd. He no longer noticed the ceiling or the altar or the view of the skyline. All he saw was Talasyn.
Chapter Thirty-Six
As Talasyn embarked on her long, slow walk down the aisle, the awful possibility that she would stumble echoed through her mind. Once she started thinking it, she couldn’t stop. It filled her head until she was sure that each next step would be the last. She’d fall flat on her ass and everyone would laugh . . .
Alaric probably wouldn’t laugh at her, but only because he was too joyless to laugh at much of anything. As she walked toward him, with his impassive face and his cold gray eyes, she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was marching toward her downfall.
The memory of Darius at Khaede and Sol’s wedding, wryly asking her if she thought she would be next, couldn’t have picked a worse time to surface. Once it did, Talasyn’s steady pace faltered as she was seized by the urge to laugh. Or to scream. Or to turn around and run for it, run as far as her shoes and her dress would take her—which wouldn’t be very far at all.
By some miracle, though, she managed to make it to Alaric’s side without incident. Her nape prickling with the weight of hundreds of gazes, she numbly handed the bouquet to Jie, who took it and gracefully melted back into the crowd, and then she looked up at the man that she was about to marry.
Alaric was dressed in a high-collared, long-sleeved black tunic, embroidered with silver curlicues along the cuffs, as well as black trousers and black boots. As if to offset the relative plainness of his attire, he wore a livery collar of obsidian gems, from the back of which hung a brocaded cape of platinum and midnight. His hair was . . . perfect, as usual, all lush and artfully tousled dark waves, topped with a circlet inset with black enamel and wine-red rubies. From afar he looked too tall and forbidding, but up close his pale face was not as harsh as it could have been, and those eyes that had seemed so cold were warmed somewhat by the emerald-tinted light of sunset.
Holding each other’s gazes as the music played on, Talasyn and Alaric moved at the same time. He executed a courtly bow while she sank into a curtsy as far as her billowing skirts would permit. This part of the ceremony had been a source of contention between the two negotiation panels; in Nenavarene culture, the groom had to bow to the bride, but the Night Emperor bowed to no one and the Lachis’ka curtseyed only to the Dragon Queen. Daya Rasmey had solved the issue by suggesting that both actions be conducted simultaneously as a sign of mutual respect, so that the couple could proceed to the altar as equals.
Once they’d righted themselves, Alaric held his arm out to Talasyn. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and together they ascended the platform’s steps. A sigh rose from the crowd—Talasyn knew that at that moment her train and veil were spilling down the glass staircase like a river of white and gold, an aesthetic effect that had been carefully calculated by a battalion of dressmakers.