Two

In which Daystar gets married, Emberlace gets a fabulous new dress, and all the noblewomen in the court are disappointed (except maybe one or two).

The throne room of Ebon Reach was built to intimidate. Massive ivory pillars inlaid with gold reached for an impossibly high ceiling, shrinking all those who stood beside them. Lights hung down the center of the long hall where the nobles gathered below the lofty dais occupied by the royal family. The hall’s simplicity and bare marble floor ensured no distractions from the king’s seat, raised head-height above the main floor by a silver platform and hung with long strands of glittering jewels. Two huge iron clockwork guards towered on either side of the throne. Armored in glittering steel and draped with the royal blue cloaks of the kingsguard, their jeweled eyes - each as big as Daystar’s head - roved the hall endlessly. They saluted Daystar as he passed, gears clicking, and the prince shivered. The clockwork guards were the work of the best craftsmen in the kingdom, each part carefully structured, infused with magical energy, and locked to respond to the two human guards who controlled the automatons. The guilds prided themselves in their artwork as well as their skill however, and the guards were altogether too real for Daystar, each seeming to develop its own personality and bearing. He did not look at them as he jogged up the stairs towards the empty throne.

All the nobles of Ebon Reach were gathered here today to witness the Damantian Annex. Damantia, the tiniest of the kingdoms, remained sovereign only because of the near-impassable mountains surrounding their valley. Recently, their king offered to surrender the kingdom to Upper Vale and become the fifteenth barony. Such a proposal was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Damantia exercised control over most the high passes and sustained itself by charging high fees for the use of their roads. Annexing them would give Upper Vale an edge in trade.

It also put Daystar in charge of rationing their energy even further, as they would have another baron to sustain. He had spent the last month working to reassure the squabbling nobles that the presence of a fifteenth baron would not diminish their monthly stipends of energy. Now the anger had died down, and the baron’s emissaries for the most part looked positively bored. Damantia garnered little respect in their eyes, and no one knew enough about the tiny country to anticipate what benefits they could offer the kingdom.

None of the barons deigned to be here in person, Daystar noted, though they sent high scions of their houses to represent them. Each barony strove to present the grandest retinues and put themselves forth in glittering silk and gold, brightening the hall as each strove to outshine the other. They were quiet today; Daystar had forced them to arrive simultaneously so that no one barony could claim prominence over another by arriving later. Having them wait for him reinforced his position of control, and King Felstar would arrive last - a mark of his preeminence.

Daystar shifted as the Damantias arrived, a small party of seven, including servants. The ambassador Daystar recognized, and he guessed the man leading the party must be the king. The balding man carried himself erect despite his girth, keeping a pace ahead of the painfully thin ambassador, whose fingers twitched constantly to his receding hairline. A slender girl hid behind a burly guard, and three servants trailed at the rear, huddled together and glancing around nervously. All seven were dressed in white, and Daystar wondered if it had to do with custom. He acknowledged their bows before turning his attention impassively to the other end of the hall.

King Felstar entered alone in all the regalia of state, huge shoulder pads broadening the width of his high-collared cape of purple velvet, clothes glimmering with gold embroidery. Daystar glanced at the Damantian delegation, who stared in open-mouthed awe, though their king merely looked eager. The nobles bowed as Felstar proceeded down the center of the hall, and the clockwork guards dropped ponderously to one knee.

With the sight of the empty energy cubes still swimming in his mind, Daystar couldn’t help but feel that the pomp and magnificence of the royal family was an ever weakening facade. They held their power by absolute control of the energy, but with the rationing, the entire country was slowly being weaned of their dependence on it. The nobles still clung to the lifestyle it provided, but so long as the dragons remained hostile and the energy unsustainable, it remained that their hold on the barons weakened daily. The royal family itself was in shambles, its heirs and relatives dead to illness or assassins sent by ambitious barons until only Daystar and Felstar remained, the last of their dynasty unless they raised another house to royal status by marriage. He could see the desperation in his father’s eyes as months passed without word of their emissaries to the Cinderstrand. Facing ever fewer options, they were turning from history to myth and legend, desperately seeking answers to why the dragons refused to speak with them.

The annals of the kingdom were sketchy, many of its pacts and treaties destroyed over a century ago during The Sickness. The court librarian had fallen ill, and in a panicked response, everything he touched was burned in a desperate effort to prevent the disease from spreading through the castle. In the fear of the time, no thought was given to whether or not the books and scrolls should be saved. Now they had only a surname to work with, and an odd one at that: Drageklek. The archaic name was not a family one, but a given surname, like those the trademasters gave their apprentices when they left, and those who held it were the only ones ever recorded actually talking directly to the dragon’s leaders. Which meant that once, sometime before what they now remembered, some guild of dragontalkers had existed as a mediating body. If they could not find people with such gifts again, the country would fall into civil war, granted that the dragons didn’t slaughter them all first.

