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When he stood up again, the deed was done. She braced herself for a wave of regret that never came.

This is the path I’ve chosen.

She looked him over, her new prince consort. The celebrating, simpering court drowned out all sound from the high priest, who spoke words she did not need to hear. Taristan was not smiling, his lips set like a challenge. She offered no smile of her own. He returned her stare, black eyes meeting blue. He was not unfathomable. His wants were clear, his use obvious. There were things each could take from the other, in equal standing.

He is the right path.

Prevail returned to the high priest but their hands remained joined, as they would all the way back to the New Palace. His skin was hot but not uncomfortable, her palm fitting oddly well in his. Their steps matched as they turned from the altar and led the procession back out of the cathedral, the aisle carpeted in soft green. Taristan did not speak, as taciturn as he’d been in their first two meetings. Of course, the second had been under less than ideal circumstances, with only a few words passed between them at all before the feast went to ruin. And the first meeting had been closer to a military negotiation than a proposal, both sides well armored and clear in intention.

Taristan’s red wizard fell into the procession, a scarlet dot at the corner of her vision, just outside the circle of the Lionguard escort. Ronin, he was named. Spindletouched and gangly, he was ill at ease surrounded by people, and spent most days in the archives, hunting the tomes and crumbling parchments for word of Spindles long gone. He did not speak now, but his red hood was lowered, showing a white face and pink-rimmed, darting eyes. He reminded Erida of a hairless rat.

Outside, the summer heat continued to climb, and Erida was glad for the short walk back to the cool shade of her palace.

The canals echoed with the voices of Ascal. Her subjects roared their approval from seemingly every bridge and waterside street, their faces a pink-tinged sea. Erida waved and gestured for Taristan to do the same. Coaxing the love of the commons was always wise, especially when it was easy. And there was nothing the commons loved so much as a wedding, the splendor of a life they could not fathom brought close for a heartbeat. Joy, false as it might be, was difficult to resist.

Erida fed off it, the love of the people for the Queen. It was a comfort as much as a shield.While they love me, I am safe.

Taristan’s fingers flexed in hers, his grip loosening as they reached the Kingsbridge.

“Wait until we’re out of sight,” she warned. Her teeth set in an exaggerated smile. “Don’t give anyone an excuse to gossip. They’ll find enough reason without our help.”

He grimaced but tightened his grasp again. There were calluses on his palm and fingertips, patches of skin worn rough by years of swordsmanship. The touch of them shuddered her a little. Taristan of Old Cor had lived hard years, the testament of them in his skin. She tried not to imagine those hands elsewhere, as they would be later. There was no wedding without a bedding, no bond of marriage without a bond of body.A sword in the church and a sword in the sheets,as the crude saying went.

“I care little for court opinion,” he muttered, almost inaudible.

All thoughts of the bedding and his fine face snapped apart. Erida refused to roll her eyes.I’ll have a lifetime to teach him how wrong he is, but I don’t need to start this instant.

“How lovely that must be,” she said dryly.

Erida had never dreamed of her wedding, though her ladies-in-waiting had often asked. She’d made things up to satisfy them.A cathedral filled with flowers, milk-white horses, Madrentine lace, the marriage sword bright as lightning, a veil as long as a river, gifts from every monarch in every corner of the Ward.Some of those things had come to pass without much effort.

But what Erida had truly wished for on this day, not even a ruling queen could acquire. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. Neither Konrad Righand nor Alisandra Reccio had lived to see their daughter crowned or wed. She tried to feel them with her, as she’d felt the gods in the cathedral, but it was like reaching through open air. The usual emptiness remained. It was an old wound, but today it bled anew. It was difficult not to look for them, even when she knew they would not appear.

With the feasting hall in tatters, the ruins of her father’s chandeliers smashed all over the floor, the reception took place in the palace gardens, beneath hastily assembled tents, with an armada of servants waving long fans. At least a good breeze blew off the lagoon, through the only gap in the palace walls.

Their table was separate from the rest, isolating the new couple from all but each other. Even Erida’s council sat apart, arranged around a long table with Ronin glowering in their midst. She pitied Lady Harrsing, who tried in vain to engage the wizard in talk.

Erida sat, taking her hand from Taristan’s. His blood ran too hot for summer. He did not seem to mind the temperature, despite his thick red doublet and the heavy gold chain strung between his shoulders. His cheeks remained pale; there was no sweat on his brow.

A servant offered him a goblet of wine. He took it without drinking, assessing the facets of the crystal cup, letting it catch the light. Taristan of Old Cor was noble in blood but not birth. He was not accustomed to the riches of royalty, nor the expectations.

“Are you going to gawk at me all day?” he said, raising his gaze to match her stare.

She didn’t blink, unfazed by the challenge. “Where are you from?”

His answer was quick, stoic. “I am the blood of Old Cor.”

Erida resisted the urge to roll her eyes once again. Instead she pulled at her wine, using the seconds to cool her frustration. “I mean, where were youborn?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging without thought. “My parents were either dead or gone by the time I had the sense to look for them.” His fingers played over the crystal goblet, looking for flaws. “The Elders took my brother to Iona and made him there. The rest of the world made me.”

Thoughtful, Erida tried to listen between his words, to read thoughts as they raced through his mind. But his abyssal eyes were stone blank, as inscrutable as his face.

Taristan nudged the wine away. Unlike most rogues, he did not seem to have a taste for drink. “I spent my days in wandering.”

“Even as a boy?” She pictured an orphan growing up harshly, with no money and only his wits, then his fists, to rely upon.And then his blood, his great lineage, buried like a diamond waiting to be discovered.

“Corblood do not grow roots,” he said sternly. “I dislike this interrogation, Your Majesty.”