“Mmm,” she murmured sleepily.
They were in bed – so to speak. Shaivaun’s divine power had restored their
health, and they had dined quietly with their friends, making plans for the
morrow, and speaking as little as possible about the terrible creature they had
defeated. Breygon had kept a close watch
on his sponsa’s face; he was
exhausted by the day’s events, and could only imagine how Amorda must have been
feeling. As soon as was decently
possible, he had excused himself to his comrades, taken her hand, and led her,
unresisting, back to the private quarter of the house.
There he’d faced a dilemma. Unable for reasons of propriety (and health, he snorted to himself) to
make use of his new bride’s bedchamber, and yet also unwilling to cede either
the privacy of the master suite or a night in her arms, the ranger had suggested
that they make up a nest on the floor of the study. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but he’d slept in
worse places.
Amorda had proposed a different
plan. Gathering an armload of blankets
from a convenient storage room, she had led him back out into the garden and
along the back wall of the house proper.
The darkness was complete; it was a cloudy night, and the moons had not
yet risen, and Breygon – his superior vision notwithstanding – found himself
having to watch his footing on the flagstones.
The back wall of Domus Casia was riddled with doors and
windows. At the extreme northern end of
the house, however, there was an open chamber; a small room, only half a dozen
paces square, tucked in beneath a roof supported by intricately carved marble
pillars. The room contained nothing but
a raised dais topped by what appeared to be a large, circular stragulum. It was concealed from view from the rest of
the garden by...by...
Breygon snorted. Of
course. Roses.
“The Amatorium,” Amorda said with a wink. The half-elf didn’t need to ask for a
translation. He glanced around the
chamber; as he had expected, there was a single candle in the room, standing in
a tall holder of beaten silver.
He didn’t have to light it, he
knew. Not anymore.
Some immeasurable time later, they
lay closely intertwined, breathing heavily and bundled tightly beneath the
covers against the damp and chill of a winter’s eve in Starmeadow.
Breygon nudged the elf-woman
gently. “Sponsa,” he whispered, “Modes, and rites. I need to know what’s expected of me. We’ve only three days to prepare, and much
else to do besides. Help me, I implore
you.”
Amorda blinked, sighing. “I should’ve known,” she murmured, “that
taking up your rose would leave me with little time for rest.”
The ranger snorted. “Getting bound on the Slaughter was your idea, dear heart. Not mine.”
“I know,” she nodded. “The way you lot move around, I wanted to
make sure I tied you down before you could escape.” She poked him gently in the ribs.
“But, very well,” she sighed
again. “The mode is simplicity
itself. There are only two options: nuptia priscus, and nuptia bellum. Traditional,
as they say, or martial.
“Nuptia
bellum you’ve already seen, thanks to Kaltas and Mya,” she shrugged. “Choice of clothing is at the discretion of
the participants, although both white and green are traditional and
preferred. Bride and groom both wear
armour. You should note that mail is
preferred, mostly because it’s easier to don and doff, and cooler if the
service goes long.”
“What about weapons?” Breygon asked.
“Sword and dagger are obligatory,”
Amorda replied. “A one-handed sword;
carrying a heavier weapon is considered uncouth. In some versions, the husband presents his
wife with a shield, and she presents him with a spear, in honour of their
respective roles in the union. Both are
usually silvered in some way, and bound with green cords or ribbons.”
“That doesn’t seem too complicated,”
the half-elf murmured.
“Nuptia
bellum does have the virtue of being simple,” Amorda agreed. “Nuptia
priscus,” she went on, “is rather different. We both wear our finest, in white and
green. I must wear my hair unbound, and
decorated with flowers. For you, flowers
are optional.” She winked.
“I might go as far as some oak
leaves,” Breygon said blandly. “But
that’s it.”
“Oak leaves would be fine,
love. No jewellery of any kind, though,
save only our rings,” she went on as if reciting lessons at school. “Commoners may not bear arms, but as I am
noble – at least in name – and you are a knight, we are obliged to –”
“I’m not a knight,” Breygon
interrupted.
Amorda blinked. “What?”
“I’ve never been formally...whatever
you call it. Made a knight.”
“Then how...” she shook
herself. “Excuse me, my love. That had never occurred to me. When Kaltas declared you a nephew of House
Aiyellohax, I assumed that, since you were not noble, you...you were at
least...” She paused and took a deep
breath. “There has never been a ‘nephew’
of a Great House that has not been either noble-born, or a knight of the
realm. Never.”
“You’re not noble-born,” Breygon
observed, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” the elf-woman conceded, “I’m
not. But remember, I never really got
married, so the subject didn’t come up.”