“Father.” Daystar bowed as Felstar reached the top of the steps and took his throne, servants slipping past to arrange the king’s robes to perfection. Two of them even fussed over Daystar for a moment before withdrawing. Ebon Reaches’ servants all belonged to a servant’s guild and took extraordinary pride in performing their duties to perfection. As a guild, they were also entitled to an energy stipend from the crown, raising all the palace servants into the odd guild middle-class of lownamed specialists. So were they really trustworthy, Daystar wondered, or did they obey out of guild pride and desire for the energy the crown could provide?

The prince snapped his mind back into the moment as the Damantians approached and began the formalities of the peaceful transfer of power. The scribes carried documents up and down the stairs to be signed and sealed by Felstar and the Damantian king, Ravenglen Vipont. Daystar glanced from the positively bubbling former King Ravenglen to the dull-eyed and impatient nobles and wondered dispassionately whether or not the new baron would learn the ways of the Valian court before it ate him alive.

“As a token of our joy to become part of the kingdom of Upper Vale, I have a gift for my future king.” Ravenglen bowed to Daystar as the last document paraded away with the scribes. Reaching back to the contingent gathered behind him, he tugged the girl forward by her arm.

“My daughter, Emberlace, to be your wife,” he happily intoned as the girl slipped to her knees.

Several squeaks of displeasure rose from among the gathered nobles, who suddenly found interest in the proceedings. Daystar’s stomach dropped away, and he struggled to keep his expression calm. Any gift from a surrendering country had to be accepted, provided the gift was not meant as an insult, and from the look in Ravenglen’s eyes, the Damantian knew this. To not accept the woman’s hand would be a grave insult on his part, but could he safely take a wife? Daystar glanced discretely at Felstar, caught his father’s eye, and received a slight nod of approval. From what they knew, Emberlace was the last heir of House Vipont and had no relatives besides her father to bring into the royal family. Ravenglen could not expect to receive anything in return for a gift. The sum total of the marriage would be to cement relations between the kingdom and its newest province, not to grant extra favors. And it would successfully remove Daystar from the competition of the Valian noblewomen and keep the quarreling barons on equal terms with each other.

Daystar descended the steps slowly, carefully arranging his rationale to keep from panicking over the abrupt development. Emberlace’s hands clenched on her skirt, and he paused in front of her. The Damantian princess was dressed in a simple floor length tunic caught with a belt, she wore a thin veil over her softly curling red hair, and she was clearly terrified. Daystar crouched down in front of her and lifted her chin, meeting frightened brown eyes brimmed with anxious tears. A marriage such as this needed no more solemnization than his agreement, and he felt sorry for Emberlace, who as a princess should have had more say in her life than to be married away as a political advantage.

“If you’ll have me?” he said, holding out a hand. It didn’t actually mean anything, and he expected both of them knew that, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give her some sort of regard.

Emberlace gave him a tentative smile and put both her hands in his. Her slender fingers were cold and still shaking, and Daystar covered them with his other hand before pulling her to her feet. She stood shakily, leaning on him for balance and biting her lip, tightening her hands on his. After steading her, Daystar let go of her hands and tugged off his signet ring. Emberlace looked at it in confusion as he proffered it to her, and Daystar tucked it into her hand, closing her fingers around it.

“It’s tradition,” he explained in a quiet voice.

The confusion cleared, and Emberlace gave another small smile, the tears clearing a little. She was very beautiful, Daystar realized, with a pleasant face, graceful nose, neat chin, and full lips. She had to stand on tiptoe as they kissed lightly and flinched at the disgruntled mutter that rose from the hall floor. Daystar pressed her hand in encouragement and turned to escort her up the stairs to the top of the dais.

Felstar rose as they approached, spreading his arms to embrace them both at once.

“Welcome to our house, Emberlace Kingskin,” the king boomed, smiling at her. “My son is wed, and tonight we shall feast in double joy!”

This announcement was greeted with polite applause, and Daystar caught Snowtiger and the rest of the posse of women glaring in a fit of fury. Only Dawncatcher seemed unaffected, throwing back her head and laughing clearly before winking at him and vanishing into the crowd. Confusing woman.

***

By the time they reached the tower where the prince and princess had their chambers, Daystar was beginning to feel disturbed. No matter how casual the comment or question, Emberlace would not speak or even respond with so much as a nod. When he talked, she listened attentively, but any attempt on his part to pass the conversation to her was met with dismal failure as she simply looked away at the wall or floor.

“These are the princess’s chambers,” Daystar explained, slowly adapting to carrying the conversation on his own. He pressed the door back and felt suddenly embarrassed as they entered the dark, dusty room.

“It hasn’t been lived in since my mother became queen thirty years ago,” he apologized, gesturing at the sheet shrouded furniture and total lack of decoration. “I would have had it prepared for you, but I wasn’t exactly expecting to get married today. But this way, you can have it decorated however you like.”

Emberlace blinked, one hand lightly on his arm, watching his face. She didn’t seem disappointed, but then again he really couldn’t tell.

