The lead coach rolled to a stop and Queen Makhi emerged. She was tall and lean, and though there was some resemblance to Princess Ehri, Makhi looked like an artist’s illustration of a queen come to life—her toffee-brown eyes luminous, bronze skin without flaw, black hair falling in lustrous waves to her waist. She wore silks of leaf green, a pattern of silver falcons taking flight from the hem, and a crown of massive green stones that would have put the Lantsov emerald to shame. She was quickly flanked by two ministers in dark green.

The Taban queens didn’t take husbands but had multiple male consorts, so no man could claim any child as his nor make any bid for the throne. Makhi would never wed, but her sisters would. For alliance.

Nikolai bowed deeply. “Queen Makhi, we welcome you to the Grand Palace and hope you will find it to your liking.”

The queen glanced around, the faintest sneer on her lips. This was her first opportunity to insult his country.

“The celestial throne of the Shu and wearer of the Taban crown greets you. We are most grateful for your hospitality.” At least they were beginning well.

Nikolai offered her his arm. “It would be my honor to escort you to the royal chapel. Or perhaps your party would like a chance to rest themselves and have some refreshment?”

The queen glanced at her ministers, who remained stone-faced. She gave a brief sigh and slid her hand into the crook of Nikolai’s elbow. “Best this distasteful business was done quickly.”

Nikolai led her down the path, and in a great wave of velvet, silk, and sparkling gems, their party processed toward the royal chapel, which lay almost exactly halfway between the Grand Palace and the Little Palace.

“The chapel is said to have been built on the site of Ravka’s first altar,” said Nikolai. “Where the first Lantsov king was crowned.”

“Fascinating,” she said, then added beneath her breath, “Are these niceties strictly necessary?”

“No, but I find they help ease the way when meeting with a woman who tried to engineer my death and the overthrow of my rule.”

Makhi’s hand tensed slightly against his arm. “Where is my sister? I would speak to her before the ceremony.”

No doubt, but there would be none of that. Nikolai ignored her.

The chapel had been carefully restored after the Darkling’s attack, and Fabrikator craft had ensured that its dark beams and golden dome had been made even lovelier than what had come before. The whole place smelled of wood polish and sweet incense. Its pews were packed with guests in their finest: Ravkan nobility in fashionably cut coats and gowns, Grisha in their jewel-hued kefta.

“Who will perform this travesty of a ceremony?” Makhi asked, peering down the aisle at the gilded altarpiece of thirteen Saints. “I hear your priest is occupied elsewhere. To imagine my sister will marry a bastard.”