If Thratia noticed the sudden lightness in his step, she gave no indication.
They reached the end of the aisle, where his auntie waited with a misty look in her eye that he tried very, very hard to ignore. The altar was a simple thing, a hip-height pillar of stone with a copper basin in its center. Knowing his auntie, it was probably the same one Detan’s parents had been married with. He hoped not. They’d been through enough trouble in their lives without him sullying their memory by dribbling Thratia’s blood into their altar. The knife that matched the set was already in his auntie’s hand.
“Thratia Ganal. Detan Honding. You have been bound by paper. Do you consent to be bound by blood?”
“We do,” they said in unison.
A quick slice on the palms, a clasping of hands above the copper bowl, and it was done. Over in a flash and the faintest of stings. The audience burst into cheers and applause.
Detan stood opposite Thratia at the altar, his bleeding hand clasped in hers, dripping a mingling of their blood into the bowl, and was stunned at how simple a thing it all was.
He had married Thratia Ganal.
Chapter Fifty-One
The marriage thus sealed, apothiks swooped down upon the couple to bandage their hands, and Ripka was astonished to see Detan not so much as blink as an apothik in a sharp white apron rushed at him.
“He has calmed,” she murmured.
Servants brought out tables and chairs for those who wanted them, and the altar was cleared away to make room for a long banquet table at which Thratia and Detan were sat, dead center, Dame Honding to Detan’s left and Aella to Thratia’s right.
Most of the guests stayed on their feet, mingling and chatting and generally trying to get as close to the couple’s table as possible. Ripka eyed those gathered with fresh insight. Their city had just been stolen out from under them, but for the higher-ups of Hond Steading, life went on. And that meant making alliances with this new couple that ruled them, slotting themselves into places of importance in whatever system would emerge in the wake of Thratia’s takeover.
And everyone knew this was Thratia’s city now, not Detan’s. The amount of people trying to get close to her while ignoring their blooded lord’s existence bordered on pathetic. Hond Steading fancied itself the most future-looking city on the Scorched, but its people were still born of the homesteading tradition. These were hard people, and they would do what needed to be done to survive. Ripka only hoped that translated into fighting for their future, if the opportunity would arrive.
“Bunch of vultures,” Enard whispered as he sidled up to her.
“They’re scared,” she said, shrugging.
“Cowards, then.”
“Can’t argue that.”
A young man in a very sharp blue suit stepped in front of Honey. “Good evening, my dear. I fear we have not yet met. You are…?” He extended a hand to her, eyes wide with question. Honey pursed her lips and stared at his hand like she’d never seen one before. His eyebrows drooped. “Ah, do you not speak Valathean?”
Honey turned to Ripka. “I don’t like him.”
Enard chuckled into his drink. Ripka grimaced and inserted herself between the two, nudging Honey gently behind her. Curse Latia for doing too fine a job making Honey distractingly beautiful.
“She doesn’t take well to strangers,” Ripka explained, hoping her apologetic smile might soothe whatever wounds the man’s ego had taken.
“I see. And how would one get to know her?”
Enard stepped forward then, his voice low, but polite. “Not happening, friend.”
The man huffed and stomped away. Ripka let out a breath and gave Honey a side-eye. “Well done,” she drawled.
Honey brightened. “Thank you.”
Enard took one look at Ripka’s exasperated expression and almost choked on his next drink. His amusement lifted her spirits, and she caught herself grinning into her own glass. That crinkle around the corner of his eye, the little way he smiled – just tight enough not to be noticed unless one were really looking. Skies. Everything about Enard calmed her.
“Enjoying the festivities?”
Ripka turned to find Nouli Bern behind her. Someone from the palace had fetched him appropriate clothes for the evening, and, all cleaned up in his fresh suit with straightened glasses, he almost looked like a well man.
“Nouli–” she bit back an apology. After the Dame had thrown her out of the palace, she hadn’t even thought of the man she’d risked so much to steal from the empire. She’d left him here to stew, to prepare for a war she hoped they wouldn’t have to fight, without so much as a word. And yet, he looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. Her brow furrowed.
“Whatever you’re going to say, my dear, it’s quite all right.” He drew a hand through his hair, messing up the careful style a servant had no doubt worked hard to achieve. There was a glint in his eye, a sly amusement that she wasn’t quite sure she could trust. “I was hoping to see you here, in fact, so that I could thank you.”
“Thank me?” Enard slipped up alongside her, hands easy at his sides, his glass dangling from his fingertips should he have to move in a hurry. If Nouli noticed the implicit threat in his posture, he said nothing about it. He smiled and tipped his head to Enard like he were an old friend.
“For the introduction to Pelkaia Teria. Fascinating woman. We had much to discuss. Information that proved very fruitful for my particular needs.” He held his glass out to her, and she brought hers up hesitantly to clink them together. His grin was a wolfish thing, taking over his whole face. “I’m leaving Hond Steading tonight, I’m afraid, to continue my research elsewhere.”
“You’re well?” she asked, breathless with surprise.
“On my way to it.” He leaned forward, squeezed her shoulder in his hand, and spoke softly so that only she and Enard could hear. “My parting gift to you, my dear: mind the sweet stuff.”
He flicked his head toward Detan, who had his head together with Gatai, the keymaster of the palace, whispering. Ripka frowned, not understanding, but before she could muster up a question he winked at her and slipped away into the crowd.
“What in the pits did he mean by that?” Enard asked.
Honey said, “Watch.”
Ripka had seen it, too. Gatai nodded, solemnly, and passed on whatever Detan had told him to another servant. And another. The information spread between them, each pausing to tap another on the elbow and whisper something – lightning quick. Ripka cast around for a nearby servant, hoping to eavesdrop, but the information had already finished spreading
New bottles appeared on their trays, deep green and hauntingly familiar. They circled the guests, handing out drinks when asked, but pressed the militiamen to join in the celebrations with a sip or two. Ripka hadn’t met a guard yet who’d turn down a free drink at a party.
Detan clapped, a whip-crack above the polite murmuring of the crowd. All heads turned to the bridal table. He stood, bowed elaborately to Thratia, then motioned for Gatai to step forward. The man had his own tray now, one of the green bottles and a glass the only items on it.