“Look,” he continued a little weakly, “I don’t know what customs you have in Dementia, but you’re Valin now. You can talk if you want.”

She looked away to examine the room, and Daystar fell helplessly into silence again, scrambling for topics, something that might get her to speak. “The princess usually acts as the prince’s first advisor and secretary.” Emberlace’s finger’s tightened a little on his arm, and she let out a soft sigh. Daystar gaged her expression carefully. “Am I right in assuming you knew that?”

That got him a single keen look before she turned back to staring at the room. Leaving his arm, Emberlace carefully picked up one of the sheets and dragged it off a chair in front of the fireplace, letting it pile on the floor. She removed the sheet from the chair next to it as well and sat on the peacock blue cushion, letting her fingers trail over the ivory inlaid in the mahogany frame. Daystar took the empty chair as an invitation to sit with her and sank back, trying to keep his mind from lunging to the other things that needed to be done today. Resolving this latest political spat was his first priority - Emberlace would be exposed to the hostility of her rivals for who knows how long yet. With her apparently silent and unassuming nature, the process of securing her position would fall entirely upon him.

“Is there anything in particular you would like to eat at the feast tonight? Something we could tell the kitchens to prepare?”

Nothing.

Servants entered in a flurry of motion, and Daystar looked up, relieved by the noise and activity. Curtains were thrown open, sheets pulled off the furniture and folded, and dust roiled into the air, dancing in the afternoon sunlight and finally drawing a sound out of Emberlace: a sneeze. She coughed a little, rubbing at her nose with a handkerchief, and looked around the room again, wide-eyed.

They sat in a cozy lounge - a few chairs set around the fireplace with small tables between them. The room gave way to a dining area on one side and a sunlit sitting area on the other, where low ivory couches with plush blue cushions clustered in the sunlight. Beyond, in the bedchamber, embroidered peacocks pranced across blue bed curtains, and delicate dressing screens shielded a tall wardrobe. Daystar breathed a sigh of relief. A few rugs and other adornments, and the room would no longer look abandoned, indeed it was far less shabby than he feared.

Two matronly women entered with armloads of clothes and plucked Emberlace up from where she sat. She threw a frightened look at Daystar as they pulled her behind the dressing screens, and he tried to smile reassuringly.

“No, not the gray, Matilda. Really, what were you thinking? Gray. For a girl, and a bride!”

Two gray dresses piled over the edge of the screen, hanging a little limply.

“Orange for your eyes, darling, but not your hair, particularly.”

“Nonsense, Galainn, would look lovely on her.”

“What do you think, princess?”

An awkward, stretching silence followed before Galainn decided against the orange and tossed it up over the dressing screen with the others. By the time the women seemed anywhere near making a selection, Daystar was fidgeting and fairly certain they’d rejected more dresses than they had even brought into the room with them.

“She likes this one,” Matilda finally laughed. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“And well she should. You look lovely, Princess Emberlace.”

Daystar sat up from his slouch as Emberlace came around the side of the dressing screen, holding her skirt up carefully. Iridescent purple spilled around her in the late afternoon light. The dress was an older style, before petticoats came into vogue, and the skirt fell in full folds around her. The subtly embroidered bodice looked almost like a separate piece, fitting neatly with a square neck and a lower hem that came to a point. Ruffled organza sleeves reached from her elbow down almost to the floor, laced with thin strands of silver beads. Emberlace ducked away as the two women tried to fix her hair, apparently preferring to let it fall loose around her.

The princess swirled her skirt a few times before finally taking in her appearance in the mirror with something akin to awe. Something in her posture changed, and Daystar watched with curiosity and amazement as a weight seemed to fall off of her. Emberlace spun once, hands held out for balance, and turned back to her own reflection, standing tall and featherlight. She touched hands with the image, expression still amazed, before turning to Daystar and giving him a shy glance before slowly twirling again.

“You look incredible,” he told her honestly.

“Prince Daystar,” Matilda said, “We need your permission to access the vaults to bring up the crown jewels worn by the princesses.”

“Granted,” Daystar allowed quickly as Emberlace’s jaw dropped. She shut her mouth quickly and caught herself around the waist instead, peeking another glance at herself in the mirror. As small as Damantia was, Daystar suddenly wondered if his new wife had ever worn or even seen such fine clothes as this.

“She’ll be setting Valin fashion in no time,” Galainn smiled, clasping her hands together. “Are you sure you don’t want a few strands pulled out of your face, princess?”

Emberlace tilted her head back and shook out her hair like red fire, tossing it once with her hands and admiring the elegantly tousled look in the mirror.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Daystar touched her shoulder lightly, and Emberlace turned, giving him her attention. “I need to go and prepare for the feast myself. My chambers are just through that curtain there.” he pointed at a door beside the double-sided fireplace. “Matilda and Galainn will take care of you, and we’ll go down to the banqueting hall together.”

She acknowledged this with her eyes and he turned to go, feeling her watching him all the way to the other side of the room.