“And even if it had,” she went on a
little nervously, “it wouldn’t have posed any difficulty. Love...I’m a knight myself.”
“Really?” Breygon’s eyes were wide.
“Really,” she nodded. “The ‘Dame’ is one part of my background that
isn’t false. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some time.” She gnawed a knuckle, perplexed. “Our immediate concern is you.”
“Is this going to be a significant
problem?” Breygon asked, concerned.
“Well, for one thing, it precludes nuptia bellum,” Amorda said,
frowning. “Commoners can’t marry under arms.” Then she grinned tightly. “Of course, you’re not exactly a ‘commoner’,
are you, my love?”
“I’d rather that didn’t get around,”
Breygon said stonily. “Anyway, I’m not
that fixated on the idea of a martial –”
“I am,” the elf-woman said
firmly. “At least, I don’t want to
foreclose the option. More importantly,
I don’t want anyone – anyone! – getting the idea that you’re not the
heavens-blessed hero you’re supposed to be.”
She patted his hand. “Let me
think on it awhile.”
“All right,” Breygon shrugged. He could feel the tension in her neck, and
shifted around so that he could work his fingers into the tight musculature.
After a few moments of deft
attention, the elf-woman sighed and began to relax. She threw him a grateful glance. “You’re a balm. Do you know that?”
He gave her a mocking nod. “All of my meagre skills,” he intoned, “are
at my lady’s command.”
Amorda giggled at that. With a mischievous smile on her lips, she
reached for him.
Breygon caught her hand. “Tell me about the different rites.”
A brief moue of disappointment –
almost a pout – crossed the elf-woman’s face.
But instead of protesting, she lay back against his shoulder. “We have more options here in the capital
than we would anywhere else,” she said softly.
“Six that would be acceptable.”
Breygon cocked an eyebrow. “That many?”
Amorda nodded. “They all have their potential benefits, and
their potential difficulties. And
they’re all subject to the formal rites required by the Codex.”
The ranger ground his teeth. The
Codex, again.
The elf-woman didn’t miss his
reaction. She patted him on the
arm. “I’ll tell you about those later.
“The first option,” she began,
“would be the rite of Hara Sophus, Pater
Elvii. That’s what I’d call the
‘high profile’ approach. At the Palace
cathedral, with Archpriest Elcaradon himself presiding over a long, stuffy
service, attended by most of the nobles who are in the city at the time. Including, quite probably, members of the
royal family. Very costly; we’d have to
pay for all manner of decorations and furnishings, and an immense party
afterwards, and we’d have to make a rich gift to the cathedral. And Elcaradon wouldn’t stint his fee.”
“What about the knighthood thing?”
Breygon asked.
“There’s only one way around that
problem,” Amorda shrugged. “Knight or
no, only nobles can be married in the cathedral, according to Hara’s rite. You’d have to wed me under your true name. That would solve the knighthood-nobility
situation.”
“Solve it with a spear in my back,”
the half-elf muttered. “Next option?”
“The Protector,” Amorda replied,
ignoring his indignant murmur. “There’s
a chapel at the palace, of course, but Larranel’s temple is in the city proper,
and in any case the ceremony would probably be held at the Ancient Grove in the
city centre. It’s probably already
booked for Slaughter’s-Eve, but I can have any other couples bumped. It’s just a matter of coin.”
Breygon frowned. “Would that be fair to...”
His voice trailed off. The elf-woman was regarding him levelly,
without expression. “Sorry,” he said
quickly.
“Fair,” Amorda said icily, “is
whatever I want. It’s my wedding, lupino, the only one I’ll ever have, and every other woman in the
world can go hang. Also, fair is
whatever imprints the fact of our marriage permanently upon the collective
consciousness of this city. And, if
possible, the realm.”
“And Larranel’s Rite would
accomplish that?” he asked, startled by her sudden vehemence.
“It might,” she replied. “The Protector’s service would be short, with
a small attendance, and presided over by Chamhegar Vallees, Larranel’s High
Priest. There’d be no problem convincing
him to marry us; he was one of Kaltas’ lieutenants at Duncala, and he idolizes
your ‘uncle’. All you’d have to do is
show him your undershirt, and tell him that you’re a servant of the Protector
yourself, and all would be well.”
Breygon nodded. “Sounds like an easy decision.”
Amorda shook her head. “It would be cheaper, certainly. But the Protector’s a warrior god; it would
have to be nuptia bellum, no
choice. Which means we have to solve the
knighthood problem first. Also, you’d
have to give a martial speech, replete with the Protector’s call to arms. And it wouldn’t necessarily have the effect
we desire, because the nobility would avoid the service, while Vallees probably
wouldn’t allow the unwashed masses to attend.
