He wasn’t going to be found among the courtiers standing patiently, silently in front of the rows and rows of padded, marble-carved benches lining the chapel. Barely a single cough interrupted their quiet, watchful vigil, despite the fact that there had to be nearly a thousand people gathered in this remarkable place. Her stomach quaked with what her people called “clattering gears” and what she’d heard other lands refer to as “fluttering butterflies,” the unsettling side effect of sheer nervousness brought on by the weight of all those eyes.
Turning her gaze to the far end of the aisle, she realized there was one person who remained seated as he waited for her to approach, while all the rest stood, including the minstrels playing their bowed strings and soft flutes. He sat on a throne of crystal-faceted glass, clad in white robes similar to her own, though where hers were pink, his were gold, and where her sleeves reached her knees, his looked long enough to brush the floor when standing. His skin was shaded toward the darker end of the spectrum for these Aurulans, some being nearly as fair-skinned as herself, others not quite as dark as Sundarans were reputed to be.
His hair, plaited much like hers in a braid down to his waist, albeit without the flowers, was either black or dark brown; in the sunlight gleaming down through the tiled panes of the roof, it seemed to hold reddish highlights, though she couldn’t be sure. A thin mustache and goatee had been neatly shaped and trimmed, encircling his mouth in a thin, dark line. It surrounded a generous mouth that looked like it was used to smiling a lot, though only the hint of one could be seen now. As she approached the short flight of steps leading up to the dais, she could also see his eyes. His eyes ...
His eyes were
gold
. Owl gold, as bright and sharp as a pair of highly valuable coins.
Gabria stopped, unable to move a single step more. Her legs wouldn’t carry her any closer. Almost all her life, she had feared and hated the False God, loathed Him, dreaded Him, and done everything she could to avoid His unwanted gaze falling upon her. Mekha had been an abomination, an unloved God who refused to fade away, and outright refused to die, though He
had
technically been slain over two centuries before. A Netherhell demon in disguise, sucking out and stealing away the life force which powered the spells of His mages. A False God, who cared only for His own selfish needs, and nothing for His supposed people.
This
wasn’t a mere mortal man. This was the Seer King, who saw with the eyes of His God. Or rather, whose God saw with
His
eyes. The Eyes of Ruul.
Unnatural, divine eyes which were looking straight at
her
.
She almost turned and fled when he uncurled himself from his throne. His slow descent down the white-carpeted steps mesmerized her, like a mouse caught under the stare of an owl gliding over a meadow. Taller than most Guildarans, he towered over her as he reached the last step separating them. His hand lifted slowly, gracefully to her face. She shivered before he even touched her, eyes wide with fear, but his fingers were gentle. Calloused, too, slightly rough in the way that said he worked with his hands.
The feel of those calluses bemused her, paralyzing her urge to flee from the contradiction. Gods didn’t work with Their hands; They were Gods and used Their will to enact great—and sometimes terrible—deeds. Mekha’s hands were said to have been cold and clammy, the hands of a corpse dragged from its grave. This hand was warm and dry, and very much alive.
Do not fear me, Gabria
.
Her eyes widened. That ... he ... He, rather ... The voice filled her head, soft and low, but echoing as if it rumbled throughout the chapel, though she
knew
she hadn’t heard it with her ears. Nor had those full lips moved. It was all unnaturally, eerily, all in her head.
Yes, I speak to you in your mind, hearing your thoughts. All Gods have that right. It is only your fellow mortals who are forbidden. I am pleased you come before Me willingly. Afraid of what you do not yet know, nor understand ... but willingly all the same. You are what My Seer needs, the right choice for him ... and, perhaps, I choose you a little for Myself
. Those fingers curled and brushed gently against her cheek. The caress was both soothing and unnerving.
You are a beautiful woman, inside and out, and a worthy vessel.
... Vessel
? she thought, mouth too dry and throat too tight to have made an actual sound.
His mouth curved in a slow, disturbingly male smile. Disturbing, because this was still very much a God staring at her with those unnatural gold eyes.
You will be My vessel, strong and kind, bright and loving. My current Seer will fill you with untold pleasure as you fulfill the honor of becoming the mother of My next Seer King, in a line unbroken for over five hundred years.
