The First Beneath Gray Skies
Barcas stared into her unfocused eyes and spoke with quiet reproach. “Did you burn the incense again?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She had only used the drug because the pain was unbearable. She had done nothing truly wrong, yet the words made her feel as though she had been caught in some shameful act.
She dropped her gaze to escape his stare, and a dry sigh brushed her forehead. “……Perhaps it is for the best,” Barcas murmured bitterly. He lowered himself to one knee, slipped an arm around her back, and drew her close.
Thalia found herself staring up at the sharp line of his jaw, mere inches away. With his other arm he slid beneath her legs and rose smoothly, lifting her as though she weighed nothing.
She clutched the hem of her dress on instinct, a chill racing down her spine at the thought of the fabric riding up. “I—I can walk on my own.”
“Just let the medicine do its work,” Barcas answered dryly as he stepped down from the carriage. “It will make today easier to endure.”
Thalia flinched at the cold edge in his voice. For him, today was clearly something to be endured. Shoulders curling inward, she lowered her head—only to hear an unfamiliar voice nearby.
“Captain, His Majesty will be delayed.”
She startled and burrowed deeper into his arms. Barcas opened his coat to shield her, then addressed the man in his usual curt tone. “Inform the High Priest.”
He strode toward the marble arch without another word. Thalia’s fingers tightened unconsciously around his shirt. Through the thin fabric still carrying the scent of mint, she glimpsed the heavy gray sky—its sullen color casting an ominous pall over the carved saints on the stone walls and pillars.
As those faces drew nearer, a cold knot of dread uncoiled in her stomach and began to climb. On impulse she spoke. “The weather is so dreary today.”
Silver-flecked blue eyes dropped to her forehead. Avoiding that gaze, she stumbled on. “No one gets married on a day like this.”
So they should stop. She meant to say it, but his lips parted first. “Then we shall be the first.”
The soothing tone made her swallow the rest of her words. He was a man long accustomed to her whims; the remark was nothing more than a gentle indulgence. Yet her traitorous heart raced all the same. She ducked her head to hide her burning face.
At last the great doors of the cathedral swallowed them. Cold, heavy air pressed against the thin silk of her gown. Thalia hunched her shoulders and peered out through the gap in Barcas’s coat. Hundreds of guests filled the colonnade—far more than she had expected. Her mouth went dry.
They had not come to celebrate. They had come because they feared Senebier’s displeasure, or perhaps simply to watch the illegitimate princess make a spectacle of herself.
She glanced down at her legs, hidden beneath layers of fabric. Even after checking several times, the fear refused to fade. Cold sweat slicked her palms as she tugged the hem lower, scanning the pews for anyone who might be staring at her legs. Instead she met hundreds of wide, unblinking eyes.
The thought that her appearance must be truly grotesque made her spine stiffen—until a dark coat blocked her view.
“It seems we must wait until His Majesty arrives,” Barcas said, his voice oddly gentle. He turned toward a quieter side aisle. “You might as well rest your eyes until then.”
Thalia blinked up at his chin. He had been saying the strangest things all day. What bride slept through her own wedding?
Before she could speak, a familiar voice called from behind them. “Sir Sheerkan.”
Thalia looked past Barcas’s collar. The knight who shadowed him like a second skin was hurrying toward them. “Marquis Oristein wishes to speak with you before the ceremony.”
Marquis Oristein was Gareth and Aila’s maternal grandfather. Why would he come to the wedding hall?
She looked up at Barcas in confusion and saw his face tighten almost imperceptibly. After a moment’s silence he set her down on a choir pew, draped his coat over her shoulders, and said, “Wait here. I will return shortly.”
Thalia reached for him, then let her hand fall. He had only been forced to take her by the Emperor’s command. She ought to be used to being set aside.
“Guard her well,” Barcas told the knight, then walked away with his usual graceful stride.
Thalia watched his retreating back, teeth worrying her lower lip. The marquis had surely come to stop the wedding. What arguments would he use to sway Barcas?
While she sat lost in thought, a prickling gaze settled on her cheek. She turned sharply and found herself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes. The knight who had been watching her flinched and looked away. Cold sweat beaded along her spine.
Why had he looked at her like that? Was there something wrong with her appearance beyond her legs?
She glanced down at herself, swathed in the delicate gown. Could the twisted shape of her leg be visible through the fabric?
“Would you like something to drink while you wait?” the knight asked, clearing his throat awkwardly.
Thalia masked her unease with haughty disdain. “I…… don’t need anything.”
The drug had loosened her tongue, however, and the words came out slurred. She wet her dry lips and glanced around. Besides the knight standing guard, priests and attendants lined the walls of the side aisle, clearly waiting for the ceremony to begin. Even the guests gathered in the crossing stole glances at her. Those sticky stares made her skin crawl.
She bit her lip. She wanted to shout at them to stop staring. Senebier’s voice echoed in her mind: the hideous are mocked and trampled without reason.
She wanted to bolt from the hall, but if she tried she would only collapse in front of everyone, and the laughter would pour down like rain. Bastard. Cripple. The worst bride imaginable.
“Your Highness, you look unwell. Shall I fetch a priest?” the knight asked, concern creasing his face.
Thalia shook her head. “No.”
“Even a simple healing spell might—”
“Are you deaf? I said no.”
Her sharp retort silenced him, but the strange, lingering gaze remained. His presence was becoming unbearable. Every eye fixed on her felt like a violation.
She stared anxiously toward the aisle Barcas had taken. When is he coming back? What could they be discussing for so long?
Aila’s warning drifted through her mind. Perhaps the woman had encouraged her grandfather to interfere. Yes, that had to be it. The very idea of this marriage had been absurd from the start.
What if it had all been a cruel joke from the beginning? Barcas might already have fled the cathedral, leaving her—the crippled bastard—as the abandoned bride for everyone to pity and scorn.
“I’m going back,” she blurted.
The knight’s eyes widened in alarm. Thalia yanked off Barcas’s coat, flung it to the floor, and staggered to her feet. She headed for the small side door at the end of the aisle, desperate to escape every staring eye.
The knight moved quickly to block her path. “Where are you going? The ceremony is about to—”
“Get out of my way!”
She shoved at him, but the armored knight did not budge. She glared at him with open hostility. “Didn’t you hear me? Move!”
When she reached for him again her legs gave out. She pitched sideways and grabbed his arm on reflex. The knight went rigid; so did she. His touch was revolting—the sheer size of him, the unyielding strength she could never match. Only Barcas’s touch had ever felt tolerable. But Barcas had left her here.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Let go!”
She wrenched free of the hand that tried to steady her—only to feel herself lifted into the air. Startled, she looked up and met Barcas’s cool gaze. He studied her face for a long moment, then turned his attention to his subordinate. The knight flushed crimson and bowed his head. Barcas said nothing, merely wrapped an arm around her waist and turned away.
“All the guests have arrived. The ceremony will begin shortly.”
His voice was ice above her head. “It is too late to turn back.”