The gaudy colouring with which she veiled her unhappiness afforded as little real comfort as the gay uniform of the soldier when it is drawn over his mortal wound. -- Sir Walter Scott, The Heart of Midlothian

The day of the royal wedding was ushered in by bells ringing all over the city. Særnor and Arásy heard them as they offered a quick prayer for their son and his soon-to-be wife. Nadriet heard them as she listened to the cook's last-minute worrying about the menu. Qihadal heard them as her maids began to brush and style her hair. Kilan heard them as his valet showed him the outfit he would wear for the ceremony. Death heard them as she collected the souls of the inhabitants of Esergot appointed to die today -- for people die even on someone's wedding day.

Ribbons had been tied around lampposts and pinned to store-fronts. People lined the streets waving handkerchiefs. There was a general air of celebration in the city. A royal wedding wasn't an everyday occurrence, after all.

The only people who weren't celebrating were the bride and groom.

Custom dictated that the soon-to-be married couple travel in an ornate carriage painted brilliant red and gold, accompanied by the parents. Kilan's parents stood behind him, their presence a silent comfort. Qihadal's parents were conspicuous by their absence. One of her sisters and a half-brother stood in their stead.

No one spoke for the duration of the journey to the temple. Kilan's crown and cape weighed heavily upon him. Qihadal's dress appeared to have been made by someone with only a rudimentary grasp of dressmaking, or for a different woman entirely. It didn't fit her properly, and the veil was so long and so covered with ruffles that it took up almost half the carriage. He hardly dared move in case he stepped on it.

~~~~

Qihadal had been told in detail everything that would happen during the wedding. There was a raised platform inside the entrance to the temple. She and the Emperor would ascend stairs on different sides of it, and meet in the middle. Then, hand in hand, they would descend another flight of stairs and walk up the aisle to the altar.

Knowing what to do did not make doing it any easier.

She almost tripped over her dress as she began to climb the stairs. When she finally reached the top, after a slow and awkward climb, the Emperor was waiting for her. Silently he offered her his hand. Silently she took it.

The temple's walls were lined with mirrors. Qihadal didn't know why, and didn't know enough Carannish to ask. She supposed they served some purpose or had religious significance. But as she and Tinuviel approached the altar, she happened to glance in the mirror ahead of her. What she saw made her blood run cold.

Ahead of her, in the real world, stood only the priestess, an assistant, the best man, and the bridesmaids. But the mirror reflected a whole crowd of winged, black-robed figures standing around the altar.

Qihadal sneaked a glance at some of the other mirrors. All of them showed the same thing. Lining the aisle, sitting between the guests, standing around the room... there were black figures everywhere. And not one of them was visible anywhere except in the mirrors.

A cold chill ran down her spine. What did this mean? Was it a warning? An omen? Why was no one frightened? Could the guests not see what was standing in their midst?

Qihadal and Tinuviel had reached the altar by now. They knelt down. The priestess was chanting something in Carannish. Qihadal's eyes kept darting to the mirror.

What was especially unnerving about the figures was that they weren't doing anything. They just stood in one place as if they were statues. Occasionally one of them turned to another as if to comment on the ceremony. They acted like guests, Qihadal realised. Invisible, unwanted guests who had come to watch the royal wedding. But why? What were they? Why did a wedding, no matter whose it was, matter anything to them?

It was as she recited her vows that she spotted the woman. A tall, thin woman stood behind the altar, leaning against a statue. Like the figures, the woman wore a hooded black cloak, though her hood was pulled down. Like the figures, she had wings like a raven's. Unlike the figures, she was visible in both the real world and the mirror -- though apparently visible only to Qihadal.

Guessing her age was impossible. On first glance, Qihadal could have sworn she was a skeleton. She looked again, and the woman now appeared young and decidedly less skeletal, but her eyes...

The priestess began to chant again. Tinuviel made an impatient, hastily-suppressed movement, as if he wanted to run away but thought better of it. Qihadal watched him out of the corner of her eye. He never looked at the mirror, but she saw the exact moment when he saw the woman.

First he started, almost imperceptibly. Then he smiled. It was such a brief smile that she almost thought she imagined it. But there had been genuine happiness in it. For some reason, he was glad to see the woman there.

Qihadal looked from her new husband, to the mysterious guest. Tinuviel kept glancing back at the woman, and there was more warmth in them than she had ever seen before.

Suddenly, she understood.

~~~~

If I never go through this again, it will be much too soon, Kilan thought. Almost at the same time, he wondered, Will this day ever end?

The ceremony was over. The reception had just ended. Now all that remained was the long, painful business of thanking the guests for coming. Kilan smiled so much his face ached, and shook so many hands his arm felt like it might fall off.

Finally, after what felt like a week, the last guest had left. Princess Qihadal -- no, that should be Empress Qihadal -- was led by a housemaid to the wing set aside for her. Kilan, feeling the beginnings of a phenomenal headache, said goodnight to his parents and made his way to his own room.

