Saving the Immortal

Chapter Eight: Before the Throne

"I came to fetch you," Ruselon said, rising from the grass, some of the earlier warmth still lingering about his features though a certain formality had already begun to settle back over him. "My father wishes to welcome his new daughter-in-law properly. I fear the introduction cannot be delayed any further."

Something in his tone suggested he did not relish the prospect any more than I found myself suddenly dreading it.

"Very well," I said, rising from the swing and smoothing my skirts. "I suppose I should meet the devil himself eventually."

He did not laugh at that, and I understood, from the particular stillness that settled over him, that whatever awaited us in that throne room was considerably less amusing than anything we had shared beneath the oak tree.

The throne room proved as magnificent as the rest of the palace, though considerably colder in its splendor — black marble stretching beneath towering columns, banners bearing sigils I did not recognize hanging from a ceiling lost somewhere in shadow. The king sat upon a throne carved from obsidian, flanked by attendants whose faces betrayed nothing at all, and I understood immediately, upon seeing him, precisely where Ruselon's stillness had first been learned.

Marrow stood near the throne's base, arms crossed, and caught my eye the moment we entered.

I glared at him.

He winked.

The sheer audacity of the gesture, given the previous evening's cruelty, nearly drew a sound of disbelief from me before I mastered myself sufficiently to maintain the composure the moment required.

"So," the king said, once we had been announced and had crossed the length of that vast room, "this is the bride."

"Father," Ruselon said, with a bow that carried more formality than warmth, "may I present Princess Ivy."

The king's eyes moved over me with an assessment not unlike his son Caspian's had been the previous evening — measuring, calculating, the specific cold arithmetic of a ruler considering what value a new acquisition might hold for his kingdom.

"Soldiers and grain," he said, almost to himself. "Her father drove a hard bargain, I understand, for something so small."

"She has proven considerably more than her father's bargain suggested," Ruselon said, an edge entering his voice that had not been present a moment before.

"Has she," the king said, something almost amused crossing his features now. "I confess I did not expect you to secure a bride at all, Ruselon. Given your particular temperament. I had rather assumed no kingdom would risk its daughter on such an uncertain gift."

"Father—"

"Do you recall," the king continued, addressing me directly now, entirely ignoring his son's clear discomfort, "the incident with the glasswork? When he was a boy? Every pane in this palace, shattered in an instant, simply because he had been denied some trivial thing he wanted. We were forced to explain the matter to half the kingdom as an unfortunate structural failure. I have never quite trusted glass in his presence since."

I felt Ruselon go rigid beside me.

"It seems remarkable to me," the king continued, apparently enjoying himself now, "that anyone would willingly bind themselves to a temper capable of such destruction. Though I suppose your father's desperation for allies outweighed any sensible caution on your behalf."

Something within me, which had been building steadily since the previous evening's dinner and had found no proper outlet then, finally broke free entirely.

"Your Majesty," I said, my voice carrying further across that vast marble room than I had entirely intended, "forgive me, but I find myself astonished."

The king's eyebrows rose slightly.

"Astonished," he repeated.

"That a king," I continued, "seated upon such a magnificent throne, surrounded by such wealth and power, would spend his time mocking his own son before an audience — humiliating a man who has shown me, in the brief time I have known him, nothing but restraint, courtesy, and a gentleness I confess I did not expect from anyone in this court."

The throne room went utterly silent.

"You speak of an incident from his childhood," I said, "as though a boy's grief over his mother's death, expressed the only way he knew how at twelve years old, is somehow proof of a monstrous nature rather than simple, human sorrow. You speak of him as though he is a danger to be managed rather than a son to be loved. And you do this before his new wife, in his own throne room, as though your cruelty is somehow a demonstration of your authority rather than the plainest evidence of your failure as a father."

"Princess—" one of the attendants began, alarmed.

"I am not finished," I said, and something in my voice apparently convinced even the king to remain silent a moment longer. "I was given to your son without my consent, Your Majesty. Traded, as though I were nothing more than the soldiers and grain you mentioned so casually a moment ago. I did not choose this marriage. But I find, having met him, having seen the man beneath everything this kingdom insists on fearing, that I have considerably more respect for him than I currently hold for you."

The silence that followed was absolute.

"I believe," I said, drawing myself up fully, "I will take my leave now."

I turned, without waiting for permission, without so much as a curtsy toward the throne, and walked from that vast marble room with my head held high and my heart pounding fiercely against my ribs.

I did not look back to see whether Ruselon followed.