The Consort’s Curse

Prendian chivvied me out the door, briefly down a far more broad and elegant hallway, and then through another door, this one gilded and brightly painted. I recognized scenes from the Rapture of Ennolu, a text I’d copied out and illuminated at least a half-dozen times under the supervision of the abbey’s elders.

That would probably be the closest I’d get to rapture on my wedding day.

The chapel was small, but beautifully appointed, with a golden statue of Ennolu in his five-pointed regalia dominating the nave and a magnificent stained glass window behind him, a pattern of thin slate-gray and pale topaz stripes surrounding a spiraling garnet starburst.

Criss-crossing arches divided the ceiling into richly frescoed sections. If only I’d had leisurely weeks, and a ladder, and access to a good library to look up all the theological references I’d no doubt find in those works of art! By the style and wear of the inlaid stone floor, which matched the window in colors and design, this chapel had to be at least four hundred years old, dating from the palace’s first construction.

Under other circumstances, I’d have been near tears with delight at the prospect of being married here.

Under these circumstances…two men stood at the altar in front of Ennolu’s tall golden figure: the Lord Chancellor and another older man in a high-ranking temple priest’s flowing embroidered robes, with their heads together and matching frowns showing through their matching gray beards.

But where was Lord Stefan? What would happen to me and to my sister if he simply didn’t show up?

The long walk here and the state of my nerves had me sweating all over. A fresh bout of moisture stuck my breeches to the backs of my thighs, dampened my stockings, and made me uncomfortably aware that if I lifted my arms, my jacket might not be thick or dark enough to hide it.

Truly, patchy sweat stains were the only ornament I lacked to make me the least desirable bridegroom in Calatria.

Ser Prendian went to greet the Lord Chancellor and the priest, bowing and standing respectfully a few feet away. I remained where I was, but their hushed voices carried perfectly well in the echoey chapel.

“…does not arrive soon,” the priest was muttering, “I’ll have no choice but to request you send word when both parties are ready to enter into this holy communion.”

“He will be here,” the Lord Chancellor hissed. “He’s aware of the time we set!”

The priest began to remonstrate, at least insofar as anyone probably ever remonstrated with the Lord Chancellor, but his urgent whispers faded into a low susurrus. A tingling, itching sensation on the back of my neck had begun to take precedence over the prickle of perspiration. All the hair on my body rose, my scalp going hot, my breath quickening and becoming painfully shallow.

It almost felt like my curse rearing its ugly head, only…my cycle had always been regular enough that I could plan out my potion doses months in advance, like the phases of the moon. This shouldn’t be happening for another four hours.

The air closed in, my shirt collar strangling me. I’d have thought the jacket would’ve been the garment to show that kind of malice.

And then I heard the footsteps: slow, measured, almost leisurely, but firm enough that they rang out in the hallway and carried into the chapel.

Several sets of footsteps had passed the chapel while I stood here waiting for other men to decide my fate. Only these ones sounded as if they mattered.

All of us turned at once to look at the chapel door as if we’d been on a multi-stranded string: Ser Prendian, as sour as ever, the priest with a sigh, and the Lord Chancellor with a bristling air of annoyance that boded ill for whoever came through the door.

And…I knew it was Lord Stefan. With every particle of my being, somehow, I knew. This would be my first glimpse of my betrothed, the man who’d have the power to determine the whole course of my life from this moment forward. Would he have the same dominating cruelty as his father? A magnetic presence that would hold me spellbound? The way I’d reacted to his approach suggested it, and the way my magic had gone all quivery and alert, like a hunting hawk with its hood about to be slipped off.

The footsteps slowed, the door that Ser Prendian had swung mostly closed behind us was flung open.

For a moment, I simply didn’t understand what I was seeing, the contrast between the intensity of my magic’s sparking reaction to him and…everything else about him…oh, holy Ennolu.

I’d been away from society for a long time, but even I could recognize the world’s most effete, foppish, and useless dandy when he stepped into a chapel to force me to marry him.

Tall. Very tall, enough that it must have required a whole bolt of that sky-blue taffeta to make his long, elaborately embroidered coat with its wide tails—and even tall enough to carry off the style. Another half-bolt of gold satin had probably gone into his breeches to cover his incredibly long legs.

Except perhaps not, as they were skintight, making it clear that the legs were well-muscled and owed nothing to padding. He had broad shoulders. Glossy dark blond hair that framed his face elegantly, with matching stubble glinting on his firm jaw.

An air of wishing he were quite literally anywhere else in the world completed his ensemble.

He stopped just inside the doorway, propped one hand on his hip, and gave the chapel an insultingly slow survey from heavy-lidded dark eyes, much darker than I’d have expected from the color of his hair. Striking. Everything about his appearance was striking, and all in ways that unsettled me for one reason or another. Not that I needed more reasons.

“Father,” he said, without any warmth at all. Not that I’d doubted it, but this confirmation of Lord Stefan’s identity made my heart sink even lower. “Your Eminence.” His gaze passed over Ser Prendian, whom he didn’t trouble to acknowledge.

I found myself holding my breath.

And then those eyes fell on me, and the air rushed out of my lungs so suddenly it left me with spots swimming in my vision. For a long moment, he simply stared at me, expression so blank it couldn’t possibly be natural. And then he reached down into the froth of lace that spilled from the front of his coat and pulled out a long-handled gold filigree quizzing glass that hung around his neck on a ribbon, flicking it up in front of one eye with a practiced motion.

That eye, oddly magnified, blinked at me through the lens. It held the same cold indifference as its fellow.

“Good gracious gods,” he drawled, looking me up and down through the glass, straight golden eyebrows climbing. The tendons stood out in the back of his hand. He was angry, probably. Very, very angry beneath his over-well-bred nonchalance. “My dear sir, where on Ennolu’s usually bounteous Earth did you find such a…person? Surely Ennolu could have been slightly more bountiful than this, if inclined.”

Or you could have, you hateful old bastard, remained unsaid but clearly audible to all.

“Ennolu provides what is needed,” the priest put in, cracking the fraught, brittle silence. I hardly heard him over the ringing in my ears.

I’d tried to prepare myself for cruelty, threats, and domination.

Instead, it seemed Lord Stefan meant to destroy me through sheer humiliation.

A horrid thought struck me: As dreadful as it would be if he tormented me with my curse, forcing himself on me or denying me what I needed until I begged and crawled, or…or what? Perhaps luckily, I didn’t have sufficient experience and imagination to go further. But what if he really did refuse to bed me at all? Locked me up alone with no relief for my curse? They’d taken my potions away. My magic wouldn’t return unless he took me, and I’d have no defense, no way out. He could be a happy widower by morning.