SARENE straightened Raoden’s jacket, then stood back, tapping her cheek as she studied him. She would have preferred a white suit rather than a gold one, but for some reason white seemed pale and lifeless when placed next to his silvery skin.
“Well?” Raoden asked, holding his arms out to the sides.
“You’ll have to do,” she declared airily.
He laughed, approaching and kissing her. “Shouldn’t you be alone in the chapel, praying and preparing? Whatever happened to tradition?”
“I tried that once already,” Sarene said, turning to make sure he hadn’t mussed up her makeup. “This time I intend to keep a close eye on you. For some reason, my potential husbands have a way of disappearing.”
“That might say something about you, Leky Stick,” Raoden teased. He had laughed long when her father explained the nickname to him, and since then he had been careful to use it at every possible occasion.
She swatted at him absently, straightening her veil.
“My lord, my lady,” said a stoic voice. Raoden’s seon, Ien, floated in through the doorway. “It is time.”
Sarene grabbed Raoden’s arm in a firm grip. “Walk,” she ordered, nodding toward the doorway. This time, she wasn’t letting go until someone married them.
* * *
RAODEN TRIED TO pay attention to the ceremony, but Korathi wedding services were lengthy and often dry. Father Omin, well aware of the precedent set by an Elantrian asking a Korathi priest to officiate at his wedding, had prepared an extensive speech for the occasion. As usual, the short man’s eyes took on a semiglazed look as he rambled, as if he had forgotten that there was anyone else present.
So Raoden let his mind wander too. He couldn’t stop thinking of a conversation he had held with Galladon earlier in the day, a conversation initiated because of a piece of bone. The bone, retrieved from the body of a dead Fjordell monk, was deformed and twisted—yet it was more beautiful than disgusting. It was like a carved piece of ivory, or a bundle of engraved wooden rods all twisted together. Most disturbingly, Raoden swore he could make out familiar symbols in the carving. Symbols he recognized from his schooling—ancient Fjordell characters.
The Derethi monks had devised their own version of AonDor.
The worry pressed on his mind with such vigor that it drew his attention even in the middle of his own wedding. Over the centuries, only one thing had kept Fjorden from conquering the West: Elantris. If Wyrn had learned to access the Dor … Raoden kept remembering Dilaf and his strange ability to resist, and even destroy, Aons. If a few more of the monks had possessed that power, then the battle could easily have gone another way.
Ien’s familiar bubble-like ball of light floated approvingly at Raoden’s side. The seon’s restoration almost made up for the dear friends Raoden had lost during the final battle to restore Elantris. Karata and the others would be missed. Ien claimed to remember nothing of his time of madness, but something seemed a little … different about the seon. He was more quiet than normal, even more thoughtful. As soon as he had some free time, Raoden planned to interrogate the other Elantrians in the hopes of discovering more about the seons. It disturbed him that throughout his studies, readings, and learning, he had never discovered exactly how seons were created—if, indeed, they were even creations of AonDor.
That wasn’t the only thing that bothered him, however. There was also the question of Shuden’s strange ChayShan dance. Onlookers, including Lukel, claimed that the JinDo had managed to defeat one of Dilaf’s monks alone—with his eyes closed. Some even said they had seen the young baron glowing as he fought. Raoden was beginning to suspect there was more than one way to access the Dor—far more. And one of those methods was in the hands of the most brutal, domineering tyrant in Opelon: Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth, Regent of All Creation.
Apparently Sarene noticed Raoden’s inattention, for she elbowed him in the side when Omin’s speech began to wind down. Ever the stateswoman, she was poised, in control, and alert. Not to mention beautiful.
They performed the ceremony, exchanging Korathi pendants that bore Aon Omi and pledging their lives and deaths to one another. The pendant he gave to Sarene had been delicately carved from pure jade by Taan himself, then overlaid with bands of gold to match her hair. Sarene’s own gift was less extravagant, but equally fitting. Somewhere she had found a heavy black stone that polished up as if it were metal, and its reflective darkness complemented Raoden’s silvery skin.
With that, Omin proclaimed to all of Arelon that its king was married. The cheering began, and Sarene leaned over to kiss him.
“Was it everything you hoped for?” Raoden asked. “You said you have been anticipating this moment for your entire life.”
“It was wonderful,” Sarene replied. “However, there is one thing I have looked forward to even more than my wedding.”
Raoden raised an eyebrow.
She smiled mischievously. “The wedding night.”
Raoden only laughed, wondering what he had gotten himself and his nation into by bringing Sarene to Arelon.