With the warmth long since having left and the cold beginning to invade, Nikandr began to shiver. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Zhabyn forced a smile and slapped Nikandr on the shoulder. “I was wrong, young Prince, and I’m not afraid to admit it. Anyone who protects my son like this will surely do so for his wife.”
Nikandr smiled.
“Is it not so?”
“Of course I would, Your Grace. Of course.” He said the words, hoping he might someday think more of her than simply a woman he needed to protect.
Zhabyn seemed to notice, for his smile faded and he stared at Nikandr with a serious glint in his eye. “That is good.” He slapped him on the shoulder one more time.
Then he did something most strange. He glanced over at the other men, who were still rolling around in the snow, and Nikandr swore it was Borund he was spying. He leaned in toward Nikandr and said, “I can understand your reluctance, you know.”
“Your Grace?”
Zhabyn smiled, the most genuine smile Nikandr could ever remember him wearing. “Don’t tell my son, but I was horrified when my mother told me of my marriage to Radia.”
“Surely you’re only being kind.”
“ Nyet, I am not. I nearly refused, though I knew in the end it would be done whether I wanted it or not.”
Nikandr blinked, at a complete loss for words.
“But know this… Radia has been more than I could have dreamed for. She is a good woman, a good mother to her children, and she is a beacon to our family.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Nikandr said simply. He had to bite his tongue. Radia had long been known to be the most subservient of the Matri. No doubt Zhabyn’s high estimation of her stemmed from her willingness to bend to his will following their marriage.
Behind them, the other men were heading inside. Steam from the bath billowed outward as they opened the door and filed in.
“Come,” Zhabyn said as he guided Nikandr toward the door, “you’re shivering. Time to get warm.”
The day continued with Nikandr meeting and greeting each and every member of the Vostroma contingent except Atiana, which included, unfortunately, Mileva and Ishkyna, who seemed too polite and much too pleasant. He kept eyeing them, wondering what they were up to, until it occurred to him that that might be exactly what they were after. He tried to ignore them after that, but it was impossible-one or the other or both kept inserting themselves into his conversations.
It felt as though the rest of his life would be spent answering questions about his plans for Atiana, his plans for family and livelihood. It was endless and painful beyond description, not in the mere voicing of it, but in light of the fact that he doubted he would live to see those years. The wasting was growing within him. He knew this. And despite whatever small hopes he might harbor of finding a cure, he understood deep down that he might very well die before he saw his first child born.
Eventually-thank the ancestors-it was time to prepare for dinner. He changed into the shirt and kaftan made for him for this night. He kept his own boots, however. There was to be a dance, and he would not engage in battle with Atiana wearing unbroken boots. After downing a healthy portion of the elixir-and an herbed biscuit to mask the odor-he left for the grand ballroom.
When he arrived, he was taken aback. He knew the celebration had been cut back in favor of the wedding itself, but this? The ballroom could hold nearly five hundred, and ten years ago it would have, but the room before him had tables for a third of that, perhaps less. They were widely spaced over the floor, making the room look anemic, and though it was clear that Victania had tried to cover for this by decorating each table with towering arrangements of fresh flowers, it still seemed like something that would cause insult to a man like Zhabyn Vostroma.
Victania entered the ballroom a moment later. A smile came to Nikandr’s lips, decorations forgotten, as she wove through the tables toward him. She wore a dress of bronze, sewn with pearls patterned into a school of tiny fish. Hair the color of dark walnut was pulled up into an impeccable bun, revealing her delicate neck and the iridescent quality of her chalcedony soulstone. She looked grossly thin despite months on a special diet of fatty fish and goat and fibrous foods like celery and radishes and asparagus, but there was a gleam in her eye, a flush in her cheeks, that hadn’t been present even that morning.
“Nischka, Nischka, Nischka.” She took both of his hands and swooped in to kiss him once on each cheek. “Let me have a look at you.”
“There’s nothing to see, sister.”
“Ah, but there is!” She took him in from head to toe, an approving smile on her face. “You’re actually presentable once you’ve been thrown in a bath and given fine clothes.”
“I am little more than an oaf in costume. You, however, are stunning.”
She favored him with the smile the two of them reserved for one another. “So good of you to notice.” She turned toward the room, smile faltering. “I hope it’s all right.”
He squeezed her hand. “It is more than I could have hoped for. Truly.”
“If you would hope for anything, Nischka”-she glanced toward the ballroom’s entrance-“hope for another bride. It’s almost too late…”
He nearly laughed, but Victania was staring to one side, her nostrils flaring momentarily. She seemed confused, and then an expression of disbelief came over her face. She looked him over as if she’d just seen something she had completely missed moments ago. She had probably done the same thing while looking into her mirror, coming to grips with the fact that she had the wasting. He knew he couldn’t hide the disease forever, but he couldn’t let it be known now, not with the wedding so close at hand.
Before she could say anything he squeezed her hands and said, “I’d better find my seat.”
As she stared into his eyes, her expression softened. She knew as well as he did how important this wedding was for their family. “Well, dear brother, if you’ll excuse me, I have a function to attend to before-how did you put it this morning? — it dashes against the rocks?” And then she was off, headed toward the great fireplace, snapping her fingers at two servants setting the silverware.
Nikandr breathed a sigh of relief as the ballroom continued to fill. On the dais at the head of the room, Nikandr’s father stood next to Zhabyn, both of them sipping kefir, looking as stiff as Nikandr could ever remember. They had never been comfortable with one another, and despite whatever words Zhabyn had spoken to Nikandr in private, the looming marriage seemed to be pushing them further apart.
On a golden perch behind the head table was a large rook. The bird was preening itself, which meant Mother had not yet assumed the bird’s form, but she would when the time came.
Nikandr wondered when Atiana and her two henchmen would arrive, but then, as if he’d summoned them by the mere thought, she swept into the ballroom wearing a stunning white gown. Her hair was powdered and piled on top of her head, and she looked as if she were balancing it, like it would topple down if she were to tilt her head in the smallest degree. Her skin was powdered as well, with a small amount of rouge applied to her cheeks. She wore rubies at her ears and wrists, and her soulstone hung from a beautiful gold chain at the nape of her neck. Atiana turned and sent a small but insistent wave into the hallway, and Mileva and Ishkyna strode in, each of them a near perfect simulacrum of their sister.
Victania greeted them, though she was anything but warm. There was still a bit of protectiveness to her that Nikandr was secretly appreciative of. It was better than Ranos’s constant haranguing about making children.
“Now how could you resist a woman like that?” Ranos stepped by Nikandr’s side, and put his hand on his shoulder. Nikandr looked at Ranos, who had a huge, childish grin on his face.
“Tell me, brother. Which one is Atiana?”
Ranos considered them, the bridge of his nose pinching. “You have me there, but I tell you truly, any one of them would do.”