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“I’m sorry,” she said.
He made an airy gesture with one hand, as if to say it didn’t matter. On impulse, she caught his hand and kissed it.
Raul flung his wine cup to one side and gathered her into his arms.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he murmured. “Please. If you must go, please tell me first. I will never make a cage for you. I promised you that. I keep my promises. I swear it. Only … I have lost you so many times.”
He was about to withdraw from their embrace, but Ilse held him tight. “I love you,” she said. “I would leave if you needed me to. Not before.”
“That explains a great deal,” he said softly.
His own cup lay in fragments over the floor. Taking up Ilse’s, Raul handed it to her and drew her through the doors onto the balcony where snow blew and drifted over the stones. More snow streamed down from the skies. With a word in Erythandran, he created a bubble of warmth. It was exactly like the one Bela Sovic used when she first encountered Ilse. Ilse found herself wishing she knew Bela’s fate.
Raul led her to the edge of the balcony. A few dim circles of lamplight interrupted the darkness, but otherwise, all of Duenne was a blanket of blackness. The air would be frigid, but Ilse felt no cold. She settled onto a bench near the wall, with the wine cup cradled in her hands. Raul stood with his back to her, facing the expanse of darkness that was Duenne City.
“I love you,” he said.
She was glad she sat, because the statement, delivered so plainly, robbed her of all strength. This was no sophisticated declaration. It was a cry of desperation.
“They told me I must marry,” he went on. “That as the king, I must have heirs. And now…” His voice edged higher, softer. Almost like the woman’s voice he once possessed. “Now I can.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“That I love you,” he said. “That I cannot marry anyone but you. If that means I give up the crown I will. And yet, I hope you will say yes. I know what I ask. Ilse—” He spun around, hands held out to either side. “Ilse. My love. Once, long ago, we talked about Anike and Stefan. We would be ordinary people, with no ties or obligations to Veraene’s Court. That is no longer possible … if you marry me, if you will be my queen and my partner. You must forget Anike and all our dreams of anonymity.”
Oh. Oh, my love.
Ilse stood and faced her beloved. She dipped a finger into her wine and ran it along the cup’s edge. In old Duszranjo, this would symbolize an oath of allegiance. Water from my body, wine from my cup, thus we are bound together.
“So I vowed to you two years ago,” she said softly. “When Maester Hax died, and you asked me to take his place.”
“I remember,” he said. “Do you remember my reply?”
She did. He had completed the ritual, though she had only meant to vow her allegiance to him.
“I love you,” he said. “I cannot be king without you. If you refuse the crown, then I will as well. Let another have it.”
He dipped his finger into the cup she held. His gaze fixed on Ilse’s, he ran his fingertip along the cup’s rim. “Magic from my body to yours, wine from a single cup, this binds us together. Ilse, I love you. Will you marry me? Will you be my queen?”
“I love you,” she said. “I will gladly serve Veraene with you. We are joined as partners, we always have been.”
Her hand lifted to his cheek as he bent down to kiss her lightly. His lips were warm. His scent pervaded her senses. Cinnamon and sandalwood. The fresh clean scent of male. Of Raul Kosenmark and no other.
Yes, and yes, and yes forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE KINGDOM OF Veraene had existed for almost four hundred years, the empire of Erythandra another five or six hundred years longer, depending on which historians you believed. A thousand years of history, then, each one adding to tradition, pebble upon pebble, building up to an inexorable mountain.
But theirs was no private marriage, Ilse thought as she and Raul worked through the endless preparations. Ordinary people might join their lives with a simple promise, but she and Raul would be more than husband and wife, they would be king and queen. The ceremonies of wedding and coronation were signposts to history.
Seven months passed, then the day itself arrived.
She rose before dawn. Her attendants—she had dozens now—slept in the room outside her own bedchamber. Ilse moved silently to the window. She wanted just a few moments alone before the madness began.
Her rooms overlooked the eastern quadrant of the city, which was almost invisible at this hour lost in indigo shadows. Above, stars spangled the sky, but a scarlet line marked the far horizon. Even as she watched, light rolled over the plains, like the tide rushing toward shore, revealing farms and pastures, open fields, the Gallenz River as it looped around and through Duenne, and the city itself.
A breeze filtered through the open window, carrying with it a mélange of scents, like voices of the city whispering to her. Wood smoke. A thread of incense. Traces of perfume from her bed linens. The breeze curled around her, and she caught a whiff of another, well-remembered perfume.
