Destiny: Child of the Sky

47

The ceremonial procession of nobles had just begun as Rhapsody hurried to her seat next to Rial in the secondmost inner Ring of the circular basilica. The crowd, which now filled the entire central square of Bethany and had swelled through the streets all the way to Tannen Hall, were murmuring with excitement, pushing and pressing to get a closer look at the wedding party.

One by one the dukes of each of the Orlandan provinces, and the lesser nobles whose lineage had a historic significance in Roland, were coming down a shining carpet of royal purple that blanketed the long southern aisle leading into the temple; a similar carpet adorned the northern aisle, ending in the center at the round basilica. Each stone in the mosaics of flames that decorated the outskirts of the circular building, giving it the appearance of the sun when viewed from above, had been polished to a glittering sheen. As each nobleman passed, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Quentin Baldasarre, the Duke of Bethe Corbair, was entering the basilica just as she sat down. The duke’s face was haggard and wan, his burning eyes the only betrayal of an otherwise stolid expression.

“Where have you been, my dear?” Rial asked worriedly. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind and returned to Ylorc.” He took her hand and slipped it through the crook of his arm. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you. I apologize for my lateness; it was a miscalculation of several factors.” Rhapsody shuddered as Ihrman Karsrick, the Duke of Yarim, entered next. He was dressed in black silk breeches, with a white shirt, gleaming silver doublet, and cape, and wore upon his head a great horned helm, much like the figure who had aided the Rakshas when she fought him in the basilica of the Star the previous summer. A moment later she saw that the benison at the altar wore a similarly horned helm, though his robes, like his helm, were red. That would be Ian Steward, the Blesser of Canderre-Tarim, Tristan’s brother, she thought, staring at the young man’s sober face through the flames of the fire from the Earth’s core that burned in the center of the basilica.

A fanfare of trumpets blasted, sending a rumble of excitement through the crowd and prompting the invited guests to rise. A great shout went up as Tristan, in his sky-blue and white wedding garb and a long white cape trimmed in ermine, appeared at the edge of the northern aisle. His eyes scanned the Rings of the basilica, coming to rest after a moment on the section in which Rhapsody and Rial stood. Then, with two young male pages in tow, he strode defiantly down the aisle to the Altar of Fire in the center of the basilica and bowed perfunctorily to his brother.

Another cheer, this one louder than all the others, went up. Rhapsody and Rial looked south. Madeleine of Canderre stood, bedecked in a beautiful white silk gown glowing with the sheen from the thousands of pearls that encrusted it, her hand on the outstretched arm of her father, Cedric Canderre. She was fashionably pale, her face and neck powdered white, her long hair swept severely back and woven with ribbons of state and flowers native to Canderre. The duke’s expression was mild, but Rhapsody thought she read great sadness in his eyes, even as distant as she was from him.

As the bride and her father proceeded down the aisle, followed by two tiny handmaidens bearing chests similar to the ones that followed Tristan to the altar and the ridiculously long train of the wedding gown, Rhapsody felt a gentle touch on her elbow.

“Well, there you are, my dear,” came Llauron’s warm, cultured voice. “I am so happy to see that you are well, and able to attend the wedding.” He leaned forward conspiratorially with a twinkle in his eye. “Was that a tinker’s cart I saw you alight from a few streets away? An interesting choice of transportation for a guest of the regent.”

“Hello, Llauron,” she replied, kissing the Invoker politely on the cheek, then eyeing him suspiciously. The seven years she had spent with the Rowans had not removed the sting of his failure to send reinforcements to help her in Sorbold. “We peasants travel in such carts all the time, and are rarely invited to royal occasions.” She turned back to watch, fascinated, as Madeleine arrived at the Altar of Fire. “I’ve never seen a wedding ceremony in Roland before.”

“

“Tis a barbarous thing,” said Rial humorously, bowing to the Invoker. “Well met, Your Grace. I imagine you agree?”

Llauron chuckled. “Indeed; we of the true faith favor simplicity and none of their crude rituals. Strange, given that we worship nature in all its untamed glory, while they are the supposedly more civilized sect. Ah, well.”

“It doesn’t seem that barbarous to me,” Rhapsody protested as Tristan sank to one knee and bowed before his bride.

“Wait, my dear,” said Llauron, smiling. “We haven’t begun the Unification ritual yet.”

“What brideprice do you offer?” the benison asked Cedric Canderre.

“Forty thousand pieces of gold, one hundred Orlandan bars of platinum, fifty ingots of ancient rysin,” replied Cedric Canderre stoutly. “This is the bargain we have struck in accordance to the custom of the church and the laws of Roland.”

“I’d wager he’d have paid a lot more than that to be rid of her if Tristan had held out,” a guest in front of Rhapsody whispered to the elegantly gowned woman next to him, who nodded seriously.

