Soon enough a procession of hulking automaton guards appeared outside the dressing room, and Genevieve was escorted outside into the dry, dusty air. It was chafing, cloying, and difficult to breathe, but what disturbed her most was its uncanny lifelessness. The air in her homeland was humid but rarely muggy, cool and refreshing whenever you stepped outdoors, and rich with vibrant, living magic. Her entire life she had been accompanied by the subtle whisper of energy at her fingertips. She was used to feeling a connection with the land, and being able to manifest its will as her own. But in Gryst the air, the land itself, was barren, hollowed out and dried. Whatever once grew on the plains had long died out. The earth had no power to express itself. And so neither did she.
She didn''t understand how anybody could live in a place like this.
And then there were the automatons. The hulking metal men marching her to her fate, sunlight glinting brightly off their smooth, rounded metal bodies. They had no faces, only empty helmets affixed to the tops of their heads. Genevieve had only realized in the last few days that the helmets were added on after the fact, bolted to the headless torsos of these things that had no need for a mind, in what must have been an attempt to make them seem the slightest bit more personable. They were nothing more than hollow shells, another symptom of the desolation that King Harmon and his ghoul of a son somehow expected their subjects to live in.
They had given her a twisted feeling deep in her body even before Cornelius''s little display. Now she could barely stand to look at them.
Genevieve was marched out of the Prince''s palace–his summer home in remote Fogard, where it was so easy to keep her isolated–and down a cordoned path with ornate arches covered in green vines and bright flower arrangements. She could feel the plants drying and fading in the sun every time she walked under one.
Her guards forced her down the path, away from the palace itself and to the ostentatious chapel built right next door. She walked past the board in the front where the Prince''s men had put up bounty posters naming the kingdom''s most wanted. There were pencil sketches of a burly, scowling man, a girl with two horns and sharp, angry teeth, a stout older woman, and a thin, reedy man with an incredibly narrow mustache. Seeing them made Genevieve uncomfortable. Verdane issued bounties, certainly, but they didn''t place them front and center in front of a house meant to honor the Pulse. There was something wrong about it, something carceral and grotesque, but the more time she spent with Cornelius the less such things surprised her.
Crowds had gathered along the edges of the palace to watch the ceremony. They followed her along the walkway, cheering and celebrating, eager and excited, but notably keeping a short distance from the cordons that told them where they could not go. Nobody wanted to risk stepping a toe over the line.
The ceremony was being held at an altar constructed just for the event, placed atop a raised stage so a crowd of the Prince’s subjects could witness the splendor of it all. Genevieve’s automaton procession led her up the short flight of steps. She had to raise her knees slowly so she wouldn''t trip over the gown or topple over on her heels as she climbed. It was imperative that she carry herself carefully, so carefully, in case any errant movement dislodged the one thing she couldn''t afford to lose, but thankfully it didn''t make her seem suspicious. A Princess is meant to take slow, dainty little steps. That''s why they put her in such obnoxious outfits to begin with.
Onlookers followed her from when she left the palace all through her slow walk to the stage behind the chapel. Now she had reached her destination they were filtering into the parade ground cleared out for them to stand and gawk in. Genevieve tried not to resent them too much. There was always huss and fuss around her, from people who didn''t know her and shouldn''t be giving her so much credit. But they enjoyed the show, and in a land like this one, she could hardly blame anybody brightening their life with some good old royal spectacle. Maybe they hoped the union between Gryst and Verdane would make it easier to get fresh produce from the neighboring kingdom.
They at least could have given me a fruit bowl, Genevieve thought to herself. Normally she tried not to be so petty and entitled, but she wasn’t going to be her best self today. And stress had a way of making her hungry.
She climbed the stairs up to the altar, where a massive wooden arch decked out in red and gold stood over a lectern set up for the priest. Genevieve could see him, a tall, thin, balding man in long white robes talking with a flustered young woman she recognized as one of Cornelius''s maids behind the altar stage. Cornelius himself was nowhere to be seen, of course. His grand entrance needed to be the main event. Until he decided it was time to get this over with, Genevieve just had to stand there. Trembling slightly. Keeping herself steeled and shredding her nerves till they bled.
