Once her makeup was done, Aisling set off for the ancestral hall in a carriage that had come to fetch her.
The marriage alliance touched the relations between the two realms.
King Cathal had already offered rites of blessing to sky and earth and, at court, formally named the chief envoy to oversee the wedding.
Today, escorted by the welcoming envoy, Aisling was to pay her respects in the ancestral hall before King Cathal and his officials, and then set out from the royal city.
Aisling stood at the foot of the steps and, led by the officials of the Office of Rites who were in charge of the ceremony, climbed toward the hall.
Perhaps because of the weight of her ceremonial robes and headdress, every step was a struggle.
When at last she reached the top, she saw officials standing in attendance on both sides and, at their head, King Cathal.
They stood there with solemn, almost expressionless faces.
Then the Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, unrolled a vellum scroll, and pronounced a blessing.
After him King Cathal also spoke a few words before the hall.
Aisling paid little attention, simply going through the motions and reciting a few lines prepared for her.
Finally, when all the ceremonial rites were done, a woman official helped Aisling onto a golden and silver carriage drawn by four horses, a fitting reserved for the queen.
It was more a palanquin than a carriage, topped with a many colored canopy, its four posts gilded and hung with green stone pendants and golden bells.
It had no walls, only crimson brocade and tassels hanging from the roof.
Inside was a seat, and Aisling knelt with her hands folded, her long skirt spread around her.
A dignified figure could be dimly seen from outside, and when the breeze lifted the drapes, glimpses of her resplendent appearance showed now and then.
Around the main carriage were several attendant carriages, ahead and behind, each painted in one of five colors, green, red, yellow, white, and black, for the five quarters of the realm: east, south, center, west, and north.
There were also escort and supply wagons, and palace attendants bearing canopies before and behind.
In addition, ministers with red silk ribbons across their chests walked in front, and the royal guards cleared the way.
The grandeur of the procession rivaled that of the king’s own wedding.
After three resounding drumbeats, amid the music, Aisling’s wedding carriage slowly left the royal city.
Aisling saw many people standing at the palace gate to see her off.
There was Lady Sibéal, unable to suppress a smile.
There were the wives of earls and princes, their expressions equally solemn but tinged with sighs.
And there was Princess Gráinne, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen like walnuts, watching her in the carriage with reluctance.
If the palace maids had not held her back, she might have rushed over to cling to the carriage.
Aisling nodded slightly at her, offering a silent look of comfort.
She even saw Princess Aoibhinn, that usually domineering and naive girl, whose small face now wore a complexity quite unlike her.
She was not glad to have escaped the fate of a marriage alliance.
Instead she carried a certain melancholy.
This carefree little princess seemed to have grown up a great deal overnight, meeting for the first time the world outside the ivory tower Lady Neala had built for her.
It turned out that the outside world was so terrifying, able to destroy her sixteen years of happy life with ease.
Knowing that the princess of Kilmore was to be married today, the common people of Dunmore crowded the streets to watch, completely blocking Kingsway, along which the procession passed.
When the wedding procession appeared, every eye was drawn to the extravagantly ornate carriage in the middle.
They all knew the princess was being sent to marry the clan king of Dunmara to win his favor.
Though they knew such a thing was no glory for Kilmore, they could not help harboring a shameful hope in their hearts: that the princess might truly bring stability to Kilmore.
The nomad clans eyed them greedily.
The Skarrow, the hill raiders, the clans of Dunmara, and the Fenn all had strong and powerful armies.
The marsh folk of the south and the sea raiders were restless too.
In recent years there had been constant friction on the borders, with clashes breaking out from time to time, but Kilmore dared not escalate the disputes.
Since the defeat at Blackthorn Pass against the Skarrow ten years earlier, King Cathal had stopped sending troops lightly and only ordered his generals to hold the passes.
He could not bear the consequences of another defeat.
Seeing King Cathal’s weakness, the barbarians had raided south ever more often in recent years, and their shadow lay over the skies of the south.
