Faelan faces me, his mouth set in determination. “You’ll just have to trust in the good.” Then he moves aside to let me go in front of him.
I allow myself to feel the strength in his eyes and step out onto the balcony.
It’s surreal. The cool night air brushing against my skin, the stunning beauty of the onlookers, the soft torchlight on their upturned faces—so many faces looking at me.
There are at least two dozen regal figures seated along the balcony railing, on either side of the small raised platform that Marius, Faelan, and I are standing on. They crane their necks to look at me.
And then I spot him. Last time I saw him it was in a shadowed alley, and only for a few minutes, but that face is seared into my mind.
The dark prince, Kieran.
Marius is speaking, but my pulse is too loud in my ears to hear what he’s saying. Everything around me is going blurry. I can’t look away from the silver eyes staring holes through me from several seats away. He doesn’t look angry, but his intensity is obvious. Like he wants to pin me against a wall again.
The black-haired woman sitting beside him leans over and whispers in his ear, her dark red lips nearly touching his cheek. A slow, dry smile tips his mouth.
My insides squirm.
Aelia’s words flash in my head, how he thinks I belong to him because of some ancient claim. But what does that even mean? After what Marius said about my freedom, or lack of it, it makes the idea of Kieran marking me that much more terrifying. If that’s true, then I can’t get out of this place fast enough.
I back up a step to get away from his searching eyes, but I find myself pressing into Faelan. His hand grips my arm, and he leans close, whispering in my ear, “Steady now.”
My skin warms at his touch. I make myself breathe.
Kieran’s jaw tightens. His nails look like they’re digging into the wooden arms of his chair.
Marius’s voice comes again, and this time I catch my name. “. . . a child lost in the fog of humanity, we’re so grateful to our goddess that she’s been found—our Princess Sage.”
A tempered applause fills the air, like they’re all too highbrow to show emotion. I have a sudden fear that I’m supposed to curtsy or something.
But Marius holds out a hand for me to step all the way forward. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
I pull my mind from Kieran and slowly move in front of Marius. My feet don’t work very well, and I almost trip. Is this balcony stable? It feels like everything around me is shaking. Or maybe I’m shaking. Yep, I’m shaking.
“Have you come of your own free will, Princess Sage?” Marius asks. I nod, and he says under his breath, “You must say it aloud.”
I try to project to the audience. “Yes, I’m here of my free will.” I’m stunned by how normal my voice sounds.
“Very good,” Marius says. He bows as he lifts my hand to his lips, brushing my knuckles with a gentle kiss. He looks up at me and smiles. “Welcome, young one.” And then he lets go of me and backs away, moving off the stage.
I start to follow him, but Faelan keeps hold of my arm, whispering, “Not done just yet.”
I notice a man moving to stand in Marius’s place. He’s wearing a green hooded robe that drags on the floor behind him; I’d assume he was a monk if I didn’t know better. Instead of a cross around his neck, he’s wearing a pentagram, and there’s a leather strap across his chest from shoulder to belt. It’s holding a dagger. A white stone bowl rests in his palms. He steps in front of me as a woman in similar robes walks up behind him. She holds a thin stick in her hand.
“Have you chosen a protector?” the man asks. His voice is coated with age, and his face is stoic, older features sagging a bit.
“Yes,” I say, feeling more sure now.
“Name him,” he says. “So that he may be presented.”
“It’s Faelan,” I say.
The priest guy furrows his brow and keeps staring at me like he’s waiting for more.
Should I have said Faelan’s full name? I don’t remember how to pronounce the whole thing. Instead I point behind me to my new shadow and add, “Him.”
The priest frowns and the woman behind him bites her lip, like she’s holding back a smile.
“Very well,” the priest grumbles. He looks at Faelan. “Step forward to take the vow, Faelan Ua Cleirigh. You have been called.”
Faelan comes from behind to stand next to me.
The priest holds out the stone bowl. “With blade and sacrifice, let the shield be true.”
Without a word, Faelan reaches out and pulls the blade from the sheath strapped to the old man’s chest. He holds his other hand over the bowl and slices into his palm like he did when he swore to Marius. Blood runs into the bowl.
My pulse quickens at the sight of the crimson filling the white stone.
A young girl comes from somewhere on our left, a long strip of red silk fabric in her hand. She holds it out to Faelan with wide eyes. She’s probably twelve or thirteen, dressed in a flowing white gown, a wreath of tiny white roses in her long braided hair, like a girl in an ancient wedding ceremony. She’s the first child I’ve seen since I got here. It reminds me of what Faelan said about his own childhood in this world. Somehow it seems wrong for someone so innocent to be a part of all of this.
Faelan holds out his wounded hand to her, and she begins wrapping the red silk round and round his palm with her elegant fingers. When she’s done, she ties it with a knot at his wrist, and gives a quick kiss to his knuckles before letting go with a giggle. Then she backs away and slips into the rows of onlookers.
Next, the woman holding the stick steps forward, her robes dragging behind her. Faelan moves to stand in front of me. His eyes meet mine, and my insides heat with the intensity in them. The memory of his lips, his taste, grips me, and I have to focus on not hyperventilating.
“You’re sure?” he whispers.
I nod. But how can I be sure when I barely know what it all means?
The woman places the stick in his palm, and he shifts it to hold it like a paintbrush, dipping it into the bowl of blood that the priest is holding. He hesitates for a moment, then brings the blood-covered tip toward my head.
I pull back a little.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “This is how I’ll cover you, protect you.”
I go still and he puts the stick to the center of my brow. My skin tingles at the touch of the blood, and with slow, deliberate strokes he begins to paint what feels like a crescent shape on my forehead. Its slick warmth spreads across my face, and the familiar minty smell of Faelan fills my senses.
“My blood covers yours,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear.
My pulse speeds up again, shaking me as I watch him. His green eyes seem to glow for a moment and gravity shifts under me, pulling me toward him. But I lock my knees and force my body to stay still.
“May the blade that aims for your heart pierce mine,” he says, his voice reverent.