Shock held her still. Descending that one, last step, He leaned down—still taller than her by a full head—and brushed His lips against hers. Watching her with those owl-bright eyes. Somehow, she found the strength to try to speak, though not yet the voice. He took swift advantage of her parted lips, kissing her fully. Tasting like a man, touching like a man ... feeling like anything but a man as, somehow, He kissed her mind as well as her mouth.
He pulled back after a moment, one hand still lightly cupping her cheek, the other lifting her right hand between them. This time, His voice echoed in her ears as well as her head, rolling like thunder in the distance. His lips framed each word as clearly as the windows framed the garden view, filling the glass chapel with His approval.
“I accept this woman as Bride of My Seer King. She is blessed in My Eyes. Honor her as the Princess Gabria, wife of King Devin and mother of My unbroken line. Let their union be fruitful; let them love long and full!”
The otherwise silent congregation of courtiers spoke up in near-perfect unison at that, startling her.
“As it is said, so shall it be written!”
“Thus it is proved, and so shall it be,” Ruul stated, satisfaction coloring His voice. Lifting her fingers to His lips, he kissed the ring that had materialized on her littlest finger.
I will see you soon, Gabria. Hopefully without any more fear in your heart. You are too lovely to suffer from anything.
Lowering her hand, He leaned down again, kissing Gabria fully on the lips with no teasing or hesitations this time. He also closed those unnerving eyes. A shudder passed through his frame, somehow diminishing him; he pulled back slightly after a moment, just far enough to gaze at her, their mouths not quite brushing. With brown eyes.
Normal, mortal, plebeian brown eyes. With Seer King Devin’s eyes, not Patron God Ruul’s. He studied her a moment, as if this was the first moment he was finally seeing her face, then swooped in for another kiss. It wasn’t quite as masterful, but it was quite skillful in its own way. Shaken and trembling, Gabria leaned into him. Not for enjoyment, though the kiss was disturbingly nice, the nicest one of her life so far, but for physical support as her knees threatened to give way from sheer, overwrought nerves.
By instinct, or perhaps divine guidance—an unnerving thought—he abandoned touching her cheek in favor of wrapping that arm around her waist, lifting and supporting her against his warm, strong body. His other hand came up and cradled the nape of her neck, beneath her flower-strewn braid. Turning her head slightly, he kissed his way to the soft skin just in front of her ear, and whispered into it.
“I must now introduce you to the Prime Minister and the others. Face them with courage and grace, dignity and courtesy,” he coached her under his breath. “Once their eyes have turned elsewhere, and we are alone,
then
you may react as you wish.” One last brush of his lips against the curves of her ears, tickling them in an unnerving way, and he gently turned her toward the others.
Mindful of his words, of having to make the best of this all-but-absurd situation, Gabria squared her shoulders and leveled her chin. Despite the clanking of her guts and the shivering of her knees, she reminded herself firmly that this was far, far better than, say, the old priests of the False God finding out she was a mage.
Really, by comparison, finding myself unexpectedly . . . married ... isn’t so bad. At least they don’t seem to want to hurt me, or drain away my magics. So far.
She also knew, from her modest handful of lessons in Aurulan culture and politics, that the Prime Minister was the bureaucratic power of this nation. The Seer King had the final say—or perhaps that was more Ruul having the final say—but from what she knew, his position was wrapped up in the duties of being head priest, prophet, and watchful Guardian of their nation, the spiritual head. It was the Prime Minister who oversaw the day-to-day running and practical governance of Aurul.
So he’s sort of like Marta. Appointed into the position, not born, and wielding a great deal of power and respect,
Gabria reminded herself, gathering her wits as well as her composure as the closest of the men stepped forward. He wore black robes decorated with thread-of-gold, counterpoint to the Seer King’s white, and his mustache and goatee were a full growth, rather than a neatly trimmed line. More than that, he
looked
like the man at her side. Not exactly like him, not like a twin, but quite possibly like a brother, or a cousin.
“This is Lord Daric, our Prime Minister, and elder brother,” the Seer King introduced.