This time, by actively allying with the clans of Dunmara, if it succeeded, they could use them to hold the Skarrow in check and buy Kilmore a period of stability.
Amid the bustling crowd, with music and songs, Kingsway in Dunmore presented a scene of unprecedented prosperity, as if gathering up the last glory of Kilmore.
The talk and sighs around her seemed no more than wisps of smoke.
The light that filtered into the carriage was dim and hazy.
She seemed a lifeless, gilded and painted statue placed inside that ornate carriage, quietly passing under the gaze of the multitude.
Their eyes shone, eager and hopeful, fixed on her, wishing she could bring peace and stability to Kilmore like a goddess.
How ironic: a realm that had never allowed women to ascend to the halls of court was now laying the safety of the kingdom on a woman’s shoulders.
The wedding procession moved slowly on until it reached West Gate, where Ronan’s retinue was waiting, along with Lorcan Doyle, who led a thousand of the Ravenhelm Guard in brand new silver armor, long swords at their waists, mounted on fine horses and looking imposing.
But the imposing look was rather superficial.
Their eyes were calm and lacked the bloodthirsty air of battle hardened veterans, a stark contrast to the cavalry of Dunmara beside them.
Those riders’ armor was not as polished as the Ravenhelm Guard’s, some even stained with blood rust, and their swords were of every style.
Yet they were sturdy of build, with tiger like faces and eagle like eyes, each exuding the air of a seasoned warrior.
Their combined killing intent was so overwhelming that people had to look away.
Ronan sat at the center of the gate on a sleek black steed.
His attire today was especially grand: the royal robes of the clan king, a royal crown, a crimson gem on his chest.
The leather belt at his waist set off his tall, robust frame.
In the sunlight his prominent brow stood out, and his finely shaped, upswept eyes with emerald green pupils were fixed ahead.
When he saw the crimson bridal carriage appear, his eyes flashed, as if they could pierce the veil and try to see the goddess like bride within.
Through the veil he could not see her clearly, only her straight back in its luxurious wedding gown, her hair piled high and adorned with ornate pieces that shimmered with golden light.
Even her blurred silhouette filled him with anticipation, and his steed shifted restlessly beneath him.
He had seen her in plain clothes, stern and commanding; in snow white garments, distant and icy; even with her jade fair face stained with blood, alluring yet tragic.
But now he longed to see her in a wedding gown made for him.
Everyone saw the Prince of Dunmara suddenly dismount and stride toward the bridal carriage without a word.
His deerskin boots struck the ground with steady, powerful steps.
He pushed aside the ceremonial attendants lined up in two rows and strode forward with unstoppable resolve until he stopped in front of the bridal carriage.
With a sweep of his long arm, he lifted the veil.
Green stones and pearls clinked softly with a crisp sound.
Bright sunlight suddenly flooded in, making Aisling squint.
When her eyes had adjusted, she saw that it was Ronan who had lifted the curtain.
The carriage was of a high fitting, with tall wheels and a good distance from the ground.
An ordinary person standing before it would look small, but Ronan stood a full head taller than most, and so he could meet Aisling’s gaze at eye level.
A flicker of surprise crossed her clear, ebony eyes.
She had not expected him to come over so suddenly, but she was not afraid.
After a brief moment of astonishment she quickly composed herself, her expression gentle and serene, and nodded to him.
“Prince of Dunmara, is there something you need?”
Ronan’s gaze swept boldly over her face.
He narrowed his green eyes and, ignoring the onlookers, stared at her intently for a while.
His gaze was as sharp as a blade, as if it could strip away her fair skin.
He had not seen her in days and had missed her deeply.
A few days earlier he had sent someone with a letter asking to meet her, but she had refused, saying she was too busy preparing for her distant marriage.
Ronan had been quite annoyed at the time.
As a king in his own land he could have anything he wanted, yet a woman had turned him down.
