The young woman sitting in the palanquin was less woman and more veil. Yards of blue satin and silk covered every inch of her skin. He could see nothing of her except the tips of fingers as she adjusted her veils. Even those little dots of her skin told him nothing, as her fingers were stained dark red with the petals of balsam flowers.

She walked ten paces ahead of the rest of her procession. Her stepmother. Queen Raval, was decked out in gold and silver, outshining the bride and everyone else in attendance. The bride herself came to the altar without fuss, quickly like she was taking a stroll through the city streets. As she got closer, Cheran could see through the thin material of her silk veils. The embroidered border of the veils were unswayed by the wind, and Cheran got the impression the princess was much the same. She stood opposite him without moving or speaking, a statue prepared to do her duty and nothing else.

The priest blessed them and conducted the marriage rites. At the end of it, she bowed to the priest, faced the wedding guests to bow to them, and finally turned back towards him. He received the priest’s blessings and turned towards the crowd of people gathered to see the wedding.

She stood next to him with her hands clasped in front of her waist. He saw her exhale deeply before collecting herself and resuming her perfect posture. Cheran took a step closer to her. His father and Queen Raval stood at the bottom of the steps of the altar. His father looked resigned to the union, but the queen seemed happy. Cheran knew the princess was born to the first queen, not Queen Raval, and there was no fondness on the queen’s face. There was no fear for the princess. It did not matter to her that the princess would be left alone in a strange country, among people she called her enemies only a few months before. She certainly met the expectations of being an evil stepmother.

“A pleasure to meet you, your highness,” Cheran said, offering her his hand.

“An honor to meet you, your highness,” the woman said, slipping her hand into his. The gold bangles at her wrist were old gold, darkened and of a fashion from decades ago. Her skin was the color of ocher, and her voice reminded him of passing sages who sometimes visited the court. Her words were deliberate, clear, but lacked the obsequence of most people. The ring on her finger was the one new piece of jewelry, a gift from him. He heard the rapid pattern of her breathing, and felt the drum of her pulse against his fingers as he held her wrist. Peoples’ faces lied. Their stances and their voices lied. But their bodies didn’t. Cheran knew it well. To everyone looking, he had no reason to be nervous. He was in his home country, he was the heir to the throne. There was nothing to cause him fear or trepidation, but he could feel his heartbeat rising to match the tempo of hers.

He could already see his father’s plans. Others would see just a happy father, but Cheran was familiar with how the emperor worked. Like the cogs and wheels behind an empty clock face, his father’s mind was constantly at work, in ways Cheran couldn’t begin to understand. It would be expected that he would take on more duties at court, and the whole capital city of Yerna would be waiting for him to falter or fail.

“The last step is steeper than the rest,” the princess whispered. Cheran noticed that the step was, and that he would’ve stumbled without the warning. He hastened to thank the princess, but she was already a step ahead of him, looking straight ahead. She offered his father a deep bow and waited for his blessings.

“Be well and be happy,” the emperor said, placing his hand on her shoulder.

Cheran noticed that the princess did not seek her stepmother’s blessing. Instead, she bowed again to the nobles and other wedding guests before standing next to him. The guests offered them their blessings as they left, and by the time most of the hall was empty, it was twilight. The princess showed no signs of tiredness, her posture just as perfect as it was in the morning. Cheran was ready to retire to his rooms when the priest reappeared, announcing that there were more rituals to be performed, more prayers done for them to have a long and happy marriage.

They dutifully did their part. His father was gone, busy with other things. He was perhaps negotiating treaties with the queen of Noumin. As soon as news of the marriage broke, ministers started to approach him for decisions to be made. Cheran was granted a new title, domain over the northern Phalshar Mountains. He was even given permission to move into another manor on the castle grounds.

The princess’s maids approached her and guided her away. There had been opportunities to meet her before the wedding, but Cheran had not made any effort. He was busy fulfilling his new expectations. Four months had seemed like an eternity, but they passed by in a flash. He had been inundated with wedding planning, advising on withdrawing troops, on possible business ventures with Noumin. Besides, there was no point to meeting her when the outcome was already decided. It was not as if he could meet her and decline to marry her. The princess walked away without looking back. Apparently, she thought the same. He realized he still hadn’t seen her face.

Obal approached him as the priest walked off. The servants began to sweep the hall. The floor was covered in wilting rose petals, most of the stone floors covered in a blanket of red. Cheran smirked. It looked like the aftermath of a war.

“So it is done,” Obal said.

“So it is done,” Cheran agreed.

“I hear the princess is rather pious,” he said. “Some of the guests spoke of her living at a monastery for much of the last few years.”

He was not a devout believer. He said his prayers and offered tithes, but it was out of a sense of ceremony than actual belief. The gods seemed to be indifferent beings, to him. When he bowed his head in front of an idol, he thought of other things. There was no sincerity and no fear or love for the divine. Yet he received all that he wanted. The poor lined up at dawn to offer gifts to the gods, and all they walked away with emptier pockets and unfounded hope. Either the divine played favorites, or they were apathetic to all that happened.

He started to walk towards his new rooms and stopped. He had missed one of the words Obal told him. She had not visited the monastery over the years. She had lived there. For months he had tried to inquire about her through the usual ways. All courts had gossip, all young women had friends or lovers. Some of them traveled and with them, gossip. However, he had heard nothing of her. He had assumed that Noumin was being careful about their princess, that people had grown tight-lipped with all that was at stake. At the worst, he had assumed that she was a shut-in raised without much education or culture. Some nations preferred to raise their young women that way, raising them only for strategic marriages.

Shut-ins were something, simpletons were another. They were both better alternatives to someone who had lived in a monastery. Cheran was familiar with the way monks and priestesses lived. Austerely. No one lived at a monastery unless they were completely committed to their faith. Especially if they were a princess. Even the most vestigial of princesses were expected to be in court and look pretty, to host balls or tea parties. If someone lived at a monastery for years, it meant they had abandoned all hopes of power or all dreams of any role among high society. Such people did not agree to unexpected marriages from princes of far-off lands.

“How long did she live there?” Cheran asked.

“I’ll find out.”