“What is a brideprice?” Rhapsody asked Llauron.

“The amount her father is willing to pay Tristan Steward to take her off of his hands,” the Invoker replied with a chuckle. “It is the custom in all such weddings, but in this case, the vast amount is particularly resonant.”

Rhapsody watched doubtfully as Cedric Canderre produced a parchment scroll and a quill. “I suppose it’s not much different than the dowries paid in the farming community I was raised in,” she said uncertainly as Tristan examined the paper, nodded, then took the quill and signed the scroll on a wax tablet the benison held out for him to bear on. “Though usually it was seen as a gift from the bride’s family to help the couple start out.”

“Perhaps that was your experience. But here, should the bridegroom decide within one year’s time that his wife was not worth the brideprice, he may return her to her father, and must repay him half of it.”

“Half?” Rhapsody asked incredulously as Cedric Canderre kissed Madeleine on the cheek and withdrew to his seat within the Inner Ring. “Only half? Why?”

“Because, as she is no longer, er, untouched, she has been devalued.”

“But—”

“Now, Rhapsody, don’t sputter; it’s a fine system,” said Llauron jokingly. “The first anniversary is an extremely festive occasion in the Patriarch’s faith, as it means that the husband has chosen to keep his wife permanently. The parties are really quite splendid, I’m told. Ah, ah—now, don’t be flabbergasted, my dear; your face is red as a beet, not at all a complementary color to your lovely gown. I thought you had learned by now not to sneer at the customs of others.” He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see that you survived your ordeal and Khaddyr’s failure to meet up with you, and still met with success in your mission. I am very proud of you.”

“What—”

“Shh, my dear. The ceremony continues.” Llauron quickly turned his attention back to the altar. Rhapsody’s eyes narrowed, then she relented in her annoyance, amused in spite of herself. Llauron’s personable nature was always disarming. She made note to not let him wriggle out of providing an explanation for the mishaps in the forest, and looked back to the wedding ceremony.

Ian Steward was addressing his brother. “Tristan Steward, son of Malcolm Steward, Lord Regent of Roland and Prince of Bethany, what do you pledge to this woman?”

Tristan stood straighter, his auburn hair dark and plastered flat with sweat in the light of the altar fire.

“Field and fortune, family and fealty, by faith and the Fire, this is my pledge,” Tristan intoned.

As the benison asked for and received the same pledge from Madeleine, Rhapsody looked around, hoping to catch sight of Ashe. Though he hadn’t been able to meet her in the cistern, she hoped he would eventually catch up to her at the wedding. Whether he was here now, in the crowd somewhere, was impossible to discern, especially since his mist cloak shielded him from the normal means of detection. She sighed and settled back again to watch the ceremony.

The call of the pure element of fire from the wellspring caught her ear; there was music in the flames, music sweeter than the strains of the orchestra that was playing in the basilica.

How long she drowsed she did not know, but her attention snapped back at the benison’s next words.

“The pledge of field,” he said, his voice a drier, clearer version of Tristan’s. Tristan turned and nodded to his pages, as did Madeleine. One of each of the chests were quickly opened, and two pieces of parchment brought forward to the bride and bridegroom. Each piece was a map of the lands under their dominion, and together they laid the pieces on the altar, fitting them together to symbolize the union of their respective holdings. “The pledge of fortune,” said the benison.

The chests opened again, and two great necklaces of state were lifted out, heavy with jewels. The gems in the state necklace of Bethany were rubies and diamonds, while the royal necklace of Canderre was set in emeralds as green as the province’s fields.

The benison took the necklace of Canderre and placed it carefully around the neck of Tristan Steward, who bowed. He then placed the necklace of Bethany around Madeleine’s neck and she bowed as well.

“Well, there you have it. With a simple exchange of jewelry and maps the destinies of two lands are decided,” Rial said quietly. “The people of the province, through the various nobles who own their lands, swear fealty not to a person, but to a necklace, a chain of jewels that passes from generation to generation without regard to the wisdom of the person wearing it. Tristan has just received the pledge not only of his wife, but of all the people of her land, just because she has given him a necklace. It seems odd to me.”

Llauron nodded. “In the days of their ancestors, the Lord and Lady were always confirmed by the people themselves through the Great Moot in which they met. The land on which the Moot was built was magical; it had the power to count the affirmations of the people, and confirm or deny a claim to the throne. But, like almost everything else about those days, the meaning has been lost. Much like the Patrician religion itself, where the individual prays to intermediaries, who pray to highter intermediaries, who pray to benisons, who pray to the Patriarch, who alone has the right to pray to their God.”