But after the annoyance, a strange anticipation rose in his heart.
After all, in a few days she would return to Dunmara with him and be his wife.
By then she could no longer refuse him.
With such thoughts, Ronan had waited for the day of her wedding.
Just now, standing under the city gate and seeing the bridal carriage appear, he could no longer suppress his desire to see her, so he followed his heart and lifted the curtain.
They say a bride on her wedding day is the most beautiful, and Ronan now agreed.
Today she looked breathtaking, her attire more luxurious than ever.
He had thought she suited plain clothes and light veils, like the cold moon goddess, but with heavy makeup and adorned in gold and color she had a different, radiant beauty, like a rose in full bloom, dignified and grand yet with a soft, delicate flush.
Her face was less sickly, her skin white with a hint of pink, like the soft, tender petals of a rose, making one want to pinch them to see whether dew would really come out.
Such a delicate, flower like face, yet it held a pair of black, translucent eyes whose light was like cold, shining stars in a dark night sky.
When she looked at him, Ronan’s heart was gently scratched.
The frustration that had been pent up in him these days vanished the moment he saw her in a wedding gown for him, and Ronan felt deeply satisfied.
While Ronan was looking at her, Aisling was observing him too.
Ever since she had asked him to shave his beard, he had indeed kept his word.
Today his face was clean, with only a faint trace of blue on his chin and no sign of stubble.
His attire today was also very formal.
Though different from southern dress, it was just as majestic.
His royal cap was set with precious gems that shone brightly in the sunlight.
He was only twenty, but his resolute eyes gave him a kingly air, so that one dared not underestimate him for his youthful looks.
To do so would be the gravest of mistakes.
“Prince of Dunmara?” Seeing that he had not answered, Aisling called again.
Ronan finally snapped out of his thoughts, though his gaze never left her face.
He curled his lips into a pleased smile and said, “You look very beautiful today!”
Then, as Aisling watched in mild confusion, he let go of the brocade curtain, turned on his heel, and swiftly mounted his horse.
With a wave of his hand, the procession set off again.
The onlookers dared to speak again only after Ronan had gone.
They discussed his lifting of the carriage curtain and all agreed that barbarians were truly uncivilized, with no sense of manners, capable of such shocking behavior.
Some who stood closer, from their vantage point behind him, had caught a glimpse inside the carriage and, on seeing the beauty of the Peace Princess, felt even more pity for her.
“What a shame, a royal lady marrying such a rough, uncultured man.
Who knows if she can endure it.”
“What a pity.”
Sitting in the carriage, Aisling overheard their sighs, and her calm heart found it all a little absurd.
They all lamented her marriage to a barbarian, yet none dared, or wished, to step forward and stop it, for they knew that only by befriending Ronan could Kilmore’s stability be kept.
Rather than mourning her, the Peace Princess, they were mourning the lost glory of the southern folk.
The procession gradually rolled out of Dunmore.
After passing through the towering gates, Aisling could not help looking back at that majestic, ancient capital that had stood for a thousand years.
The walls, towering in the sunlight, bore mottled marks on their stonework, a testament to the trials and years the old city had endured.
Dunmore, the dream of countless generations, a name often spoken whose longing was never fully captured.
This city had witnessed too many stories, of kings and generals, of golden ages and long songs.
The name “Dunmore” was itself a heavy volume of history.
Aisling had not lived in this city long, and it had not left her many joyful memories.
Yet now that she was about to leave, she wondered how much time would pass before she could return, whether the city would still be standing five years on or would be destroyed by war.
She could not even be sure she would ever truly come back here…
A whirl of emotion surged in her heart, tangling into an inexpressible reluctance.
How strange!
Goodbye, Dunmore.
I hope we meet again.
Aisling lifted the gauze curtain for one last look at the ancient capital, then sat up straight and gazed ahead at the vast land, where the sky was high and the clouds wide, and birds soared through the air.
Now she had no choice but to move forward, always forward!