But no one came.
The bells began to chime, a signal for the start of the ceremonial march, and I debated leaving my room and descending the stairs on my own, impatient that I must always wait for men. I imagined myself beginning the slow walk to the cathedral through the gathering crowd without following the proper protocols. But ceremony was everything to Jeruvians, and I dismissed the thought immediately. Something was amiss.
Then the whispers began, floating up from the streets below through my balcony doors. I cursed the ability that drew the conversations to my consciousness, as if the words belonged to me. They swarmed my tower room and stung me like angry hornets.
There is not going to be a wedding.
The king has changed his mind.
Her father objects.
Lady Ariel from Firi should be queen. She is the most beautiful woman in all of Jeru.
The Lady from Corvyn doesn’t even speak.
She’s a mute, poor thing.
The king is missing . . . again.
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. The talk was incessant and painful. I shut the balcony doors and opened a book, replacing the gossip that whirred in my brain with something of my choosing, but I couldn’t concentrate, and I was suddenly afraid. I heard boots in the hallway, and Kjell rapped on the door before entering alone.
He was decked out in his finest, his boots gleaming, his hair slicked back from his handsome face, but he looked especially grim.
“I can’t find Tiras, Lady Corvyn.”
I set my book aside and rose with as much calm as I could muster, and I stated the obvious.
He couldn’t change.
He grimaced. He didn’t like that I knew the truth, yet his relief warred with his fear. He’d borne the brunt of the king’s secret for a very long time.
“I believe that is what has happened,” he agreed softly.
Have you seen him?
His gaze lifted, and I knew he understood. I was asking if he’d seen the eagle.
“No.”
It is not against Jeruvian law to kill such a bird. What if something happened to him?
Kjell swore and stomped to the balcony, flinging the doors wide as if begging Tiras to fly through.
“Can you call to him? The way you did to the Volgar?”
I was stunned that he knew and wondered how many of Tiras’s warriors had heard me beckon the enemy in Kilmorda.
He is more man than an animal. The Volgar are simple. Tiras is not.
“He is not simple. But he is a bird as often as he is a man. Maybe more often,” he murmured, and my heart grew heavier in my chest.
I walked to the open doors and raised my face to the sky. Then I closed my eyes and thought of the white-capped bird with the sooty black feathers. I saw the span of his wings with the fiery red tips, unlike any bird I’d ever seen, and I asked those wings to bring him to me.
I concentrated on the word he’d given me when I’d followed him from branch to branch, wall to wall, as we walked through the night to the cottage in the woods. Home, he’d said. Home.
Come home, Tiras, I urged. Come home.
But I felt nothing. No tendrils of connection, no whisper in the wind, no heartbeat. No warmth. The sun was beginning to sink toward the western hills, and wherever Tiras was, he was not within my reach.
I cannot feel him. If he is close by, he is not a bird.
Kjell swore, stepping back from the balcony doors and drawing me with him.
“The lords are insisting that the procession begin.”
They know the king is unaccounted for?
“Yes. And they want to publicly humiliate him.”
And me.
“They don’t care about you, Milady.”
Of course not.
“Their goal is to take down the king, by whatever means necessary, and tradition dictates that you must walk in order to be queen.”
I don’t understand.
“The bans have been read. The date set. The bells have tolled, the hour has come. You are to walk, before sunset, through the crowds and kneel at the altar in the cathedral and wait. If the king does not arrive, you will not be queen. Ever. It is a public statement that the king has . . . changed his mind.”
And if I don’t walk?
“It is an open declaration that you are refusing the king and his kingdom. The result is the same. You will never be queen.”
But I will have some dignity.
“Yes.” His mouth tightened. “And the king will be publicly rejected. This is what the council is hoping you will do.”
My father will retain his position.
“Tiras will be shamed. You will never be queen, and therefore, your father is still next in line for the throne. Brilliant, really.”
Frustration and futility beaded on his skin. The room was warm, and Kjell’s tension made it warmer.
“What do you want to do, Lark?”
It was the first time Kjell had addressed me by my name, and the quiet desperation in his voice eased my own disquiet. He was asking me to make the decision.
I will walk. And I will wait at the altar.
“And if Tiras doesn’t come?”
Then I will walk back.
His lips twitched at my simple response, and he relaxed into a deep breath.
“So be it,” he agreed, bowing slightly. He held out his arm, and I took it, and together we made our descent.
At the castle gates we were greeted by members of the Council of Lords who were assembled to give their blessing before they began the procession. They’d come to Jeru City days before, bearing gifts and proper congratulations, but beneath the shiny veneer I felt the intrigue and collusions, the words they said to each other and sought to keep from the king.
My father immediately stepped forward and held out his bejeweled hand. Kjell bowed and stepped back, his eyes immediately scanning the skies.