the room and process under everyone’s watchful eye and take my seat next to my bridegroom now. Though I had known all this, I was unprepared for the force of everyone’s gaze as they turned to study me when the queen’s handmaiden shoved me into the room and disappeared.
I heard the twitters before I was able to concentrate enough to see faces. The scene that greeted me made me lose my power to move: strangers covering laughter behind raised hands; Damaspia looking outraged; Nehemiah’s mouth open with utter shock; my father, head bowed, hands trembling. And then I saw him—my bridegroom. Instantly, I recognized the vivid green eyes, the molded face, the broad shoulders. Darius Passargadae was none other than my lion hunter.
For a fraction of a moment I saw a myriad of expressions flash over his face. Perplexity. Shock. Embarrassment. Betrayal.Wrath. Then suddenly it was as if he pulled a veil over his features. His face became inscrutable, a stony mask that gave nothing away. I noticed several young men, his friends presumably, trying to hold in snickers, and failing.
The last of my defiance vanished as I realized how I had demeaned him in my foolishness. An avalanche of shame and regret covered me with such force, I almost cried out. I turned to leave, to run away from this devastating disgrace, to free Darius Passargadae from the humiliation I had brought upon him.
An iron hand closed about my wrist. To my amazement I found that it was the king himself who held me in his grip. With the added height of his
kidaris
, the gold-fluted crown of royalty on his head, he towered over me like a giant.
He smiled at me with mild amusement and bent close to whisper in my ear so that only I could hear, “I don’t know what you are about, girl. But you must finish what you started. You will shame him more if you run now.”
I managed to jerk my head into a nod.
He did not release his hold on my hand but held it—a rare sign of astounding royal favor—and led me to the wedding pavilion himself. That right hand, famously longer than the left through a tragic defect of birth, remained near me like a protective shield until I stood before my bridegroom. Then Artaxerxes placed my hands into Darius’s and helped me sit on my stool.
No one laughed now. The king lifted an eyebrow toward my hands, lying limp and cold in Darius’s rigid hold, and nodded at Darius. Belatedly, my betrothed remembered to lift my hands to his lips for a kiss that touched the air above my skin, stopping short of touching my flesh. No one perceived his icy rebuff save me and perhaps the king; to the casual observerthe required customary welcome kiss had been performed.
At the king’s signal, the ceremony began. Does any bride remember the details of her wedding? I know not. I only know that for me that night is covered as by fog. I remember the moment we fed one another of the bread, signifying our union, remember his mouth opening for the morsel, which I placed there with trembling fingers; I remember him swallowing without chewing, as though he tried to get rid of bitter poison best taken untasted. Then the magi’s blessing and the bowl of honey was lifted before us, and again I saw to my astonishment that it was the king’s hand that held it.
My husband dipped his little finger into the bowl and I followed suit, imitating him in a mindless haze. And there was the taste of honey on my lips—a symbol of the sweetness of our lives together. I made the mistake of looking into his eyes for a fleeting moment and almost choked as the impassive curtain lifted, replaced by a flash of loathing so hot, I thought my heart would melt.
“Now you,” the king hissed in my ear, reminding me that I must reciprocate my husband’s actions by feeding him honey with my fingers. Anxious lest he should scorn me before the guests, my fingers shook as I lifted them to his mouth. But he hid himself behind his stony
I heard the twitters before I was able to concentrate enough to see faces. The scene that greeted me made me lose my power to move: strangers covering laughter behind raised hands; Damaspia looking outraged; Nehemiah’s mouth open with utter shock; my father, head bowed, hands trembling. And then I saw him—my bridegroom. Instantly, I recognized the vivid green eyes, the molded face, the broad shoulders. Darius Passargadae was none other than my lion hunter.
For a fraction of a moment I saw a myriad of expressions flash over his face. Perplexity. Shock. Embarrassment. Betrayal.Wrath. Then suddenly it was as if he pulled a veil over his features. His face became inscrutable, a stony mask that gave nothing away. I noticed several young men, his friends presumably, trying to hold in snickers, and failing.
The last of my defiance vanished as I realized how I had demeaned him in my foolishness. An avalanche of shame and regret covered me with such force, I almost cried out. I turned to leave, to run away from this devastating disgrace, to free Darius Passargadae from the humiliation I had brought upon him.
An iron hand closed about my wrist. To my amazement I found that it was the king himself who held me in his grip. With the added height of his
kidaris
, the gold-fluted crown of royalty on his head, he towered over me like a giant.
He smiled at me with mild amusement and bent close to whisper in my ear so that only I could hear, “I don’t know what you are about, girl. But you must finish what you started. You will shame him more if you run now.”
I managed to jerk my head into a nod.
He did not release his hold on my hand but held it—a rare sign of astounding royal favor—and led me to the wedding pavilion himself. That right hand, famously longer than the left through a tragic defect of birth, remained near me like a protective shield until I stood before my bridegroom. Then Artaxerxes placed my hands into Darius’s and helped me sit on my stool.
No one laughed now. The king lifted an eyebrow toward my hands, lying limp and cold in Darius’s rigid hold, and nodded at Darius. Belatedly, my betrothed remembered to lift my hands to his lips for a kiss that touched the air above my skin, stopping short of touching my flesh. No one perceived his icy rebuff save me and perhaps the king; to the casual observerthe required customary welcome kiss had been performed.
At the king’s signal, the ceremony began. Does any bride remember the details of her wedding? I know not. I only know that for me that night is covered as by fog. I remember the moment we fed one another of the bread, signifying our union, remember his mouth opening for the morsel, which I placed there with trembling fingers; I remember him swallowing without chewing, as though he tried to get rid of bitter poison best taken untasted. Then the magi’s blessing and the bowl of honey was lifted before us, and again I saw to my astonishment that it was the king’s hand that held it.
My husband dipped his little finger into the bowl and I followed suit, imitating him in a mindless haze. And there was the taste of honey on my lips—a symbol of the sweetness of our lives together. I made the mistake of looking into his eyes for a fleeting moment and almost choked as the impassive curtain lifted, replaced by a flash of loathing so hot, I thought my heart would melt.
“Now you,” the king hissed in my ear, reminding me that I must reciprocate my husband’s actions by feeding him honey with my fingers. Anxious lest he should scorn me before the guests, my fingers shook as I lifted them to his mouth. But he hid himself behind his stony
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