“Remember, love, what I told you
before about stealth,” she said urgently.
“There’s no middle path. Either
we’re completely hidden, which we cannot
be; or we must shine like a star in the public eye. It’s when you try to walk in the middle of
the road that you get mowed down by a coach-and-four.”
Breygon nodded. “We’ll talk about it. Next?”
“Next is the woman you just met,”
Amorda said. “Shaivaun Shabat, and the
Rite of Istravenya. The service would be
at the Temple, assuming it’s habitable yet, or if it isn’t, at the Lucum Spaðacódru. About as pricey
as getting bound at Larranel’s temple, unless Shaivaun tries to hold us up
because it’s me, and she knows the depth of my coffers. Much the same service, although you’ll have
to put up with her fire-and-brimstone preaching about the ‘lists’ and the
‘unworthy’.” She grinned feebly. “Hopefully she won’t be looking at you while she says it.”
“I’m not that keen on getting
married at any place frequented by the Lustroares,”
Breygon frowned. “Even if the priestess is one of your friends.”
“It’s not my preference either,”
Amorda admitted. “Among other things, we
have to cut open our palms and mingle our blood with each other, and with the
officiant, too.”
“Really?” Breygon said
skeptically. “That’s not
very...elven. Is it?”
“It’s very Istravenya-ian,” the
elf-woman shrugged. “The White Fire of
the Woodlands has always been a bloodthirsty goddess. The Wilder Elves who worship her cut a lot
more than their palms, let me tell you.
So do her martial servants. Of
which,” she added pointedly, “your sainted grandmother was one.”
“I know,” the ranger replied. He grimaced.
“Shaivaun’s still not my first choice.
What are the other options?”
“The Forest Mother,” Amorda replied.
A tiny fragment of a grin seemed to tug at the corner of her mouth.
The expression wasn’t lost on
Breygon. “What’s so funny?”
“Well,” the elf-woman began, “getting
bound according to Hutanibu’s Rite costs nothing. We go together, alone, to the Gyropetrum, the great circle of standing
stones at the heart of the Hortum
Elanadiria, where according to legend the Queen of Summer defeated the
demon army summoned by Mærglyn Kin-Slayer.
“Once there,” she continued,
grinning widely now, “we disrobe, enter the Circle, declare aloud our desire to
wed ‘according to the Ancient Rite’, and wait for High Priestess Andastyntia to
appear.”
“We have to go naked,” Breygon said
without expression.
“Completely naked,” Amorda
smiled. “Completely. No jewellery, no
cosmetics, no arms, no exceptions.
Freshly scrubbed and without a hint of artifice. Also, having fasted and remained chaste for
at least one day.”
“And this...this Andastyntia...”
Breygon asked, perplexed, “she just...what, waits around these stones all day
long, hoping for bare-assed couples to show up?”
“More or less,” the elf-woman
agreed. “She lives there. She’s a Woodling.”
“Ahh,” Breygon breathed,
understanding at last. “And what of the
service itself?” he asked. Knowing all
that he did about the fey and their ways, he was understandably nervous.
“I think you’ve already guessed it,”
Amorda grinned. “We follow the
prescribed rite. And then we honour
Hutanibu by joining with each other, right then and there, on mother
earth.”
She poked him again in the
ribs. “How does that sound, my love?”
“Best option I’ve heard so far,”
Breygon muttered. “Cheapest, too.”
“That it is,” Amorda agreed. “No dress, no decorations, no guests, no
feast. Just a few words followed by a
hurried rutting in the dirt.” Her eyes
were glittering dangerously.
Breygon bit his tongue, sensing that
he was on problematic ground. The only
safe thing to say seemed to be another question. “Next?” he asked.
The elf-woman eyed him coldly for a
long moment. “Next,” she said, “are
two...um, ‘non-standard’ options. The
first would be Miros.”
“There’s a temple of Miros in town?”
Breygon asked, astonished. The worship of
the dragon-goddess was one of the most secretive in the world.
“There’s the Teocalli Mirosata,” Amorda explained. “It’s more shrine than temple; a big pyramid,
near the College, topped by an altar and an enormous statue of a dragon. Magi get bound there occasionally. That’s the first criterion, incidentally;
both husband and wife have to be spellcasters.”
“Arcane spellcasters?” Breygon
asked. “Because that would eliminate
me.”
The elf-woman shook her head. “As I understand it, we both must expend
magical power to charge a vessel of blessed wine, which is thereafter
drunk. Plus, because magi are expected
to be masters of the written word, we’d both have to pen and recite some fairly
epic vows.
