Clothed in such finery for the second time in a week, Evylin paused in front of the looking glass, curious at the transformation. This gown was far more modest than the one Renaul had forced her to wear, but it still spoke of a military precision and regality that seemed befitting of a Warrior. Though she would never prefer to fight in such a piece, she thought she could, if needed, in the adequately roomy skirts. She suddenly thought she understood how Ilain managed to run around in her own elegant dresses, fighting Shades with obvious ease. It was evident that the dress had been made for her.
Ilain helped her into a pair of shiny leather boots, and Evylin habitually slipped her small dagger into the ankle. Then she returned the favor, assisting Ilain as she dressed. The Mage’soutfit wasn’t nearly as complex, only a simple white silk sheath that shimmered like a star.
“Is there a reason you’re in white, and I’m in black?” Evylin asked as she slid the fabric buttons through their loops along the back of Ilain’s dress.
Holding her fire-bright hair out of the way, Ilain’s voice belied her smile. “There’s a reason for everything tonight, Evylin.”
“I see.” Evylin glanced at her in the mirror. The white silk made the Waulden woman’s pale skin seem pink in contrast. “And what is the reason for these colors?”
“It’s tradition,” Ilain said, “though a forgotten one. We’re working to resurrect it.”
Evylin fastened the last button and stepped back. Ilain’s dress was more demure than the scarlet gown she’d worn the previous night, though the neckline still displayed her decolletage with impunity. Small freckles dotted her skin like jewels, her only embellishment aside from the rings on her fingers.
“Bonding is about balance, remember?” Ilain said. “Mages wear white. Warriors wear black. Any non-magical members in attendance wear gray, though that will only be Thom and the archminister.”
“Why only the two of them?” Evylin asked.
“Because Thom is part of the ceremony, and the archminister will be a witness.”
Evylin nodded in understanding, their reflections catching her attention. They were in high contrast: her ensemble dark and mysterious, Ilain’s bright and captivating—near opposites in every way.
“So,” Evylin said, continuing to study their reflections, “Jonn will be in white too?”
“He and all the other Mages in attendance.” Ilain tugged on her slippers, then straightened. “Come on then,” she said witha glance out the window at the dark sky. “It’s time for the ceremony.”
The mention of leaving sent a jolt of anxiety through Evylin. She knew this was what she wanted. She loved Deckard, and Bonding with him, uniting their souls and hearts, was something she greatly desired. But there was still so much unknown. With Deckard now revealed as a Space Mage, their overall ignorance of all manner of things magical, and the uncertainty of the Alliance’s plans, it felt as though they were binding themselves to a future they weren’t sure they wanted.
The whole ceremony to come was a mystery as well. The book Ilain had given her was full of laborious rhetoric. How was Evylin supposed to feel confident about pursuing this course? Too many questions remained to commit to this fate.
But as Ilain led her into the hall and down the stairs, Evylin drew in a steadying breath. This wasn’t a foolhardy decision. It was a choice to Bond with the man she loved. Besides, the last hasty choice she’d made wound up granting her a husband more wonderful than she ever could have fathomed. This would turn out no differently...she hoped.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Through the courtyard behind the Crimson Clover, Evylin and Ilain returned to the event hall where the Alliance had met the previous night. This time, they went into a separate, smaller room intended for more intimate gatherings. Heat rushed out to encase them as Ilain unceremoniously opened the door. The tiled floors were cleared of furnishings, stretching the length of the narrow room to lead to the massive fireplace. The singular, simple golden chandelier cast the room in a dim, amber glow. Dark draperies hung open by the windows, looking out onto the courtyard, allowing the moonlight to gild the room in its silver light.
A cluster of people stood in the assembly hall. Nearest to the door, Thom and Archminister Fishere waited in coats of gray, flanking the path to the center of the room where two pillars of marble stood, one black with a silver box on its top and another white and topped with a golden box. Ethenn and Brea, dressed in black, stood on either side of the pillars.
Behind them was a coterie of men and women in white. Mages. And there, in their midst, stood Deckard.
Evylin’s heart thumped giddily, and a sudden lightness swept through her thoughts. Deckard was, in a word, regal. He stood with his shoulders back, taking her in as she studied him. Thecut of his white coat and trousers reminded her of his officer’s uniform, though the coat was made of fine wool with intricate braiding and white metal buttons. A cravat peeked through the high collar of his coat, only his black boots breaking the starkness of his dress. His reddish-brown hair, freshly cropped short, was swept back with polished refinement, only a hint of stubble along his jawline—a concession she was sure he’d made for her.
The breathless feeling inside her lungs was the way Evylin knew she should have felt on their wedding day three months ago. On that occasion, she’d only felt bewilderment and unease. If only she had known then what she knew now....
Impatient to be at his side, Evylin lifted her skirts and darted forward to Deckard. The train of her dress hissed, and her boots pattered loudly against the tiles. Deckard met her halfway, taking her hands to draw her close.
“You’d think I hadn’t seen you in days,” he whispered, his eyes twinkling, “with how my heart reacted just now.”
Evylin grinned, rolling onto the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek. “Sometimes,” she said, “hours can feel like days.”
Deckard cupped her cheek then, his thumb tracing her skin.
The sound of the door closing drew them back to the room. Evylin turned to see Ilain, Thom, and Fishere approaching. “You look fancy,” Thom remarked.
Evylin reached over to straighten his silken, silver cravat. “As do you,” she teased. “You don’t look half bad in gray.”
“I think the term you’re searching for is ‘devastatingly dull,’”he replied self-derisively.
Unaffected by their banter, Fishere spoke. “Now that we’re all here, shall we begin?”