He changed into his pyjamas and collapsed onto the bed, too tired to even turn out the light. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

~~~~

Everyone, from the lowliest servant to the highest nobleman, woke considerably later than usual the next morning. There had been celebrations into the early hours of the morning, and much alcohol had been consumed, so no one was inclined to wake up at the break of dawn.

Kilan was the only person in the palace who woke at his accustomed time. The first thing he noticed was that he had left the light on last night. The second thing was how quiet it was.

He sat up in bed and listened. There wasn't a sound in the entire palace. No footsteps sounded in the hall. No doors or windows were opened. There wasn't the faintest murmur of conversation. It was as if everyone in the palace had died in the night, and he was the only survivor.

"Good morning, Tinuviel."

The words were so unexpected, and spoken so close to his ear, that Kilan yelped and fell out of bed.

"Why do you keep sneaking up on me like that?" he complained, glaring up at Death.

She grinned from ear to ear -- literally, which was downright terrifying. "Your reactions are always amusing."

He climbed to his feet. She lay back on his bed, grinning and making no move to help him.

"I hope you've a good reason for visiting," he said with his best attempt at an exasperated tone. He was glad to see her, but she'd be insufferable if he let her know that. "I have things to do today."

"No, you don't," Death said, surprisingly.

Kilan stopped in the middle of fastening back the curtains to stare at her blankly. "What do you mean?"

Death raised an eyebrow and looked at him as if he was incredibly stupid. "You do remember that there's a week of celebrations after an Emperor marries, don't you? All political matters are put on hold until the week's over."

Now he thought of it, Kilan vaguely remembered hearing something about that. He had so many other matters to think about that it was no surprise it had slipped his mind. "But I have things to do, even if it's officially a holiday. A new engineering school has asked me to formally announce the school's opening, and I've a request for a trade agreement to look at, and I really must do something about the Iqui..."

He paced around the room as he spoke, almost forgetting Death's presence in the face of the myriad tasks awaiting him. It was a shock, then, when she reached out as he passed the bed, grabbed his arm, and pulled him down beside her.

"That's enough, Tinuviel." As always, she spoke his regnal name in an amused, half-mocking tone. "You're going to have a holiday today, whether you like it or not. And you and I are going to have a long, serious talk."

"I don't like the sound of that," Kilan said dubiously. Long, serious talks tended to leave him in the middle of yet another mess. He still had to confront his aunt about assassinating his uncle, and he had to blackmail the Iqui. There was no space in his busy schedule for yet more trouble. "What are we going to talk about?"

"Your reign."

Kilan liked the sound of that even less. He looked at Death's face, hoping to see some indication that she was joking. But no; for once she looked perfectly serious, with no smile lurking in her eyes or in the corners of her mouth.

"Can I have breakfast first?" he asked in the tone of one trying to stave off the inevitable.

~~~~

Usually Kilan ate his meals with Nadriet in a small dining room. The cooks prepared their food, and servants brought it to them. Today, however, all the cooks and servants were asleep. Presumably, so was Nadriet. And Kilan was left with no one to make breakfast for him.

"Don't look at me," Death said, from where she was lying stretched out on his bed. "Cooking has never been a skill I have needed."

Kilan groaned. "On second thoughts, breakfast can wait an hour or two."

He sat down on the chair by the fireplace with the air of one resigned to his fate. "Well? What do you want to say?"

Death patted the empty side of the bed beside her. "Come here. You're too far away over there, and I can't be bothered getting up."

Kilan rolled his eyes, but he went over to sit on the bed beside her.

"The first thing you must know," Death said in an unusually serious tone, "is that you are far too nice and kind-hearted for politics."

"Then it's just as well I don't want to be involved in politics."

"Oh, but you have no choice. You are the Emperor. Everyone wants you to do what they want, and you want them to do what you want. You'll be in a constant battle for the rest of your life. You must learn how to fight it."

Kilan drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "But I don't want to be constantly fighting with people! I just want a peaceful life, and to do what's best for the Empire."

Death smiled, the sort of smile you would give a child who had said something amusing but couldn't be expected to know better. "Believe me, Kilan. It will be better for you and everyone else -- including the Empire -- if you train yourself to see the world as a battlefield."

"I don't think that would be better for anyone!"

Death shrugged. "Ask Ranoryin, if you don't believe me."

Her appeal to Ranoryin gave Kilan pause. She would never be foolish enough to wager a lie on the word of a woman who hated her, so there must be truth in what she said.

"What else?" he asked warily.

"You must learn to look at a situation and weigh up all its possible outcomes. Ask yourself before you make a decision, 'How will this decision help me?' That's not to say that you shouldn't make a decision that have no benefit to yourself, but you should do so sparingly. The eyes of the entire Empire are on you -- and eyes from further afield, too. It's easier to lose popularity than gain it, and once lost the good opinion of your people is hard to recover."

"I don't understand," Kilan began, frustrated and angry in equal measure.

The bedroom door opened, silencing what he was about to say. Kilan and Death froze. There was no time for Death to hide. Princess Qihadal had already stepped through the door.

She gasped upon seeing Death. In the split second before she spoke, Kilan took stock of the situation. Here was his official wife, who had for some reason decided to visit. Here was his actual wife, lying in bed beside him. There was no way he could possibly explain this away.

Oh gods. He was doomed.