“And it’d be a little pricey,” she
added, “because both bride and groom are, through the service, inducted into
the cult of Miros as servants of the Art Magic.
To do so, we have to purchase enchanted cloaks from the College.” She laughed.
“We sort of become honorary wizards.
The irony – in both our cases – might be sufficient enticement to get
married there!”
“Maybe,” the ranger allowed. “What’s the last?”
“The last,” Amorda replied uneasily,
“is the Den. The Den of the Maiden.”
“Which ‘maiden’?” Breygon
asked. Then he blinked. “You mean, Miyaga? The ‘Maiden of Blinding Beauty’? Is this ‘den’ what they call their temples?”
The elf-woman nodded. “There’s one in town,” she replied. “It’s the central temple for the entire
faith, or for all of Elvehelm, at least.
One of my friends was recently recruited – Eret Ferrocælestis. She’s from one of the lesser houses. She’s a new apprentice there – an ‘infima’, I think they’re called. I could arrange a meeting, through her, with
someone from the hierarchy.”
“And they perform marriages?” he
asked, skeptical.
“The worship of the Maiden is all
about pleasure, and joining, and procreation,” Amorda replied, flushing
slightly. “While the Disciples believe
in maintaining their freedom to explore...er...all facets of the...um...‘physical
manifestation of love’, as I’ve heard it put...they also understand that many –
most, even – prefer to cleave to a single partner. So they celebrate the bonds of lifemating
nearly as enthusiastically as they celebrate...the...er, unfettered libertinism,
that lies at the core of their faith.”
“That,” Breygon laughed, “may have
been the most diplomatic mess of euphemisms I’ve ever heard you spout.”
“Thank you,” the elf-woman replied,
dimpling. “So...should I try to find the
Disciples?”
“I don’t know,” Breygon said,
thinking. “What are the benefits?”
“Well, it’s not that costly,” Amorda
shrugged. “Reportedly, the participants
only need to make a gift to the temple.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“And we can invite anyone we like,”
she added. “The Disciples accept all
faiths. They don’t discriminate. In fact, they insist upon the attendance of
friends of the betrothed couple.”
“How ecumenical of them,” Breygon
murmured. “What else?”
“Well,” the elf-woman grinned, her
nose wrinkling, “there’s the beatitas.”
The
blessing? “What’s that?”
“The ‘beatitas magnus’,
actually,” Amorda amended. “The ‘great
blessing’.”
Breygon raised his eyebrows. “And...that is...”
“That,” his bride-to-be snickered,
“is when the assembled body of the Temple celebrates the union of the new lifemates
by joining with them.”
The half-elf froze. “All of them?”
“All of them,” Amorda confirmed,
quaking with laughter. “At once. It’s called an ‘orgy’.”
“I know what it’s called!” Breygon
exclaimed. “And if you think I’m going
to –”
“Before you make any decisions,”
Amorda interjected, cutting him off, “you should know that the Disciples
require exemplary standards of physical perfection. Also that, here in Elvehelm, nine out of ten
Disciples are women.”
The ranger was silent for a long
moment. “Really?” he said at last.
“Really.”
He cleared his throat once, then
again for good measure. “Are there any
down-sides?” he asked.
Amorda pursed her lips. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “you’d have to
keep your end up, as it were. And you’d
have to share me with the Disciples. At
least for a few hours.”
“Nine out of ten of whom,” he mused
aloud, “are beautiful women.”
She nodded without expression, but
he could feel that she was quaking with repressed mirth. “Of course,” she added, barely controlling
herself, “you’d have to look at Thanos naked. And Joraz. And Karrick.”
Breygon blinked. He could feel the blood rising in his
cheeks. “I’m...er...” he stammered
incoherently.
Then, for no reason, a thought
struck him. He turned to stare directly
into the elf-woman’s eyes. “Are you
having me on?”
Amorda burst out laughing, tears
streaming down her cheeks.
Breygon leaned back into the soft
material of the stragulum, closed his
eyes, and took a number of long, slow breaths.
Not for the first time, he wondered
whether, in marrying the chortling elf-woman at his side, he wasn’t getting in
over his head.
♦♦♦
“So much for the theological
options,” Amorda said. “We need to talk
about the service itself.”
“I thought the type of service
depended upon the rite I – we – choose,”
Breygon asked, puzzled. His arm was
going to sleep. He shifted a little on
the stragulum; his mate obligingly
slid aside, waiting until he was comfortable before rolling until she was half
atop him, with her head tucked under his chin.
She seemed determined not to allow so much as a hair’s breadth to separate
them for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
“It does,” she murmured, “at least
to a certain extent. The details differ
significantly between faiths. But there
are some specific elements that all lifemating ceremonies have in common. It’s a legal requirement.”