Not quite ready to trust her still unsteady knees—and not inclined to bow anyway; she had played similar ranking games within the Hydraulics and Mage’s Guilds and knew she needed to establish her own position right away—Gabria managed a slow, hopefully graceful dip of her head. His mouth tightened briefly, but he returned it, placing himself as her equal.
“Next to him is Lord Zuill, Prime Mage of the kingdom.” That was an older, gray-braided gentleman in rich brown robes accented with peach and gold. The head bow he gave her in return to her nod was a little deeper than the Prime Minister’s. “Lady Lianna, Mage of the Palace ...” She bowed a little deeper still, as did the rest. Gabria listened and nodded as her erstwhile husband introduced several others, ending with the blue-robed “Milord Souder, Master of the Royal Retreat.”
Master Souder lifted his loupe-stick, eyeing her from flowered head to sueded toe. “Hm. Well. At least she cleans up well enough.” He lowered it and looked at his ruler. “She’ll need deportment lessons. She stands like a laborer.”
“I stand like an
engineer
.” The words left her, sharp and crisp, before she realized it. Not that she wanted to stop them; his attitude irked her. Gabria held the other man’s gaze firmly as he blinked, taken aback. “My education and skills are
far
superior. As for deportment lessons, I would suggest you sit in on them and listen as well. As much as I may need instruction in Aurulan manners, it is also clear that you may need a refresher in how to be civil and courteous in public.”
Souder’s brows rose, but not in affront. Instead, she had the impression she had pleased as well as startled him. Sweeping into a lower bow than the rest, he replied, “Of course, Your Highness. I apologize for any offense given by my forgetfulness.”
She confined her reply to the same slight nod as before, and figured it was best to say nothing more on the matter. At least, unless and until he snipped at her again, or waved that stereoscopic loupe-on-a-stick disdainfully in her direction. Part of her—her engineering curiosity—wanted to know about its optical properties, but the rest of her didn’t quite like the man. Yet.
But ... I do seem to be stuck here, so I
should
try to get along with everyone. I just won’t let him or anyone else—not even a God—walk all over me.
“The others,” the man at her side was saying, returning her attention to the assembled courtiers, “you will come to know as time progresses. It is time, now, for the Three Days of Grace to begin.”
As if his words were some sort of ritual statement, everyone else in the glass-walled chapel bowed, stating as a group, “As it is said, so shall it be written; thus it is proved, and so shall it be!”
They also started filing out, though many of the brightly clothed men and women kept their gaze on Gabria, studying her as they waited for their turn to walk back along the aisle and up into the palace proper. Rather than following them as she expected, Gabria found herself pulled gently to the side, led through a glass door in the wall to one side of the dais. Even though the chapel was roofed and walled in glass, the sunlight was brighter outside, and palpably hotter now that they were beyond the cooling effect of those scroll-scribed runes.
The glimmering waters of the Jenodan Sea could be seen beyond the bushes and trees, and the breeze wafting up from the south smelled of flowers, moisture, and a hint of mud. She knew from her geography studies that the great body of water wasn’t a true saltwater sea, but was instead a vast freshwater lake, dotted with islands to the south and crags to the west. Before she could dredge up the names of the other kingdoms besides Aurul that claimed portions of its shoreline, the man leading her along the stone-tiled paths of the garden stopped and faced her.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. “Uh ... yes. But what I really—”
His fingers lifted to her lips, silencing her. Those brown eyes flicked around the garden. “We are not yet alone. The nobles and the ministers still watch us. Come. A small feast has been prepared for us in the
fuchsia
pavilion.”
“The what?” Unfamiliar with the word, Gabria let herself be led along the path once more. They ascended a curving set of steps flanked by lemon-scented bushes and stepped up to a gauze-curtained, marble-carved structure. The broad roof was covered in solid, blue-glazed tiles, she noted, and the edges of the fluted roof hung with basket after basket of bright red, pale and vivid pink, and even a few purple flowers. More had been planted in large urns, and in planter boxes at the corners of the steps ringing the stone and tile pavilion. Gabria smiled at the bright colors. “Those flowers are lovely! What are they?”