Chapter 52

Three days later, Annalise stared in the mirror as Priscilla and Elsabeth flitted around the room like sparrows. It felt like an entire lifetime had passed since she was in Dovea picking out fabric for her trousseau and dreaming hopefully of a future where the Rhinnean king was a kind man who would help her break her curse. Instead of joy, or even hope, the mood was as somber as a funeral. There was no celebration, only mourning what might have been. 

The past three days had passed in a fog of grief, pain, and regret. The only small mercy she’d received was that ever since he’d told her of Soren’s death, Nelan hadn’t requested her presence at dinner. Annalise had hardly slept since that fateful day; every time she closed her eyes she saw Soren’s face, or the faces of her two Dovean guards who’d been slain while she was in Nelan’s office pleading to return home.

She’d come to Rhinnea to avert a war and in the process had doomed her people and killed the only man who’d ever loved her. She’d been a naïve princess hoping that she could heal the rift between their two peoples.

Now she was a queen biding her time to exact her vengeance.

The wedding dress she wore felt like it belonged to a different woman. With its long sleeves and high collar, every inch of her skin was covered except for her face. The pure white lace over satin and fine light blue and gold embroidery was meant to evoke the image of fresh snow on winter ground, a clean slate and promise to unite their two peoples and work towards a bright and peaceful future. 

Instead, Soren, her best friend, the man who’d stolen her heart like he’d stolen berry pies from the kitchen when they were children, was dead, and her wedding dress felt like a mourning shroud. 

Annalise dipped her head to allow Priscilla to fasten a heavy tiara to her hair. She rubbed her gloved fingers together to distract herself from the air of finality that descended as she stood to her full height. 

Her silk gloves were her saving grace and her doom. She’d spent the past two nights taking apart her favorite pair and meticulously re-sewing them. She’d cut the timing perilously close, but she was satisfied with their new design that would allow her to remove the fabric covering her palms with a well-practiced nudge of her fingers and flick of her wrist. She didn’t mind the long hours working in secret in the dead of night—she hadn’t been able to sleep anyway, consumed with grief at the loss of Soren and fear of what might happen to her country. 

When Nelan took her hand in his at the start of the ceremony, it would be the last thing he ever did, even if by doing so she signed her own death warrant.  

She hadn’t breathed a word of her plans out loud for fear that Priscilla and Elsabeth would try to talk her out of it, or that they would be implicated even more than they already were. The road to King Nelan’s assassination was something that she had to walk alone, and she would do her best to make sure they were safe and far away long before they heard the news. 

When the finishing touches were added to her wardrobe and the last of the jewelry carefully arranged, Annalise turned to her two trusted friends and handed them each a purse full of jewels and coins. 

“As of this very moment, I dismiss both of you from my service. While I could never give you enough money to repay you for your kindness and help, I hope this purse will help you understand my esteem for each of you. I have treasured our friendship and have no doubt that without your aid I would never have come so far,” Annalise said.  

“Your Majesty, what are you saying?” Priscilla asked. She stood with her arms folded against her chest and made no move to accept Annalise’s gift. 

Annalise jangled the bag. “Please, Priscilla, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I fear that after the events of today, you two will be in danger, and it would kill me if anything I did caused you harm.”

“No amount of money in the world would induce me to leave your side, Your Majesty.” 

“Same here,” Elsabeth agreed. 

“You have to…I can’t risk…” Annalise wasn’t even sure what else she might say to convince them to take the money and run when a knock at the door interrupted her. 

“We can talk about it after the wedding, Your Majesty. Please, know that whatever happens, you’ll always have us at your side,” Elsabeth said, taking Annalise’s hand in her own. 

On any other day, Annalise may have broken down in tears at the thoughtfulness and care in Elsabeth’s voice. Now though, all she felt was a deep fear for her friends. She squeezed Elsabeth’s hand and looked into her eyes, then Priscilla’s. “Please take these purses and promise me that if anything happens, anything, that at the first sign of trouble you will run. I cannot lose more loved ones to plots and plans and tricks.” 

“Your Majesty–”

“Promise. Me. It is the only request I have of you, and the only wedding present that I want. I must know that you two are safe, no matter what.” 

“Annalise, it sounds like you’ve given up,” Priscilla said.  

“Perhaps I have.” Annalise looked up at the ceiling as her face twisted in sorrow, but her eyes remained strangely dry. “There has been so much pain and heartache, and I cannot bear anymore. Please, I’m begging you, do as I ask.” 

With shaking fingers, Priscilla took both bags from Annalise and handed one to Elsabeth. “We’ll be as careful as a sly fox and as wary as a wolf, Your Majesty, but you can’t give up yet.” 

Another knock at the tower door, this time more insistent. Annalise arranged her face into a small smile even though it felt as though she were sucking on a broken piece of glass. “I couldn’t have asked for more loyal servants or for better friends. Thank you for everything you have done.” 

Priscilla opened the door, revealing ten Rhinnean guards and four Rhinnean ladies, her escort to her wedding. The guards were in full ceremonial garb with black trousers, red tunics, and gold brocade, and each of the ladies wore white dresses with red and gold trim. Annalise harbored no doubts that the omission of her own kingdom’s colors was not an accident.

It bothered her less than it would have a few days before; the red on white gave the impression of blood on fresh snow; an apt omen for how she envisioned the day would end.

Annalise inhaled a great breath. The influx of oxygen to her brain must have rattled something loose that had been stuck in her grief, and a stroke of brilliance hit her.