“Let me guess,” the ranger
grunted. “The Codex again?”
“The Codex,” the elf-woman
nodded. “As with every other aspect of
life, Dîor set forth his rules for marriage in his Law. And he patterned them on his own lifemating
ceremony to Anyarra, the commoner maiden he espoused.”
“That’s a little arrogant, isn’t
it?”
Amorda cocked an eyebrow. “This is the Third House of Ancient Harad
we’re talking about, my love,” she chuckled sadly. “Haven’t you met us? We do ‘arrogant’ better than anyone else in all
the wide world.
“And besides,” she went on with a
shrug, “a little arrogance might’ve been warranted in his case. While he was younger brother to the greatest
mage-king in the history of the realm, Dîor was no slouch. He was acknowledged the mightiest warrior in
the land at the age of sixty-three, when – according to the law that he himself
penned – we today are still deemed adolescents.
He was a father before he was a hundred years old, War Chief of Harad at
a hundred and seven, a grandfather at a hundred and twenty-one – the age when
we are first legally permitted to wed – and dead nineteen years later.”
She shook her head. “Dîor was like a shooting star, love, who
flared brighter than the Lantern, and then was gone, seemingly in the blink of
an eye.”
“I once heard, someone, somewhere,”
Breygon mused quietly, “say that, today, elves live longer than they did in the
ancient world. And that your – our – longer lifespans were Bræa’s
doing.”
“A sentence,” Amorda nodded
soberly. “To give us more time to atone
for the misdeeds of our forebears. Yes,
that’s a common teaching among Hutanibu’s servants. Never seems to make it into the sermons at
the temples of Hara or Larranel, of course – but that would take humility,
wouldn’t it?” She snorted. “Unlike arrogance, humility’s something we’re
not especially good at.
“In any case,” she continued, “Dîor
must’ve had a pretty substantial ego. He
killed Chyardan, the oldest and mightest of the Verdant Wyrms – a terrible
creature, who was to the green dragons as Scîarratekkan had been to the reds
when Miros defeated him in the Age of Making.
The battle with Chyardan cost Dîor an eye and an arm, but he
survived. All dragon-slayers revere him
for that.
Breygon’s cheek twitched
involuntarily.
“And a few years after that fight,”
she added with a shake of her head, “he killed a god.”
“Baluchog. Yes?” Breygon asked. The story was unfamiliar, but ancient, and he
had heard some details of it.
“Baluchog,” she nodded. “One of Morga’s avatars, master of the demons
of filth, slime and ichor. They fought
for hours, and killed each other, actually.
But no other elf has ever accomplished such a thing, and Dîor is
renowned for it.” She shook her head
sadly. “He was a hundred and forty years
old when he died. By his own code, he
was hardly even a man.”
“And somewhere in there,” Breygon
said drily, “he found the time to write fifteen hundred articles of law. Including the rules for weddings.”
The elf-woman smiled. “Well, somebody had to run the empire while
Tîor was busy forging magic rods, learning how to manipulate time, and opening
a portal to an endless source of magical power.”
“The Well of Stars, you mean?”
She nodded again. “It’s here, in town. Deep in the earth. The College was built atop it.”
Breygon shook his head in
wonder. “The way you people casually
accept the...the presence, of the most incredible arcane relics...”
“This,” Amorda sniffed, “from the
man walking around with a god-wrought wine-cup in his purse.”
The ranger suppressed a sudden
nervous giggle. She has a point, he thought.
“Would you like to see it?” she
asked. “The Well of Stars, I mean? Kalestayne
is its...well,” she amended, “...no one since Tîor can be called its ‘master’,
I guess. But Kalestayne is the Well’s
custodian. I’m sure he’d allow you to
visit.” She dimpled. “As long as you promised not to touch
anything.”
“It’s not me he’d have to worry
about,” Breygon muttered. Then he
started suddenly. “Are you telling me
that the Master Magister of the greatest school of magic in the world gives
guided tours of the mightiest source of magical power in the universe to any
rag-tag mob of adventurers that happens by?”
Amorda sighed, exasperated. “Of course not! But he might be willing to accommodate a
dragon-slaying hero and a brutally destructive warcaster from our most
important military ally. Especially when
both are nephews to an ancient and honourable House of the Twelve, who have
just returned a primordial, gods-forged artefact of incalculable value and
unspeakable magical power to Her Serene Majesty, the Queen of all the Elves. Who,” she added mordantly, “just happens to be your great-grandma.”
Breygon was silent for a long
moment. Then his chest began to
shake. “Well,” he chortled, “when you
put it that way...”