The murmurs from the crowd were getting louder. Every now and then she picked out someone saying her name or title in some combination of excitement and curiosity. They weren''t hostile to her, but she was an object of fascination, a royal from another kingdom moments away from becoming one of their rulers. They wanted to know what kind of person she was, how things might change once she was part of their royal family. She wouldn’t know what to tell them even if she had the chance.
Being gawked at was nothing new, but it was strange to realize she was unknown. Back home people had developed ideas about her. She had a public persona of sorts, and the papers long ago settled on their spin for everything she said and did in public. She was the spitfire, the problem child, petulant and immature and insufficiently regal. Making herself out as a woman of the people because she was too naive to realize how politically important and tragically pampered she was. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but a little embarrassing.
It always irked her. She respected her subjects, and she thought it was important to serve them. She understood that her position offered her privileges, and that it came with responsibilities. She had tried very hard to be an eloquent, passionate advocate to her parents, and to argue in favor of what she thought was right. But the men who wrote the papers were served well by the status quo, so if she was bringing an impetus to change it, that could only be youthful rebelliousness. Condescending self-righteousness. Childlike naivete. "It is good to have a Princess who believes in change," one of them had written, "and equally important for her to grow into a Queen that understands the importance of stability."
Genevieve placed a hand on her dress, above her heart, just to be sure it was there. She knew what was important. She did not need an old man living a comfortable life behind an editor''s desk to agree for it to be true.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
A voice startled her out of her recollection. "Perk up, Your Highness," the priest said, with a beaming smile. He had walked onto the stage and approached her while she wasn''t watching. "It''s a joyous occasion. Your subjects want a smile."
Genevieve glanced out to the crowd for a brief moment, avoiding the priest’s eyes until she decided how to answer. "I am simply growing impatient," she said. "With nothing to do but wait and wait."
"That''s understandable," the priest said. "I''m sure the anticipation would be getting to me too, if I were in your shoes. But don''t fret. They''re telling me he should be coming out in just a moment now."
"Thank you." Genevieve nodded politely. "I will bide my time."
The priest smiled and nodded and gestured an acknowledgement with the holy book in his hand. He walked off to take his place behind the podium in the center of the altar, and Genevieve was left alone with each second crawling agonizingly slow over her skin.
Her gaze passed once more over the altar stage itself. It was regally decorated, with the red-gold arch in the center and floral arrangements placed all around the edges of the platform. The half-dozen automata that escorted her had arranged themselves in a precise, formal line. Three on each side of the stage, standing at attention, still as statues. The sun shining on their slick, polished armor was almost blinding.
A loud trumpet sounded out across the field. Genevieve looked all around for the trumpeter, who seemed to be very, very close, but no matter where her gaze passed she couldn''t see any sign of a band, even as other instruments began to play a regal marching tune. There was a strange quality to the sound, like it was coming from a small room through an open door. She heard quiet chuckles from the crowd as she kept looking, which told her she was going to have to take the mystery music in stride. If there was magic doing this, she would be able to feel it, but the air was as dead as ever. Which meant the sound had to be coming from some impossible device, an inexplicable Gryst invention like the automaton guards. It was another display of power from the Prince: no magic, no men, but the band plays all the same.
He was more fond of his machines anyway.
Clanking metal could be heard past the corner of the church, opposite from where Genevieve had come in. Cheers came from the crowd on that side of the building, who had been waiting to watch the Prince''s procession, and the first trickle of them began filtering into the parade ground for the ceremony itself.
It took only a few moments longer for the Prince''s regiment to make their appearance. The first to round the corner was an automaton, smaller than the others, dressed in an elaborate military regalia. A commander, perhaps, leading the royal guard. Following behind came another regiment of half a dozen automatons, three on the left and three on the right, forming a phalanx around their royal charge, the man of the hour. The Prince himself.
