All in all, Ripka’d much rather be wearing her street clothes and staying close to the brigade. But Detan had sent those invitation blanks for a reason, and she wasn’t about to let Enard and Tibal walk in there without her.
“Dranik,” she said. The young man snapped to attention. He’d really bent himself to the task in the last week, and had earned himself a position at the top of the pack. “Keep our people distributed evenly, no clumping until trouble spots can be identified. Use your whistles to communicate, as we taught you. No weapons unless you receive the signal from the palace. Keep yourselves hidden, and safe.”
“Yes, Captain.” His salute was a mess, but well-meaning, so she let it slide with a smile.
“Now,” she said, “let’s go crash this party.”
Carriages clogged the streets of Hond Steading, all the well-to-do of the city coming out to be seen, but not get their feet dusty. They skirted the crowded streets, and Ripka wondered if her invitation was the only one growing a bit damp in a sweaty palm. It was one thing to break into a large celebration like this. It was quite another to do so when many of the attendees were very likely to recognize you. They’d done their best to obscure their features with carefully applied makeup and different hairstyles, but there was only so much they could do to hide their faces – without Pelkaia’s tricks, anyway. Too bad Detan hadn’t thought to demand his wedding be a masquerade.
The palace’s great doors had been thrown wide, a contingent of black-clad guards lining the flower-strewn steps to check for invitations and weapons. Ripka squinted against the sun, and her heart beat a little faster. They weren’t all Honding guards. Many wore the grey coats of Thratia’s personal militia, the same damned uniform she’d seen flood the streets the night she took Aransa.
Enard squeezed her hand, just for a moment, and she breathed a little easier. They were prepared. They could do this.
They mounted the steps as a group, Ripka at the head, Tibal trailing in the rear as he was most likely to be recognized – even without the hat. Honey stuck close by Ripka, her over-the-top outfit and beauty doing a whole lot of good to keep the guards from looking too closely at anyone else. It worked. Their invitations were checked, the corners clipped, and they were in.
Ripka gasped. The grand hall of the palace, where all the people of the city were welcome to visit at any time for refuge, had been transformed into a glimmering garden of light and flowers. How the Dame had mustered all this up on such short notice, Ripka had no idea. But the walls were festooned in garlands of flowers, the ceiling a waterfall of lanterns made of glass in all possible colors. The Dame might not be pleased about the match her nephew had made, but she wasn’t going to let that keep her from sending him to his nuptials in Honding style.
The hall was packed, but not quite as packed as she would have liked it. Servants moved among them, deftly presenting trays of drink and small bites to the guests as they waited for the couple’s arrival. The contract, she knew, by tradition would be signed before the ceremony even began. The moment Detan stepped into this hall, he would already be legally bound to Thratia. The binding of hands before those gathered was only a formality, a way to publicly display their intentions. Marriage contracts were meant to be a private, intimate affair. Just one more thing perverted by Thratia’s aspirations.
A servant swooped down upon her and she took a glass of something red and citrusy, even though her stomach ached at the thought of what Thratia was putting Detan through. A guest refusing refreshment would be remarked upon.
They spread out a little, though Honey stuck close to Ripka’s side. The crowd was thickening as the day grew late, morning marching steadily toward midday, when the couple would make their appearance. No one recognized her, and so no one tried to make small talk. She was an unimportant fish in a very, very big social pond. She kept herself busy checking exits, bottlenecks. At the end of the hall the guests clumped up, getting as close to the ceremonial altar as possible. She’d want to stick to the edge, toward the back, to best be able to maneuver through the crowd, but still be close enough to the center aisle that Detan could spot her when he entered. If she and Honey pressed just a little further to the right…
A hand fell on her shoulder.
Dame Honding stood behind her, resplendent in teal and navy blue silk piped with her family’s black. Ripka swallowed, forced a small smile, opened her mouth to say something, anything, but found no words. She braced herself for the guards to be called.
The Dame winked, nodded once, and disappeared back into the crowd.
Ripka’s knees were jellied.
A lilting harp took up a slow waltz, and the couple entered.
Chapter Fifty
The weird thing was, Thratia didn’t even try to slip anything untoward into the marriage contract. The wording was as straightforward as you could get – the usual bindings of house and fortune, the special paragraphs detailing the split rule of Hond Steading, and how the last word ultimately fell to the blooded heir – Detan himself.
He thought it strange, until he realized the actual wording was pointless. The whole thing was a farce, anyway. She’d label him dangerous or mentally unstable – or both – first chance she got and ship him off for Aella to play with. Or worse, Ranalae. He really didn’t like the way Thratia was looking at him after his slip with the firemount. Like he was a wildfire that needed to be snuffed, and fast.
The marching music, as he thought of it, struck up, and he was proud of himself for not trembling as he took Thratia’s arm in his. Thratia wore flame red, her hair piled with vicious pins, and she’d gone ahead and stuck him in the same charcoal-and-ember style she’d filled his wardrobe with, if cut a little tighter and a little fancier for the occasion. Maybe she didn’t much like the truth about his power, but she was willing to flaunt it, for now. He thought he looked ridiculous, but then he figured even at a normal wedding the groom wouldn’t have much say in his attire.
Servants pulled the doors. They stepped into the hall. Detan’s breath caught as he took in what his auntie had done for this day, for him. She didn’t know his plans. Didn’t know that he still held out hope that he’d figure out a way to wriggle free of Thratia’s stranglehold. All she knew was her nephew was getting married, and to the pits with the reasons or the bride. She’d decorated the hall like she meant it and, in her own strange way, he knew she was telling him she loved him. Maybe even that she was sorry.
The long aisle to the altar was as red as Thratia’s dress, making her seem omnipresent, somehow. As if she could reach out and control the whole of the room with only a thought. Detan put a little saunter into his walk, because why the pits not, it was his wedding, after all, and escorted his evil little bride down the aisle with the fakest grin he’d ever mustered in his life.
The crowd was silent, polite, whispering behind their hands if they talked at all. All eyes were on him, on Thratia, and there was a tension in the room – a thickness that crawled over his skin.
He found the source in the little grey dots breaking up the guests, members of Thratia’s militia in their uniform best, but their uniforms all the same. No doubt the only people allowed weapons in the entire building tonight. Aside from Detan himself, anyway. He could never truly be denied his power. Not now that he knew the injections did not work on Aella.
Halfway down the aisle, he almost tripped.
Ripka. Ripka and that blonde-haired woman he’d last seen her with at the Remnant were in the crowd. She stood a little ways back from the aisle, angled so that he could see her, but otherwise making herself inconspicuous. She’d done a bit of fancy work with her makeup and hair, but he’d know her anywhere. Could see in the set of her shoulders, the slight wrinkle around her eyes, that she was up to something. Planning, preparing. For what, he hadn’t a clue. But if Ripka was here, his other friends might be, too. He glanced away to avoid Thratia following his eye, and scanned the crowd quickly. No sign of Tibs or New Chum that he could see, but that didn’t mean they were absent.