Rhapsody said nothing. Raised as a peasant in a human farming village, she had never seen the political process of a land at work, so none of the rituals of the passing of power surprised her; it had always been outside of her understanding. She remembered her mother, as a Lirin among humans, having the same befuddlement as Rial now expressed.

“The pledge of family,” said the benison.

A murmur rippled of excitement through the crowd. At each edge of the carpeted aisle a soldier appeared; they were dressed in the uniforms of Canderre and Bethany. The two men drew their swords simultaneously and came down the aisle, where they saluted the couple.

“What’s happening?” Rhapsody whispered to Rial. The Lord Protector inclined his head in the direction of the altar.

“The sealing of the blood,” he said.

The little pages reached into their wooden chests again, and drew forth sheets of white cloth the size of large handkerchiefs.

“I don’t think I want to watch this,” Rhapsody said.

“As you can see, the crowd considers this the best part,” Llauron said as the couple bared the backs of their wrists. “It is considered highly fashionable for the bride to faint.”

Rial’s face bore a look of concern. “If this is truly upsetting to you I can escort you out,” he said.

Rhapsody grimaced as the wedding couple drew the backs of their wrists across the blades of the soldiers’ weapons as the men held them stationary, then joined them. “I am certainly not disturbed by the sight of blood—but at a wedding?” She watched in bewilderment as Madeleine calmly wiped the back of her hand off on the linen handkerchief held by her page, and then sank dramatically to the floor.

“Tis a symbol of the joining of the royal bloodlines, of the pledge to favor the future by producing children,” said Rial. “I witnessed the wedding of Lord Stephen in Navarne fifteen years ago, and he and his wife chose to kiss at this part instead, as do most couples of the Patrician faith, I would wager. Perhaps the Lord Roland wishes to ensure that he has a large brood.”

“Madeleine and Tristan’s children, hmmm, now there’s a cheerful thought,” Llauron murmured as the Lord Roland lifted his bride from the floor of the basilica. Rial chuckled.

Rhapsody shook her head. “You two are worse than a pair of fishwives. Honestly.”

“By the Fire, it is done,” declared the benison. The newly married couple were handed a brass pole that held a long wick. Together they dipped it in the fire of the altar, then kindled a bowl of oil at the end of a channel that ran to the roof of the basilica. A flash of flame ignited, then quickly spread along the channel and up to the circular ceiling of the temple, erupting into an enormous brazier, blazing in fire taller than a man’s height. As the crowd roared, the royal couple waved, joining hands beneath the burning image of the sun.

“There will now be a good deal of merriment, dampened by long and ponderous speeches,” Llauron said, turning toward the palace, where the colors of both Bethany and Canderre were flying in the stiff winter breeze. He turned to Rhapsody and smiled warmly.

“I hope, my dear, that you will favor your old mentor with a dance or two.”

It was hard to resist the warmth of his voice, their past history notwithstanding. “Of course.” She leaned forward and spoke into his ear. “After I eviscerate you for leaving me to die of exposure.”

The Invoker laughed, ignoring the subtext of truth in her statement. “Not I, my dear—Khaddyr. Please don’t blame him; his patrol met with misfortune on the way to help you.”

Rhapsody’s look of suspicion tempered to one of concern. “Oh no—was he killed?”

Llauron’s eyes glittered, but his expression did not change. “No, no, thankfully he survived. Now, though I know you are in a hurry to return to Ylorc, I have a boon to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“Would you accompany me on a short journey on the morrow? I thought since we were here in Bethany, near the end of the Cymrian Trail, that you might like to see some of the historic landmarks that commemorate the founding of this land after the refugees from Serendair landed here. I believe I told you about them when first you came to study with me. They have fallen, sadly, into disrepair, and it is my responsibility to see that they are maintained. Would you grant me this favor, my dear? It would only require a few days’ delay of your return, and would mean a great deal to me. At my age, it is not wise to travel alone. Please?”

Rhapsody turned as a Bethanian page appeared in the Ring to shepherd the guests from the basilica to the palace where the wedding feast would take place.

“I have been gone a very long time,” she said uncertainly. “I promised

Achmed I would return as soon as possible.”

“We can send him a missive by avian messenger from the palace. If you are reluctant, however, I will certainly understand. I am old enough, certainly, to look after myself.”

Rhapsody studied his face. There was none of the glint that she had seen before in the gray-blue eyes that signaled his hidden annoyance, just a mild, fond expression.

“All right,” she said, pulling the hood of the velvet cloak up in preparation for the exodus from the basilica to the palace hall. “I can certainly spare a few days to keep you company. Perhaps on the journey you can tell me what happened to the reinforcements that were supposed to meet me in the southern forest.”

“Indeed,” Llauron agreed, taking hold of her elbow as they followed the crowd of guests. “I will be certain to tell you the whole story.”