Page 150 of The Prince's Mage

He knew exactly what he would need to promise his father. He hadn’t before because of his own vow to himself following Faustina’s death.

But as Aimilia took a shuddering breath and gave him a weak smile, he believed he could keep it.

* * *

Nikias didn’t pretend to understand anything that happened in the so-called wedding ceremony of the Sordes.

What pleased him most was that the Desero demon did not appear for it. He heard whispers that she was still bedridden and had only been brought to the temple for the wedding as a matter of formality. She wasn’t needed at the actual ceremony because Marcella’s marriage apparently fell solely under her husband’s purview. Gavril had attempted to explain it to Nikias when he’d first said that he needed to get married again, but Nikias hadn’t really understood it.

The demon’s husband escorted Marcella—he assumed it was Marcella, it was hard to be certain under her veil and from where he sat—into the sanctuary and exchanged a set of phrases with Marcella and the officiant, the High Priest who was chief of the superstition as far Nikias could gather, in the Sordes tongue. Nikias only understood a few words here and there. At least there was seating for the long, drawn-out ceremony.

For once, no one was really paying much attention to him. Everyone was watching Marcella and Gavril. He couldn’t help but run his fingers over the scars on his left wrist.

The leather band and metal piece with Faustina’s name on it had been buried with her, but the scars had remained. The burning in his chest increased with every second even though this wedding was nothing like his own.

At some point Gavril and Marcella knelt and a putrid smell filled the room. Nikias covered his mouth and nose with his cloak as the smoke of burning incense filled the room, wafted about over the couple. He tried not to breathe any of it in, but his lungs were weak and his chest burning from the wound so he ended up coughing regardless. Thankfully he held it in long enough for it to be covered by the next part… Where all the Sordes sang something?

Truly a bizarre set of traditions.

It also didn’t help that he realized while trying not to smell the incense, his cloak didn’t smell like it normally did either. Aimilia had obviously had it cleaned or washed somehow, but it held a different smell to it as well.

Oh.

It smelt like that tea Aimilia always made. Of course it did. She always smelled like that tea.

Finally, the incense smoke faded and Gavril was ripping her veil off and kissing her. Nikias was relieved the whole thing was over and he hadn’t passed out.

And… his brother was deliriously happy. Despite Nikias’ best efforts over the last few months.

So that was all that mattered.

Marcella was beaming up at Gavril as he held her face in his hands, the scars Nikias was responsible for visible on her arms even with Gavril’s cloak clasped around her. She looked deliriously happy too.

Even after all the suffering she’d gone through. That Nikias had put her through…

There was, of course, some big banquet and celebration in the temple courtyard. Nikias’ goal was to stay as long as he could to be noticed for being there at least, and then slip away when needed and hopefully no one would be able to put together exactly how early that would be.

He was sipping on their wine, watching the Sordes and their temple Solitus eat, drink, and be merry. Marcella, Gavril, the demon’s husband, and Aimilia were having their own little party, laughing and drinking.

Good.

All was well.

Until he spotted Marcella on the opposite end of the courtyard from where he’d last seen her, stumbling in—

No.

Marcella was exactly where she’d been last, wrapped up in Gavril’s arms.

The demon.

Nikias couldn’t help but stiffen. His hand holding his glass shook so much, he had no choice but to hand it off to the first Solitus acolyte server he could so he wouldn’t drop it or spill it.

The whole crowd hushed and parted as she staggered out from the temple.

Her hair was a mess, she was wrapped up in blankets and not a cloak, and she had deep bags and sunken eyes. She was looking around, her hair flying wildly as her eyes darted frantically. Was she looking for something specific? Looking for him so she could see the effects of what she’d done?

Bile rose in Nikias’ throat. He was torn between a savage sense of satisfaction that she was clearly worse off than he was after the treaty had been finalized but also enraged she was somehow miserable when he was the one who had been made to suffer. What right to misery did she have after everything she’d done?

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