Shiver.

“Oh, ugh, truly, Erynne?” I make a face at the knife, as if it’s the one deciding things. “Must we all be martyrs to the Vestalin name like you?”

The knife gives a confused shiver, as if it doesn’t entirely understand the question but wants to respond anyhow.

That response just irritates me more, though. Meryliese devoted her entire life to preparing for the tower, only to die. Erynne is queen, but is miserable in her marriage, and her husband is a warmonger. And apparently I’m supposed to have a horrible fate as well? I don’t think so.

“Has Erynne been asking about the poison?”

Shiver.

“Does she know I tossed it?”

Silence. No.

“Does she know I won’t use it?”

Shiver.

I consider this. “Are they planning to punish me for not killing Nemeth?”

Silence. No.

That’s good at least. “So they yet plan on sending food to me? For next year?”

Shiver.

It’s enough for now. I can’t ask if it’ll happen—the knife won’t know the future—but if they are intending upon continuing to feed me, that’s the most I can ask for. I consider things a moment longer and then roll the blade in my hand again. “Did my sister send those men to break in?”

Silence.

Huh.

“She knows nothing about them?”

Shiver.

“Did Nemeth’s people send them?”

Silence.

“So no one sent them?”

Shiver.

“They came to raid the tower entirely of their own volition?”

Shiver.

How very odd. I wonder what possessed them to attack. They wanted our supplies, they said. Surely that wasn’t all of it? I wish I’d paid more attention to the tower’s history so I would know if crazed peasants had ever attacked it in the past.

Yes, shivers the knife.

Well, that answers that. I move to put the knife away, back into its sheath, and then pause. “My sister is well? Her son well?”

Yes.

“Her pregnancy goes well?”

Yes.

Even though I’m currently miffed at Erynne, I’m still glad she’s healthy. I decide to ask about more people. Lionel is well (sadly). Nurse is well. Riza is well again (much to my relief) and my friends at court seem to be healthy. It fills me with accomplishment, as if these victories are somehow mine, and I’m in a pleasant mood when I go to sheathe the knife once more.

Then I pause. “Does…Nemeth love me? Truly?”

Yes, the knife shivers.

I’m beaming as I tuck it away, leaving it on my table since I don’t plan on wearing my gown for very long after the ceremony. I finish my primping in the mirror, eyeing my unsatisfying reflection. Then, after a moment’s pause, I reach under my skirts and tear my bloomers off.

No sense in wasting my time…or Nemeth’s.

I race back downstairs with my lamp to greet my bridegroom, more excited than ever to get this marriage going. I don’t care that I’m going to be abandoning my people, or that Erynne, the only family I have left, wouldn’t approve of my actions. Nemeth loves me and I love him, and I’m excited to become his wife in all ways. I’m radiant with happiness as I enter our room…only to find it empty.

Hm.

I know he didn’t come upstairs. I peek into the storage room, wondering if he’s touching himself again, unable to wait for me to return, but it’s empty as well. Curious, I take the lamp and head downstairs. “Nemeth?”

“Here,” he calls. “I am readying the altar.”

Right. Because the Fellians ask for the approval of the three gods when they mate. Liosians have a similar ceremony, but ours is more of standard pomp and fussiness than an actual praise of the Gray God, who looks over the land of Lios and protects us from the whims of the Golden Moon Goddess.

With lamp in hand, I head down the stairs. Sure enough, Nemeth has our precious candles lit at the altar, and he has an intricate, woven prayer cloth covering the table. That’s…new. “Where did that come from?”

“I found it upstairs,” he tells me.

“Huh.” I move toward the altar, fingering the delicate fabric. It’s clear that whoever created this spent a lot of time on it. The stitches are exquisite and plentiful, flowers and birds moving along the elegant vines on the borders. “I’ve never found anything but useless junk in there.”

“It was buried under a few old books,” Nemeth says, his big hand smoothing the sides of the fabric as he sets the ceremonial plates on the altar in their spots.

“Well, that would explain why I never saw it,” I say brightly. Though I don’t recall books, either. Nemeth must have snagged them before I went up and did my hunting.

I eye the altar. Even though we’ve been here for a year now, I’ve done no more than glance quickly at the altar, assuming that it looked like every other church effigy I’ve ever seen. It would hold images of the three gods—a triptych carving of them—ruling over their particular realms. The Absent One, his face turned up to the heavens instead of gazing down at the people of the world, surrounded by sunlight and the daytime realm. Across from him, the Gray God, his sorrowful face tilted toward the ground, as if watching over the people of the mortal realm, his equally gray moon behind him. Between them, the Golden Moon Goddess, she of dawn and dusk, the fickle one who stares right at the person in front of the altar as if daring them not to worship her.

Normally, the Absent One is an elderly, gray-haired man, the Gray God a bearded father figure, and the Golden Moon Goddess a radiant young woman. But in this triptych, they are all Fellians. Their faces are hard and angular, noses pronounced just like Nemeth’s. They have spread wings and the horns that draw back from their faces just like he does. Their legs bend backward, and they do not look like friendly, familiar gods at all.

I stare in surprise at this blasphemy, then glance over at Nemeth. “Are there two altars? Have I missed one?” Perhaps this is the altar of the Fellians (who would be used to blasphemy of this sort) and there is a different one for Liosians.

“You have been here as long as I have,” Nemeth says, snapping his fingers and creating a tiny flame to light the candle. “Have you seen another altar?”

I have not. I purse my lips, then decide to let the matter drop. What do I care? It is not as if I am particularly devout, and since I am throwing my lot in with the Fellians, should I not get married at an altar with Fellian gods? Nemeth sets an offering bowl upon the altar in front of each representation of the gods, then pulls out a cushion for my knees and places it on the floor in front of the altar. “Shall we begin?”

The sight of that cushion gives me a dozen filthy ideas, none of which have to do with religion. Pinching my arm to clear my thoughts, I kneel upon the cushion and hold my hands out to Nemeth to take. He doesn’t exactly kneel across from me as much as he crouches, thanks to his backward-bent knees, but the intent is the same—to make oneself lower than the gods.

He takes my hands in his and begins a quiet prayer to the gods. “We ask for your protection, o Great Ones. We ask for abundance. We ask for your smiling eyes to look down upon us. We ask for your favor. We ask for your joy. We ask you to see this mating between this male and this female and give us your blessing.” His gaze locks upon me. “We ask that you see this union of Nemeth of the First House of Darkfell, and Candromeda Vestalin of Lios, and grant us happiness. We seek to live our lives in the shadow of your glory, and to bring honor to your forgotten names. Be with us.”

“Be with us,” I echo appropriately, trying not to fidget. Here Nemeth is leading me through a very serious, very religious Fellian wedding ceremony and I’m focused on the fact that I’m not wearing my bloomers. Truly, I am such a disgrace.

Nemeth bows his head and then begins to speak in Fellian, switching out of common. His words are lyrical and flowing, and I understand not a bit of it. But I watch him for clues, keeping my hands in his as he continues the ceremony. Even though he’s concentrating on the prayer, I like the feel of his hands in mine. If I was a better person, like he is, I’d be thinking about prayers, or what it means to be bound before the gods in holy matrimony.