Every face turned toward her.
“Walk,” Cronus commanded.
Cleo tensed.
She had to give the rebels a chance to make their move. Because they would. They had to.
And yet, for a moment she wasn’t sure her feet would carry her. Her legs had turned to jelly. But there was nothing else she could be right now except strong. Anything she had to do to help Auranos, she’d do.
And at the moment, it was to walk and to meet her fate at the altar of this temple.
So, thinking of her father, of Emilia, of Mira and Theon, she walked.
She’d been to weddings before, and this was really no different, apart from the scale and grandeur. On her way up the aisle she saw many smiling and approving faces she recognized, marking them in her mind as friends of her father’s who now welcomed his enemy with open arms. Cowards, one and all. Anyone loyal to her father, loyal to Auranos, would not be smiling at the sight of her being forced to marry her enemy’s son.
There were also many, though, who looked stricken at the sight of her, their faces drawn and filled with sympathy. She tried very hard not to look these people in the eyes for fear they’d see her own pain.
She once had imagined marrying Theon, she remembered. In her fantasy, the temple had been filled with joy and happiness, and it was her father standing next to Theon at the front of the temple. Not the King of Blood.
Cleo didn’t spare a look at the king. She didn’t even glance at the prince, although she felt his dark eyes on her. She concentrated on the aisle only, and anyone in her peripheral vision.
Aron sat near the front, his expression difficult to read. He looked annoyed, mostly. And, as usual, drunk.
Next to Aron sat a man Cleo knew to be Prince Ashur Cortas from the Kraeshian Empire. She’d heard of his arrival for the wedding, as representative of his father, the emperor. Many whispers had traveled through the palace in the last few days about this very important guest, most from the servant girls, who were excited to be anywhere close to the famously handsome, incredibly powerful bachelor from across the sea. Perhaps he’d come here also to find a bride, some guessed. Some hoped.
So few guards in here, but so many guests—many of whose faces Cleo didn’t recognize. Friends of the king.
Enemies of Auranos.
Jonas, this is your chance. Please don’t let me down.
Finally, she was at the front standing next to the prince. His expression was dour, his gaze flat.
“And here we are,” he said to her.
She pressed her lips together, saying nothing in reply. If everything went right today, Prince Magnus would die alongside his father. He deserved to die for what he’d done to Theon.
Still, she felt a tiny pang of guilt that he would pay so dearly for his father’s more lengthy list of crimes.
He’s evil, she reminded herself. Just like his father. A single tear spilled over his mother’s death means nothing. It changes nothing!
“Let us begin,” the priest said. His dark red sash represented the blood of the Goddess Valoria and was attached to his bright red robes with two gold pins of entwined serpents. “This joining of two young people in the eternal bonds of marriage is also a symbol of the joining of Mytica as one strong and prosperous kingdom under the rule of our great and noble king, Gaius Damora. Valoria, our glorious and beloved goddess of earth and water, who generously gives us all strength, faith, and wisdom every day of our lives, also gives her blessings today on this fortuitous union.”
“Try to withhold your enthusiasm, princess,” Magnus muttered, “at least, until the end of the ceremony.”
With each word the priest spoke she’d swiftly lost her ability to keep hold of anything but a tense expression. Her hard-won strength had already begun to falter, giving way to clawing panic and legs that threatened to crumple beneath her.
“I’ll try my best,” she bit out.
The king simply watched all of this, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t tell me you’re not pleased to be here,” said the prince under his breath.
“Likely every bit as pleased as you are.”
“Join hands,” the priest instructed.
She eyed Magnus’s hand with dismay.
“Oh, come now,” he said to her. “You’re breaking my heart.”
Cleo’s jaw tightened. “Such damage would require you to be in possession of one.”
He took hold of her hand. His was dry and warm, just as she remembered it from the day they were betrothed on the balcony. He held her hand as if it was distasteful for him to touch her. It took everything inside of her not to pull away from him.
“Repeat the vows after me,” the priest said. “I, Magnus Lukas Damora, do pledge to take Cleiona Aurora Bellos as my wife and future queen. A bond that will begin this day and go forth unto eternity.”
Panic gripped her. It was much too soon for the ceremony to come to an end! Was this it?
There was a pause and a tightening of the prince’s grip on her hand. “I, Magnus Lukas Damora, do pledge to take”—he let out a breath as if fighting to continue speaking—“Cleiona Aurora Bellos as my wife and future queen. A bond that will begin this day and go forth unto eternity.”
Cleo began to tremble. Eternity. Oh goddess, please help me.
The priest nodded, dipping his hand into a bowl of fragrant oil he held before him. He dabbed a little of the liquid on Magnus’s forehead.
The priest turned to her. “Repeat after me. I, Cleiona Aurora Bellos, do pledge to take Magnus Lukas Damora as my husband and future king. A bond that will begin this day and go forth unto eternity.”