Amorda put a hand on his breast,
steadying herself against the tremoring, and looked up at him. “Love, there’s no other way to put it. You’re here, you’re a Peer – get used to
it. Everyone else in the realm is going
to adjust to your status in less time than it takes you to nock and loose an
arrow. They’ll be jockeying for
position, trying to influence and manipulate you, doing their best to obtain
your support if they can, and to figure out what you’re going to do if they
can’t.”
She prodded him gently in the
ribs. “Most of the people who speak to
you will simply want to be seen doing so, so they can later on say, ‘You know,
I was talking to that dragon-slayer the other day – you know the one, Kaltas’
nephew, who just married that dried-up old trollop, Amorda? – and anyway, he
told me...’”
Breygon regarded her with a worried
stare.
“And that,” she said, emphasizing
her words with another poke, “is before anyone finds out who you really are. If word gets ‘round that you’re Szelly’s son,
the realm is positively going to explode. Her running off to make pottery in the woods
and marry a human was the talk of this town, not for nine days, or ninety, but
for ninety times nine. You showing up
now, with your own party of heroes, a collection of wyrm-heads, a Wilder spear,
Arngrim’s panoply, and a noble bride on your arm” – she paused to grin broadly
– “or at least, a reasonable approximation of one...well, let’s just say
there’s no possible way to
overestimate the impact it’s going to have!
“You’d best prepare yourself, husband-to-be,”
she warned. “The next few weeks are
going to be a broil the likes of which you’ve never seen.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered drily. “It’s going to be exciting for you, too, I’d
imagine.”
“My darling, you have no idea!” Amorda chortled. “There won’t be a lady in the realm who won’t
want to absolutely murder me. For the impardonable crime of snapping you
up, and taking you off the market before allowing them their chance at
you.”
Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Fitting recompense,” she muttered happily,
“for a century of being surrounded by the most insufferable crowd of brainless,
chattering harpies imaginable. For a
hundred years of snide comments, innuendo, and sly, off-hand remarks about
base-born harlots marrying up. And for having
to suffer the company and caresses of the most ineffectual, effeminate, mincing
dolts ever to spring from Bræa’s loins.”
“You,
my love – you are the best revenge I could ever
have imagined.” She hugged him fiercely,
and he was surprised to note that she was actually quivering with rage. “The ladies of this city are the worst passel
of shrews and gossips the world has ever spawned. When I show up with a real man on my arm – the greatest hero the realm’s seen since Arngrim,
Fineleor and Yarchian – it’s going to absolutely destroy them.”
“Well,” Breygon said without
expression. Her nails were digging into
his chest, and he was doing his best not to flinch. “I’m glad I could help.”
He scratched an ear in momentary
consternation, trying to comprehend the ferocity of her hatred, then gave it up
as a bad job. Orcs, magical beasts, dragons – those he could understand.
But the convoluted machinations of the feminine mind were beyond
him.
Time
to change the subject. “You were
telling me about Dîor’s wedding rites,” he said suddenly.
Amorda blinked. She’d been a long way away, luxuriating in intoxicating
visions of revenge. “Yes,” she
replied. “Yes. The Sacra
Dîorcan.”
Her brow furrowed as she struggled
to recall the details. “Now remember,
love, that while I’ve attended dozens of lifemating ceremonies, I’ve never gone
through this myself. Moreover, all the
ceremonies I’ve witnessed or partaken of have been under the Rites of Hara,
Larranel and Istravenya. I’ve never seen
a Wilder wedding, for example, or the joining of two mages at the Teocalli, under the eye of Miros. Or a ceremony at the Den.” She grinned suddenly. “Although I have heard of them.”
“I’ve never seen an elven wedding at
all,” Breygon grunted. “I’m starting
from total ignorance. Anything you can
tell me will be a help.”
“Well, good, then,” the elf-woman
replied. “First, you should know that
there are thirteen steps to the rite that are required by law. There’s no real need to add anything to
these; they are sufficient in and of themselves to constitute a binding, lawful
marriage. But most faiths personalize
the services somewhat in order to stand out from the pack. Some cults add a few steps, some – like Hara Sophus – add a great many. But none may be subtracted.”
“Can you list them?” Breygon asked,
a little worried. This sounded a lot
more complicated than he had envisioned.
In Zare, peasant couples wed according to the Allfather’s decree: their
left hands were bound together by a priest, they jumped over a spear, recited a
brief vow of faithfulness, shared a cup of wine, and jumped back. That was it.
He’d seen a hundred hurried weddings of that sort, on feast and
fair-days – and more often than not, the bride was jumping with a bulging belly
ill-concealed beneath her apron. Humans,
after all, bred like rabbits.
