“I’m trying,” he said, “but I seem incapable with that dress on you. I asked Cerridwen to hurry this along so we can be done with it.”
“So romantic,” I quipped.
I took my fill of him as well. His vest also attempted to match his eyes, layered over a white shirt.
“I was thinking of a more private celebration,” he murmured. “Fewer people. Far fewer clothes. We could give an entirely new meaning to Lord of Filth.”
Heat warmed my face, and my soon-to-bebonded chuckled. I cursed him colourfully in my head as another cluster of guests swept past us, briefly bowing their heads.
It wasn’t all for laughs with Caedmon. There was a side of him that wanted privacy, that resented having every fragment of his life scrutinised and made public. A part of him that was tired of performing, of being something rather than simply being.
Yet with me, he had the freedom to just be himself.
As was their tradition, we remained apart from the guests, greeting the newcomers for the first part of the ceremony.
“You both look very impatient,” Gwin said as she approached, her crimson dress doing an excellent job of concealing the dagger somewhere on her. Her eyes flicked to the top of my head. She stepped closer, brushed a loose strand from myforehead. “You’ll want the hair out of your face soon. Barracus said the Druid Matron just arrived. Malory is with her.”
For three weeks after the ambush, Gwinifer had barely left my side, taking the role of my personal escort. I appreciated it, as the memories of the Scion mansion were still fresh and haunting. What had happened to me had stirred an old wound in her.
“Should we go to her now?” I asked.
Druid Maelthine was the ceremonialist who would officiate the rite. From what I’d learned, Druid Matrons were elder mageborn women who devoted their lives to mastering some of their sacred rituals. They presided over ceremonies, especially those that called for the blessing of the original mageborn they prayed to.
“Cerridwen will come fetch you,” Gwin replied. “You sure you don’t want to bail?”
Her words were enough to ruffle Caedmon. He turned a scathing look at his sister, and his ward closed around me.
“You don’t want to make these jokes today,” I told her. “He’s sensitive.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, chuckling away.
Based on Caed’s low groan, the company that followed wasn’t better. The Elven Lords chose that moment to approach.
They were impossible to miss, dressed in bright colours that cut through the darker, embroidered gowns favoured by the other guests. Iqbal drank in the sight of Caedmon in a way that made my teeth grind.
Our allies had arrived not only to celebrate, but also to press us for support in their representation within the courts. They had waited a full week after the ambush to send their letter of requests.
“We came to offer our wishes for your love, Mage Lord, Mage Lady,” Iqbal said.
“May peace endure between our lands,” Eldar added, his eyes flicking between us.
“I’m sure it will,” Reagan replied curtly, almost dismissively.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, already bracing myself.
When Eldar spoke again, his voice had lowered. “We have been awaiting word from you. Understandably, you have been occupied. Still, some interesting stories have reached us of late. Stories we believe you would wish to hear.”
“Do any of these stories involve an imminent threat tonight?” Reagan asked. “Because if not, we can discuss them next week.”
“Or in two days,” I added. “If you believe they cannot wait.”
“They can,” Iqbal said, amused. “We are happy to allow the Mage Lord a week to enjoy his newly bonded before informing you of the stirrings surrounding a new head among the superior brand of mana wielders.”
“New head?” I repeated.
“Yes,” Reagan said, his tone clipped. “I would very much like to not discuss that particular brand today.”
Iqbal inspected his fingernails. “We’ll leave you to it, then. But be watchful of the dreadful Wraiths.”