“Please, one moment, I fear I am going to be sick with wedding nerves,” she said with her best approximation of a sickly smile. Before anyone could respond, she shut the door in the face of her new retinue. She hurried to a desk in the corner of her chamber. The moratorium against visitors had extended to messages, but she still had a set of pens. With a shaking hand, she tore a blank page from one of the history books she’d borrowed from the library; she could only hope she wasn’t too late. At her order, Priscilla hurriedly heated wax over the hearth as Annalise scrawled a few lines, then folded and sealed the missive before handing it to Elsabeth. “Here. Find Lieutenant Rorarck and the other Dovean guards and give this to him. I don’t trust King Nelan, and I will feel much better if I know that you two are safe.”   

Elsabeth took the note and nodded before stepping aside. 

As Annalise walked down the hall, the stomp of the boots of the Rhinnean guards and the whisper of silk echoed around her. From all of her studies, Annalise knew the Goddess forbade murder, but she held hope that, at least in this case, the murder would be forgiven as a suitable punishment for an evil king. 

It wasn’t much hope; surely someone as cursed as she was, wasn’t beloved by any god. 

Every step forward was another step closer to her death, but Annalise was long past the point of caring. 

Finally, they reached the great hall where the ceremony was to be held. Rhinnea’s high priest of the Goddess stood on the dais, with a man standing in front of him. Behind the two men were two thrones: One made of stone for Nelan, and one carved from wood was soon to be officially hers. Her heart dropped when she realized that Nelan’s throne was occupied, and that several guards stood between the Rhinnean king and the altar. 

As she stood at the head of the aisle, mind reeling as she tried to calculate how Nelan could have known her plans, the guards in front of her crossed their spears and a young girl stepped forward who couldn’t have been any older than four. 

“A gift from the king,” the child said, dipping into a wobbly curtsy as she held up a wooden box. 

With trembling fingers, Annalise removed the cover and stared down at the mask in her hands. It was white, like her dress, and someone had painted intricate designs in red over the entire face. There were two openings for her eyes, but the carved nose and mouth were completely solid. Her gaze flicked from the mask to the matching dresses of the Rhinnean women. 

“His Majesty has requested that you wear it as a symbol of your new loyalty to Rhinnea,” one guard intoned. 

Annalise stared at the smug expression on Nelan’s face, back at the box, and finally at the trembling child in front of her. “I understand,” she said as she lifted the mask from its place. 

Annalise’s blood pounded in her ears as she walked down the aisle. The room was full of Rhinnean nobility dressed in their finest clothes, although not a single shade of blue was anywhere to be found. Nevertheless, even surrounded by a sea of enemies, Annalise kept her head up. To any outside observer, she was the picture of elegance and grace—a cool princess of ice, even if on the inside she felt as though her organs were burning into ash. 

She reached the end of the aisle and paused. “If I am to wed King Nelan, why is my betrothed not standing at the altar with me?” she asked the priest, ignoring the strange man who offered her his hand.

The High Priest swallowed, his eyes darting nervously back and forth from her to the stranger. “Because of your curse, King Nelan has requested a proxy for the ceremony. As he is still present, albeit not directly at your side, it is allowed by the Goddess.” 

“Don’t worry, Princess Annalise, my proxy is a man sentenced to death. If your curse takes him, it will be only what he deserves,” Nelan said.  

“Please, Your Highness, if I don’t do this, he will jail my entire family,” the man whispered. Annalise’s eyes flicked over his face, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. She wondered what his crime was—knowing Nelan, he may have only been guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her onto the dais in front of the altar. He’d been given precautions—long black gloves that disappeared under the edge of his black, red, and gold dress coat. She guessed Nelan didn’t want to take any chances with his proxy dying before the ceremony could be completed. 

As the priest began the marriage rites, Annalise let her eyes drift to her betrothed, who sat safely ensconced on his throne. He didn’t wear gloves, although a pair sat on the armrest of his chair, and his coat hung open at his neck. She told herself that it was okay; she could improvise. She’d sequestered Soren’s knife away in a hastily sewn pocket of her dress. Nelan couldn’t keep his distance from her forever. At some point he would draw near, and she would have her revenge. If no opportunity presented itself, then when he wasn’t looking she’d cut her hand and throw the knife at him, or perhaps she’d sever an artery and the gush of blood would be too large for him to escape. There were many ways to kill a man with her curse, and she savored the thought of each of them. 

Undoubtedly, as soon as she made her move, she’d be tackled to the floor, if not killed outright, but his fate would be sealed and Dovea would live for another day. Rhinnea may start a war, but it would be impossible for them to fight on two fronts, and Dovea would only have to play defense until Praxis made its presence known, drawing Rhinnea’s attention away from their eastern neighbors. She had a small amount of hope that perhaps Princess Codela, Nelan’s older sister with the twisted leg, wasn’t as bloodthirsty as her brother, but that was in the Goddess’s hands.

A loud boom resounded behind her, as if someone had dropped an armful of tax books. Annalise didn’t flinch and kept her eyes ahead, boring into her target. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not when she was so close and yet still so far away. Her palms itched and her mouth was dry. She wondered briefly if this was how soldiers felt before going into battle.

Nelan’s eyes flickered over her shoulder and widened imperceptibly, and the blood drained from his face. A chorus of whispers broke out so loudly the room sounded like it was full of buzzing bees. 

The curiosity was too great for Annalise to keep her focus. In slow-motion, she turned in a circle to see what had caused such alarm. 

Soren Kierson, captain of her guard and king of her heart, stood in the open doorway, bruised and bloodied but very much alive. 

“Nelan, I’m here to deliver on my promise,” he roared.