But this sounded...a lot more
complex.
“Certainly I can list the steps,
although not by their formal, legal names,” Amorda was saying. “Listen carefully. First – obviously – is the arrival at the temple
or grove of the bride and groom.
Separately.”
“Separately?” he exclaimed. “Why on earth...”
“It’s tradition,” she said with some
asperity. “And by the way, that’s going
to be my answer to every question you ask.
So don’t interrupt, or we’ll still be at this when Bræadan broaches the
horizon.”
Breygon barked a laugh. “I apologize, my lady. Do carry on.”
For good measure, he pinched her in a vulnerable spot, eliciting a
squeal that was more delight than outrage.
She swatted him lightly on the
chest. “Keep that up, my lord,” she breathed
into his neck, a frisson of delight
that shook him from crown to heel, “and we’ll end up skipping the legal
discussions entirely.”
The half-elf shivered, and had to
shake his head to clear it. “Talk,
woman!” he commanded. “And keep your
hands to yourself!”
She laughed. “After the arrival,” she went on, “we must
both declare our identities, and our lineage to four generations. For commoners, that’s a pro-forma affair,
with the declarations attested to by witnesses.
But as I told you yesterday – well, this morning, I guess – for noble
joinings, especially those involving one of the Houses, it’s done under a Zone of Truth spell, cast either by the
priest, or by one of the other officiants.
You have the option, as I mentioned, of whispering your true name to the
priest alone – but that will definitely
cause talk.”
“You don’t want me to do that, do
you?” Breygon said softly.
Amorda sighed. “I want you to do what you think is necessary, my love. I’ll still wed you no matter what name I must
bear. But you’re going to have to grasp
this nettle sooner rather than later, and this is an opportunity to make a
clear statement, and avoid having the tale come out in confused dribs and drabs.”
She smiled a little nervously. “It’d be dangerous, yes. But it could also be useful for the world to
know who you are. And if nothing else,
the mob does love a grand gesture.”
“And archers love fools who stick
their heads above the parapet,” the ranger muttered. “What next?”
“After our identities, we’ll have to
declare that we approach our union free of any prior vows, and free also of
influence or compulsion. Again,” she
said thoughtfully, “that’s a pretty straightforward thing for commoners. If you looked especially youthful, you’d have
to provide proof of your age, or have a parent attest to it.” She winked.
“Neither of us has that problem, regrettably. And if you’d been married before, for
example, you’d have to produce proof of Uxorem. Divorce.”
“What of you? You’ve been wed before, at least
legally. What of Silas, your ‘husband’
gone to wind?”
“That’s one area where it’s easier
for nobles than for commoners,” she admitted.
“The births, namings, matings and deaths of all members of the great and
lesser Houses are recorded as a matter of law.
Everyone in the realm knows that Silas is dead, and that I’m therefore free
to take a lifemate again. A simple
declaration will suffice for me; if anyone challenges it, it’ll be easy to
prove.”
“Good,” the ranger muttered.
“Of course,” the elf-woman warned,
“that declaration of freedom and free will is monitored by a Detect Thoughts spell, to determine
veracity; and by a Detect Magic
spell, to ensure that the participants are free from arcane compulsion.”
“Marvellous,” Breygon growled. Then a thought struck him. “Hang on.
That’s a lot of magic just for a wedding.”
Amorda nodded. “Spellcasting makes up a significant portion
of the bill for the service,” she said.
“If we get married at the Cathedral, it’s going to cost close to a
thousand aureae for Elcaradon to cast
the Zone of Truth alone.”
Breygon thought about the going
rates for spellcasting services, did the sums in his head, and gasped. “He’s that
powerful a cleric?”
“No,” the elf-woman snickered. “He’s that greedy. There’s an enormous
markup built into his numbers, let me tell you.”
The ranger shook his head. “Let’s carry on. What’s next?”
“Well,” she said, “once our bona fides and our freedom to wed have
been established magically, the rest of the service is fairly prosaic. The fourth step is for us to declare publicly
our intention to wed. There’s a
prescribed text for that in the Codex, as there is for just about every step of
the affair. Dîor didn’t leave a great
deal of room for improvisation.”
“There’s a word for people like
that,” Breygon muttered darkly. “Who
like things all laid out, just so.”
“I know, dear,” she said
soothingly. “They’re called
‘kings’. Fifth, the priest will ask the
assembled guests whether anyone objects to our union.”
The ranger’s eyes widened. “What happens if somebody does object?”
“The priest takes the objector
aside,” she replied, “and talks to him.
Or her. Quietly, and in private,
in order to determine the nature of the problem, and devise a solution.
