#ltw

Princess Rain Veridian had always known her father would marry her off to some loathsome man. She had known it in the same way women had to learn the ugliest truths far too young. By watching men speak over them as if they were furniture, by hearing alliances discussed at supper in the same breath as horse races, and most importantly, by understanding, long before anyone said it plainly, that a princess’s womb was another piece of statecraft.

A ribbon to be tied where it best pleased the Crown.

She had simply never imagined the man would be Sodom.

If she had ever let herself picture it properly, in those wretched hours before sleep, Rain had imagined someone else entirely. An ageing warlord from the northern hills with a missing leg and a fondness for sour brandy. A disgraced border noble with a threadbare title and a mother desperate for royal blood in the family line.

A brute. A fool. A bastard.

But not Sodom.

The High Priest of the the Feathered Host, the man who had known her since she was a child. Rain thought she could have borne almost any other humiliation with the grace expected of Arcadia’s heir. She could have endured age, ugliness, stupidity, even cruelty, if it had been asked of her. That was her duty. But not this. Never this.

And yet here she was.

The whole kingdom seemed drunk on joy for her wedding. Beyond the high windows of the Citadel’s great hall, Windward burned with celebration. Lanterns, garlands and banners hung from every street that sloped down toward the Endless Sea. Every balcony sagged under the weight of onlookers. Every tavern had thrown open its doors. Loud music spilled up from the city in bright and vulgar bursts. The bells of the churches rang and rang and rang until Rain thought the sound might crack the pearl buttons down her spine.

Inside the hall, things were no better.

Rain stood beside Sodom and received congratulations.

“May the Host bless your union eternally, Your Holiness.”

“May your womb quicken before midsummer, Your Highness.”

“May death never touch the royal family ever again.”

Rain thought she might be sick.

Her face gave none of it away, of course. Her cheeks had been powdered enough to hide the truth, that she had cried until dawn while her maids bathed her in rosewater.

The princess turned her head, just slightly, and looked towards the tall windows thrown open to the salt air of Windward. The capital clung to the cliffs where Arcadia broke away into the Endless Sea, and even here, high within the Citadel, the water still reached her. It touched her overheated skin, slipped beneath her veil and stirred the fine edge of the tulle, making the tiny diamonds in her hair whisper together with the faintest little chime. For one stupid heartbeat, Rain imagined throwing herself straight into the sea.

Let the city have its spectacle then.

Let them all ring their bells for that.

Windward roared with celebration. The great hall of the Citadel had been decorated within an inch, long tables groaning beneath the weight of luxurious meats glazed in honey and spice, sugared fruits, dishes bright with saffron and pomegranate, silver platters hauled from every corner of the kingdom and beyond. Plum wine stood in enormous crystal decanters, dark and gleaming like blood beneath the candlelight. Someone had even thought it a delicate touch to set out small enchanted cupcakes that could sing. One of Rain’s former tutors had made them, no doubt pleased to have lent a bit of magic to the future queen’s wedding feast.

All of it was perfect.

All of it was wasted on this cursed wedding.

Suddenly, a duchess from the western orchards swept forward and took Rain’s fingers in her own. She bent and kissed the princess’s knuckles as if she were a saint.

“You look radiant, Your Highness,” she said. “Truly radiant. The Host has favoured you.”

Rain felt her hands tremble beneath the woman’s grip.

“Thank you.”

The duchess leaned in a little closer, perfume thick enough to choke on. “And what a match. What a divine match. His Holiness will guide you well.”

Rain nearly forgot how to breathe.

Her dress weighed like penance. It was a masterpiece, everyone had said so. Layers of soft silk the colour of cream and gold spilled from her waist in heavy folds, edged in hand-beaded thread that dragged over the floor. The fitted bodice had been stitched through with so many pearls that it bit into her ribs every time she drew a proper breath.

Her fawn-coloured hair had been twisted and braided and pinned into some elaborate monument to maidenhood, threaded through with diamonds so clear they looked like rain frozen on branches. The veil attached at the crown fell to the floor, stitched with glittering crystals and shimmering gold.

Her head ached beneath the weight of it.

Her neck hurt. Her shoulders hurt.

Her smile hurt worst of all.

“Blessings on you, Princess Rain,” cooed another woman whose name Rain didn’t know and wouldn’t remember. “May the Feathered Host grant you many sons, Your Highness.”

“Your words honour us,” Rain replied, hearing at once how distant her own voice sounded, as if someone else had been trained to speak through her mouth. “You are very kind.”

And so it went on.

An endless procession of congratulations, each one fouler than the last. And every blessing, in the end, circled back to the same thing.

Her womb. Her sons. Her usefulness.

Rain accepted each wish with the same graceful smile she had practised since childhood. She inclined her head when required. She thanked them. She even let them kiss her cheeks.

Rain wondered why no one thought to wish her joy, or peace, or even simple happiness. Only sons. Always sons.

Sons for the Crown. Sons for the Church.

Sons for the gods.