The grand pavilion looked even grander in the light of dozens of lanterns, whose golden light reflected off the black pillars surrounding it to reveal specks of glittering mica that hadn’t been visible the first time Fiona had been there. The overgrown garden, by contrast, was virtually invisible in the darkness. The golden flowers were indistinct, no more than dim, fuzzy spots of paleness against the dark vines and leaves. Fiona looked up at the evening sky, bright with stars as if heaven knew how momentous this evening was. Or maybe it was just luck. Either way, the night was beautiful, and the assembled people were silent, as if speech would ruin the beauty.
Beside her, Sebastian stood still enough that he might have been a statue, once again clad in his archaic Tremontanan costume as she was. The gold satin gleamed like a living thing, warm and vibrant, and she thought about taking his arm and decided that was a terrible idea. Directly across from them Stannin stood, for once not looking about him with a puppyish eagerness. His eye fell on Fiona, making her feel embarrassed about having been staring at him.
Stannin looked from Fiona to Sebastian and back again. A frown wrinkled his forehead briefly. Then he smiled and tilted his head in Sebastian’s direction, raising his eyebrows slightly. It was so clear an indication that he felt she should take Sebastian’s hand that she did so without thinking. Sebastian, startled, glanced her way, then looked down at their joined hands. Fiona blushed, but didn’t let go. It might be wrong, it might even be cruel, but she was about to lose him forever and her heart didn’t give a damn about the consequences.
Sebastian smiled. His hand closed over hers more firmly. He said nothing, merely went back to watching the crowds, and for a moment the ache that had gripped Fiona all day retreated. When it returned, it was bearable, something she could ignore, and she was grateful for the touch of Sebastian’s hand.
The gong at the far end of the pavilion sounded, and Fiona turned to watch the gauzy curtains pulled back. The Queen of Veribold, Ibarhe, stood framed by the curtains, this time clad in a long white robe whose hem trailed several inches behind her. She wore a toan jade around her neck, but this one had its edges gilded so it shone in the lamplight. Fiona bowed, mimicking Sebastian, as the Veriboldans all sank to their knees in respect. Ibarhe paused a little longer, then strode across the pavilion to stand in front of the gong. “Rise,” she said, and the Veriboldans stood.
“My time is over, and a new beginning rises,” she said in a voice that carried the length and breadth of the pavilion. “You who would be One among Many, come forward.”
The curtains parted again, and three figures clad in white robes like Ibarhe’s entered, side by side as they had done the first day and not single file like that morning. Alazne, Bixhor, and Luken walked forward until they stood at the center of the pavilion. There was no sign that Gizane had ever been meant to take part in this ceremony. Fiona shivered, feeling superstitiously as if Gizane had already been erased from Veriboldan memory. Maybe she had. Fiona didn’t know how soon the sentence of execution for theft of the Jaoine Stones had to be carried out. She was just as happy not knowing.
Ibarhe regarded the three dispassionately. It made Fiona wonder if she had a favorite candidate. Surely the ruling Queen had some opinion on who a worthy successor should be.
“The challenges are over,” Ibarhe said. “One has proven worthy above all others, worthy to rule Our Lady Veribold.” She paused, Fiona thought for dramatic effect, and said, “Bixhor of the Triminon, step forward.”
The hulking Bixhor walked across the pavilion to kneel before Ibarhe, his arms slightly akimbo as if he wanted to wrestle her. Ibarhe said, “Do you swear to give the next seven years of your life in service to your country, to defend her against all comers, and to prove every day your worthiness to rule?”
“I so swear,” Bixhor said. Fiona had never heard him speak before and was astonished at how beautiful his voice was.
Movement caught her eye, and she turned to see two rows of Irantzen priestesses enter the pavilion, led by Hien. Hien walked forward until she was standing behind Bixhor, and the two priestesses at the head of the lines came to stand immediately behind and to either side of her. One bore a brass bowl wider than her arms were long, the other a length of undyed linen cloth.
From his position, Bixhor couldn’t see Hien, but when she held out her hands, he took off his robe and held it up for her to take. Beneath the robe he wore a plain white singlet, and his body was as muscular as Fiona had imagined. Hien handed the robe to the priestess who held the cloth and accepted the cloth from her in exchange.
“Bixhor of the Triminon,” Hien said, “we name you King of Veribold and wash you clean of your mortal concerns, that you may accept the burdens of the country without prior obligations.” The other priestess came forward and tipped the brass bowl over Bixhor’s head. Water poured out in a thin stream, cascading over his dark hair to spill across his face and shoulders and back. Bixhor stared straight ahead without flinching. When the bowl was empty, the priestess stepped back, and Hien draped the linen cloth around Bixhor’s shoulders in a gesture like robing a king.