Prince Cornelius was a tightly constructed specimen. Perfectly chiseled, with a strong square jaw and piercing green eyes, blond hair in a flamboyant coiffe and shoulders that weren''t quite broad enough to be conspicuous. His skin was fair, but perfectly tanned in that way only the wealthy had time to achieve. He had bragged to Genevieve that a physician (whose credentials Genevieve very much doubted) told him his skull was the perfect ratio (of what, exactly, was a mystery greater than any written on the stars). And yet every time Genevieve saw the Prince, she noticed him trying to make himself look taller than he really was.
For the ceremony he had donned a fine, tailored suit. Luxurious imported silk, in the same deep blood red of Gryst''s heraldry, adorned with the expected gold trims. He grinned big and wide and waved to the crowd as he walked around the bend and approached the altar. The sound of people swept up in the excitement and splendor of royalty grew louder the closer he got to the stage.
More cheers came from the crowd when his procession moved onto the stairs, the leading automaton first, then the prince and the guards flanking him. The click of Prince Cornelius''s hard-toed dress shoes against the wooden steps stood out clearly amongst the metallic clanking and thudding of armor. Each step sent a little trickle of dread oozing down Genevieve''s spine.
The commanding automaton stepped up onto the stage, and immediately marched off towards the corner, where it stood rigidly at attention. The phalanx automatons did the same, joining the ones that had come out with Genevieve in their lines at the sides of the stage. And then there was Cornelius himself, walking towards the middle and stopping just a short distance from Genevieve. He grinned at her, his eyes looking her over with ugly triumph hiding behind them, his wide grin taking on a darkly predatory quality only for her. "My dearest Genevieve," he said with looming gravitas.
"Cornelius." Genevieve did her best to smile pretty for the Prince and the crowd. Giving him what he wanted. Best to appease him, just for a few moments. Just long enough.
The music slowly died down and the crowd began to hush, not fully silent but keeping their conversations to a respectful whisper. A quiet thunk was made by the priest setting his holy book on the podium. He adjusted a strange device, tall and black and thin with a rounded top, that was set before him, and the soft tap he gave it reverberated loudly across the parade grounds. “A good afternoon to everyone assembled,” he said, and his voice came out so big and booming that even those far in the back would have heard it clearly. “Honored guests and loyal subjects of the Kingdom of Gryst, today is a day for rejoicing. We are gathered here, at this site of the Holy Pulse, to celebrate the marriage of these two beautiful young people." He swept his hands across the stage, and Cornelius waved big and grand for all to see. All Genevieve could muster was a tiny wave and a tinier smile. Dainty and timid, like a Princess should be.
“I know everyone has been waiting patiently to see this wedding,” the priest continued, “and the union of this great nation with our verdant neighbors to the south. But as impatient as you are right now, imagine how our lucky couple must feel!” That earned a polite sort-of-laugh from the crowd. “So let’s not keep them waiting any longer. Will the bride and groom please step forward?”
As soon as he said that, Genevieve held up her hand. "Before we do," she said, speaking up loud enough for the crowd to hear her for the first time since she took the stage. A murmur ran through the parade ground, and the Prince''s smile took on a forced, strained quality. "There is one thing I need to say to you… my dearest.” She looked Cornelius in the eye. “In front of the people of Gryst and our fine priest, serving witness for the Pulse itself."
"And what is this portentous message, my sweet?" Cornelius asked. He was grinning wide for the crowd, but there was murder in his eyes.
Genevieve didn''t answer with words. She put her hand to her breast, gripped tightly, and stepped forward towards the Prince.
It was careful work, pulling it out from its hiding place under the frills of her gown. She’d practiced the motion over and over with the fanciest dress she still had from home. The wedding gown was much more cumbersome. But not so cumbersome she couldn’t still do it.
She took another step.
There was no way to be inconspicuous. So she had to be fast. The Prince was close enough now. Even with her heels. Just this once she didn’t have to be elegant. She only needed to strike true.
She threw herself at him, and aimed the blade for his heart.