Page 101 of Thief of Souls
Toward the shadows that linger between the enormous columns that support the roof of the amphitheater. And the lean figure that stands there.
Falion.
His assassin.
Shit. Maybe Belladonna isn’t the only one who’s been plotting to stop this wedding in its tracks.
Stalking toward her betrothed, Belladonna’s eyes find me in the crowd. Her eyebrow arches challengingly, as if to demand whether I’ve fulfilled my part of the assignment or not.
I roll my eyes. The second Mistmark left his rooms, I went through them. There was no sign of a map to the horn, but when I placed a piece of paper over his desk blotter and scribbled graphite over it, words showed through.
Mistmark has a letter tucked in his pocket revealing the whereabouts of the horn—presumably to give to Malechus the second the vows are said.
Except, I also know the contents of said letter.
And I’m going to get there first.
I just need a distraction.
The priestess steps forward wearing a gauzy white gown, roses bedecking her hair. “Goddess bless thee.”
“And thee,” intones the gathering.
“Who stands before Her Holiness today?” she calls.
There’s a long drawn-out moment before Mistmark clears his throat. “Alaric of the Summervein, Lord of Mistmark.”
She turns to the bride. “And thee?”
A clear voice rings through the grotto. “Belladonna of the Blood Lily, Lady of Mariangettes.”
The priestess settles into her usual spiel about the goddess’s blessing. Belladonna’s voice is quiet as she repeats the words she needs to say to make her pledge—too many people might recognize the slight changes of timbre in her voice.
Mistmark’s cool tone is almost a shock after her quiet words.
The priestess summons her page forward, and he presents a dagger on a plush velvet cushion. “By blood I bind thee,” she calls, taking the dagger and slicing a nick into the tip of Mistmark’s finger.
Holding his hand over a golden goblet, she forces three droplets of blood to mix with the elderberry wine within.
She repeats the gesture with the bride and then presses the cuts together, mingling their blood. A velvet ribbon binds their wrists together—if they remain bound until the following morning, it’s said their union will be blessed with bounty. To strike the cord early means drama and strife.
“Drink and Goddess bless,” she says, lifting the wine to Mistmark’s mouth and then the bride’s.
“Ready?” Keir murmurs.
“Wait,” I urge, tucking my arm through his elbow.
He’s giving me a look, as though he’s starting to suspect I’ve another plan up my sleeve. “Not until after the ceremony,” I caution.
Thick lashes shield his eyes from view. “Just what are you up to, Mira?”
“I don’t want to bring misfortune down upon this hall,” I whisper. It’s said the goddess watches each blessing, and to defy her will is to draw her attention. “Just a few moments more. Once it’s done, the goddess will turn her face away.”
“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“A good thief doesn’t invite bad luck.”
He nods, thank the goddess.