“Wash away your family commitments. Wash away the ties of blood. Wash away old promises,” Hien said. Bixhor took the cloth from around his neck and wiped the water from his face and arms. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, and Fiona felt certain they were ritual. When he was finished, Hien accepted the cloth from him and traded it to the priestess for the robe, which she settled around his shoulders.
“For seven years you are no more Bixhor of the Triminon but Bixhor, King of Veribold,” Hien said. She nodded to Ibarhe, who removed the toan jade from around her neck and placed it around Bixhor’s. A sighing sound rose up from the audience as every Veriboldan once more went to their knees, making their silken robes whisper in quiet tribute. Fiona bowed as Sebastian was doing.
Bixhor stood and turned to face the audience. “I will serve Our Lady Veribold with knowledge, wisdom, cunning, charisma, and faith,” he said in that beautiful voice. “We are one.”
“We are one,” the assembled Veriboldans said.
“Rise, and depart with my blessing,” Bixhor said.
The Veriboldans stood raggedly, some more agile than others, and made their way through the entrance to the grand reception chamber. Fiona and Sebastian, at the back of the crowd, hung back. Fiona cast a glance at Hien, who was speaking to the new King as Ibarhe listened in. The mystique was gone; the three Veriboldans looked like ordinary people having a chat after some musical performance. Hien looked away and saw Fiona watching. The corners of her mouth twitched, and she nodded, the barest of movements. Fiona nodded back. It was the perfect farewell.
“And so it is over,” Dekerian Nikani said, drawing Fiona’s attention. Nikani and Salena had also hung back, though Morten and Venelda were already gone. “It was intriguing. Though I think we will not choose to return for the next Election. I am not fond of being an outsider. What do you think, your Highness?”
“I suppose it will be up to Mother who she sends,” Sebastian said. His hand closed more tightly on Fiona’s. “But I think not. I’m going to recommend she send someone who speaks Veriboldan.”
“Ah, but you have such a lovely translator,” Salena said with a smile. “I understand, though. It is hard being at a disadvantage.”
“Exactly,” Sebastian said. He let go of Fiona to offer his hand to Nikani, then Salena. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Fiona, too, shook hands, then was startled by Stannin’s booming voice, saying, “Is good to here come again. Next we speak Veribold, yes?” He slapped Sebastian on the shoulder, making him stagger. “You husband, he good. Much love,” he added with a grin at Fiona. Fiona blushed.
“What did he say?” Sebastian asked, rubbing his shoulder.
“That next time, you’ll both speak Veriboldan,” Fiona said. “And that you’re a good man.”
“If that’s how he shows approval, I’m glad he’s not my enemy,” Sebastian said.
They walked with the other envoys to the outer doors, where they separated to return to their respective lodgings. Fiona had no idea where the others were staying. It made her wonder what Stannin, at home on the windy Eidestal and presumably unfamiliar with a permanent home, thought of Veribold’s hospitality. What a story he’d have to tell the kinship.
Sebastian hadn’t taken her hand again after shaking Nikani’s, and Fiona’s hand felt unnaturally cold. It was a bad idea, anyway. She needed to disentangle herself from Sebastian if she wanted to build a new life.
They rode through the streets in silence until they reached the embassy, where Sebastian helped her out of the carriage. “We don’t have to leave early,” he said. “There’s a lot of packing to do, and I was thinking we might go into the city while they’re doing that. We could find you lodgings then.”
“All right,” Fiona said, wishing the ache in her chest hadn’t just become a stone in her stomach. “Thank you.”
Sebastian nodded. He didn’t offer her his arm.
The two of them walked side by side into the embassy, which was quiet and dark except for a few lights shining from beneath doors. It felt to Fiona as if they were miles apart instead of close enough to touch. She went over things she might say and came up blank. But there really wasn’t anything to say, was there?
Sebastian held the door to their suite for her, standing close enough that her wide skirts brushed his legs, then closed the door and stood there with his hand on the knob. He didn’t turn the lights on. “Good night, then,” he said.
“I have to call Georgette,” she said. “I can’t get out of this gown without help.”
“That seems like a design flaw.”
It was a joke, but she felt like crying instead. “I don’t know why Willow North ever put up with it.”
“I don’t imagine she did for long.” Sebastian straightened and crossed the room to his bedroom door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She heard the click of the latch. “Sebastian, wait,” she said, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them.
He turned. “Yes?”
She could barely see him in the dimness, as if he were already gone, and the ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her. “I don’t,” she said, and made herself stop. There was nothing she could do.
Unless there was.
“Don’t go,” she said. “Please.”
Sebastian drew in a sharp breath. “Fiona. We can’t. Please don’t make this harder.”
