Sasha’s hair was uncovered, spilling in endless curls, an eruption of fire. She wore a dress of pale gold that moved with her body and accented her skin, and Kjell knew the queen had played a part in procuring the gown. Lark didn’t wear gold—it would have looked odd with her silvery eyes and ash-brown hair, her spiked crown, and her tiny, bird-like figure—but the precious metal suited Sasha perfectly. The queen wore midnight blue, and together the women were fire and ice, sunlight and moonshine, and Tiras laughed at Kjell when his steps faltered upon entering the ballroom.
It was a masquerade, an ancient Jeruvian tradition, where a man would remove the mask of his betrothed, revealing her identity, and claiming her. With the unveiling, the announcement would be made, both to those in attendance at the masquerade and also to those outside the walls. Tiras had made it a royal event—demanded it even—and the hall dripped with candlelight and spun with color, the masked ladies and well-groomed men filling every nook and crowding every cranny, celebrating the engagement of the king’s brother.
“The mask does little good when you wear a crown,” Tiras observed, his eyes on his small wife, her bejeweled mask more a decoration than a disguise.
“Or when your hair is the color of fall leaves,” Kjell added, unable to look away from the fiery tresses and the smiling mouth of his intended.
Tiras snorted, his hand moving to his older brother’s shoulder and squeezing gently.
“You are a poet, Kjell,” Tiras grinned.
“No. I have just lost all desire to pretend,” he confessed.
“The announcement will be made, and tonight the royal crier will read the bans from the tower wall,” Tiras said, “and you won’t be able to turn back.”
“I don’t want to,” Kjell replied. “But I do wish we could quietly make our vows and be done with it. We are not royalty. We do not want or need the traditional service or the pomp and circumstance that goes with it.”
“You are my brother and the captain of the King’s Guard, and she is Lady Kilmorda. You will not skulk or hasten the arrangement. It is another victory for Jeru that an heir of Kilmorda has been found and mighty Kjell has been tamed,” Tiras teased.
Kjell endured his brother’s banter and accepted his duty without further argument. If the king insisted on ceremony, he would conform, but the Jeruvian marriage rites would change nothing. He had already pledged himself.
Tiras wasted no time. The announcement was made at sunset. Bells rang from one end of Jeru City to the other, and the royal crier stood on the wall and read the bans over and over again, repeating himself as subjects gathered and listened, then ran to share, eager to spread the news.
“Kjell of Jeru, captain of the King’s Guard, son of the late Zoltev, and brother of the noble King Tiras, will wed Lady Sasha of Kilmorda, daughter of the late Lord Pierce and the late Lady Sareca, may the Creator keep their souls. So it is written, so it will be done on the fourth day of Antipas, the month of constancy. May the God of Words and Creation seal their union for the good of Jeru,” the crier announced, shouting the words into the setting sun and flinging them at the stars.
In response, the cry went up again and again, “Hail, Kjell of Jeru, brother of the king. Hail Lady Sasha, daughter of Kilmorda.”
The dancing began as the bells ceased ringing, and Kjell endured that too. He played his part and knew the steps, treating it like swordplay, just to get through the sequences duty demanded. Sasha was drawn into one dance after the other, and she stumbled a bit, twirled a little too often and too early, but caught on quickly. Before long she was swaying in time, weaving through the lines, making him forget he hated dancing. She was a golden candlestick, slightly taller than the other women, and he was drawn to her light, again and again. When they were apart, she watched him as he watched her, unable to look away.
When the evening waned and the tower bells tolled midnight, he joined his brother and his queen on the dais, Sasha at his side, and bowed his farewell to the departing guests. As the last of the attendees made their way past the dais and exited the great hall, Jerick entered quickly through the king’s private entrance and approached Tiras, bowing deeply and apologizing profusely.
“Majesty, forgive me. There is a visitor at the drawbridge. He seeks entry.”
“What is his business?” Tiras sighed, clearly ready for the night to end. The clock had struck, the dancing was done, and the celebration had all but concluded. Only a few drunken noblemen, the musicians, and the king’s staff remained. Sasha yawned deeply and tried to disguise it, and the queen’s crown was slightly askew.
“He insists he knows the lady from Kilmorda,” Jerick explained, apologetic, his eyes glancing off Kjell and Sasha before returning to the king. “I would have sent him away and made him return on the morrow, but the captain has had us looking for this man.”
Kjell’s heart momentarily lost its rhythm and Sasha straightened beside him. Tiras raised his brows in question, but when Kjell affirmed the claim with a brisk nod, Tiras consented to give the man a hearing.
Moments later, Jerick and another guard returned, accompanied by a shrouded visitor. They stopped ten feet in front of the throne, as tradition demanded, and commanded the man to state his name.
“King Tiras, Queen Lark,” the visitor intoned, his voice low and unremarkable. “I am Padrigus of Dendar. Thank you for receiving me at this hour.”
“Bring him closer,” Tiras said to the guards, inclining his head. “Then leave us and remain outside the doors.”
Kjell appreciated the king’s request. If this was a man who knew Sasha, who bore knowledge of her past, Kjell did not want an audience listening in, not even one comprised of men he would trust with his life. The two guards escorted the man forward and, releasing him, withdrew from the hall. When the great doors closed, Kjell stepped down from the dais and stopped directly in front of the man.
“You are the man we saw in the street the day we arrived in Jeru,” Kjell said, not interested in pleasantries with a stranger. The man had removed his beard, greatly altering his appearance, but Kjell recognized the slope of his shoulders and the slant of his head. He was gaunt and stooped as if he’d grown accustomed to carrying a great weight upon his back, and just like the day in the street, he wore robes instead of a tunic and breeches, the wide cowl making him look like a prophet instead of a pauper. When he pushed it back, revealing his face, Sasha gasped.
“Padrig?” Sasha cried, taking a step forward and extending a hand to the old man. Kjell stepped in front of her, barring her path.
“You know him,” Kjell asserted. It wasn’t a question but a statement. She clearly recognized the man.
“Yes.” Sasha nodded emphatically. “He is the man who helped me. He walked with me from Kilmorda to Firi,” she exclaimed, her eyes shining with recognition.
“Milady, I’ve been looking for you for so long,” Padrig whispered. His legs buckled, as though the burden on his shoulders had suddenly been lifted and he’d lost his balance. He was old, but his age was more worry than years, more grey hair than deep lines. Kjell moved to help him stand, and the man gripped his arms to steady himself.
“Why have you just come forward? We have been in Jeru City for a fortnight. My men searched for you, but you had fled,” Kjell demanded.