She shook her head. “I was married for ten years. For seven of those, I was miserable. I never thought—I love you, Sebastian. And now we’re going to leave each other, and I’ll never see you again, and it hurts so much it’s like being poisoned all over again, except it’s a poison I chose for myself. I don’t want you to go. I don’t care if it means I have to be mocked and ridiculed by every well-born man and woman in Tremontane. I want you. I always have.”
Sebastian didn’t move, didn’t speak. Fiona drew in a ragged breath and wiped away her tears. Finally, Sebastian said, “It won’t work, Fiona. You said it—love isn’t enough to build a marriage on. You’d end up hating and resenting me, and I can’t bear that. I love you, and I can’t do that to you.”
The tears fell more heavily now, choking her. “This is ridiculous,” she cried. “We love each other. Why can’t that be enough?”
Sebastian took a few steps toward her and took her hand. “I don’t know,” he said, and pulled her into his embrace. She clung to him, crying as if her heart were broken even as his touch soothed her. A fragment of a memory surfaced, of him looking at her wide-eyed in that frigid barn, and it stunned her that she hadn’t known then what he would eventually mean to her. She loved him. She didn’t want to lose him. There had to be a way.
“I wish you weren’t a prince,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Just the two of us, living in Veribold…we could have an import business, dealing in Devices…”
“That’s appealing,” Sebastian said. He stroked her hair, and she snuggled in closer, not caring that it would only make the pain worse when he let her go. “No fancy balls, no awkward dinners with my family, no being snubbed by people with more money than sense…”
His arms went rigid. Fiona lifted her head. She could see him clearly, and he was looking off toward the door. She turned awkwardly in his embrace, but saw nothing. “Is something wrong?” Other than the obvious.
“Fiona,” Sebastian said, his voice distant. “Fiona, what if we didn’t have to be part of Tremontanan high society? That’s your objection, right?”
Her heart lurched again. “But that…Sebastian, you’re a prince. You can’t avoid that.”
“I can if we’re living in Veribold.”
She buried her face in his shoulder again and wished he wouldn’t taunt her. “That was just an idle dream.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Not if I’m the ambassador to Veribold.”
That startled her into looking at him again. This time, his eyes were on her, and he was smiling. “You can’t,” she said faintly.
“I’ve done enough to save my family that I think I can demand any reward I want from my mother. Think of it, Fiona. We’ll live here, away from the court—you already know as much as I do about Veriboldan culture, maybe more—”
“But I still know nothing about high society. I’d make you look like a fool.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Noble Veriboldans don’t give a damn about other countries’ customs or noble ranks. They’ll treat you exactly the same as they treat me, with a veneer of politeness over thinly veiled contempt. Fiona—”
“Wait. Just…let me think.” The idea had already caught hold of her. Ambassador to Veribold, away from the court and Sebastian’s poisonous mother—except… “You don’t speak Veriboldan.”
“Fiona, my love, no man in the history of the world has ever had so much incentive to learn to speak Veriboldan.” He gripped her shoulders. “It’s the perfect solution.”
She stared at him, at his eyes alight with excitement, and ran over his words in her head, examining them for flaws. Hope threaded its way into her heart, sending out tendrils like a fast-growing vine until she once more felt light enough to fly. “Sebastian,” she said, but got no further because his lips were on hers and they were kissing like they’d never have the chance again.
He put his hands low on her hips and pulled her closer as her arms went around his neck, doing the same. The touch of his hands, the feel of his body against hers, filled her with such joy it burned. He let go of her long enough to wrestle his satin coat off and fling it away into the darkness. “Forget about Georgette,” he said in a low voice. “Let me help you out of that dress.”
She laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to laugh about. “We can’t,” she said. “We’re not married.”
“Everyone in Veribold thinks we are,” Sebastian said. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, kissing his way along the curve of her cheek and back to her lips. “We shouldn’t disappoint them.”
It was tempting, but after her experiences in the Irantzen temple, Fiona didn’t want to disregard her religious values so completely. “We can wait,” she said, withdrawing from him just a little.
Sebastian scowled, but his eyes were alight with mirth, relieving Fiona’s heart. “We can wait until morning,” he said, “at which point we will take Ambassador Emory aside, tell her the truth about our non-marriage, and get her to witness our vows.”
That solution hadn’t occurred to Fiona. “And tell her her tenure here will be up sooner than she thought. I don’t think she’ll be disappointed.”
“I think I should receive some reward for having the restraint to not pull the ambassador out of her bed right now,” Sebastian said with a smile.
Fiona linked her fingers behind his neck and returned his smile. “Tomorrow,” she said. “This will have to do for now,” and she pulled him close for a kiss.