“And by the way,” she said firmly,
“when I say ‘talk’, I mean just that. It
is considered very bad form for the groom to kill anyone in the temple.”
“Really?” Breygon asked, blinking in
surprise. “Always?”
“Always.” Then she grimaced and sighed. “Well, not always. In the temple of
Istravenya, objections are resolved on the spot, by a duel between the objector
and the groom. Or by the bride, if she
claims right of response for an insult.”
“Hmm,” the ranger rumbled
consideringly. “Well, choose your guests
carefully, dear heart. Law and tradition
are all well and good, but anyone who insults you on your wedding day is never going
to need a hat again.”
That made her giggle. Catlike, she stretched her neck and gave him
a quick peck on the lips. “This is why I
love you, lupino.
“Now,” she went on, “parts the sixth
and the seventh: sanctification and binding.
The priest will give us a good dousing, knock us about for a while with
oak branches, wheat and holly, symbolizing...”
“Strength, fecundity and dedication
to the green,” Breygon interjected. “I
know. Go on.”
“Well, assuming I don’t
spontaneously burst into flame from the holy water,” she sniggered, “he’ll bind
our left hands together with a doubled green cord.”
She paused and glanced up.
Breygon was staring at her. “Flame?” he asked, sounding as if someone
were strangling him.
Amorda sighed. “That was a joke, darling. Do try to relax, hmm?
“After the binding of our hands,”
she went on, “comes the votum parvus,
the lesser promise. We recite our vows,
love. These, we must write ourselves –
and collaboration, just so you know, is contrary to tradition. We each must decide what we shall promise to
the other, and shan’t hear the other’s remarks until the day itself.
“It’s traditional,” she added with a
grin, “for this to include an over-the-top declaration of love and eternal
fealty. You must try to put the poets to
shame, my sweet.”
“Poets be damned. I think I’ll have my work cut out trying to
outdo you,” he muttered.
“No chance of that,” the elf-woman
grinned. “I excelled at poesie in scholae.
After our vows, we exchange tokens.
Gifts. This can be anything at
all, but it’s got to be something small enough either to be worn immediately,
or carried for the next few hours without inconvenience. Greater gifts can come later.”
Breygon frowned. “What sorts of things are customary?”
“Jewellery,” Amorda shrugged. “Although since we’ve already exchanged
rings, it’ll have to be something else. But
it’s not always jewellery. When
Landioryn wed that miserable shrew Annalyszian, for example, he gave her a
silver chain bearing the key to Arx
Gloriosus. The official residence of
the Crown Prince.”
“That’s quite a gesture.”
The elf-woman frowned. “More than a gesture, dear heart. The exchange of tokens is a very real gift-giving. Landioryn was making a dotum of the most beautiful manor in the realm to his new lifemate. If they were ever to obtain an Uxorem, the castle would remain hers.”
She shook her head in wonder. “I’d kill for that house and those gardens. They’re positively gorgeous.”
Breygon’s eyes widened. “He gave her a castle? Good gods!”
“The best gift, though, always comes
with royal weddings,” Amorda added in an off-hand manner. “The king, when he weds, traditionally
presents his new queen with the key to the royal treasury.”
The half-elf choked. “What if they separate?!”
“Kings and queens can’t,” she
replied soberly. “They must swear the votum magnus – the great vow. They have no choice in the matter. When Landioryn ascends to the throne, he and
Annalyszian – assuming he hasn’t dumped her in the Lymphus – will have to appear before Elcaradon, and renew their
vows, this time swearing the Great Vow.
Or he won’t be allowed to succede his mother.”
“What’s the ‘great vow’?” Breygon
asked. He hadn’t heard the term before.
Amorda looked nervous. “That’s the next step, love,” she said
hesitantly. “And it’s the only optional,
completely voluntary one in the Rite. After
the exchange of tokens, the bride and groom may – if they desire – swear the votum magnus. That is, they may, if they wish, recite the
vows that Dîor and Anyarra swore when they took each other as lifemates.”
He frowned at her sudden and obvious
consternation. “What’s the problem with
that?” he asked.
The elf-woman took a deep, shuddering breath. “Well,” she said, “almost nobody does it
anymore. Because, you see...it’s
irrevocable.”
“Irrevocable?” he frowned. “How so?”
“By swearing the great vow,” she
replied in a voice approaching a whisper, “the lifemates declare that they will
remain bound and faithful to each other even unto death. A couple that speaks the votum magnus precludes any possibility of separation this side of the
Breaking. They can never obtain an Uxorem.”
She shuddered. “And if one
lifemate goes...goes to wind, the other can never wed again.”
Breygon noticed that, in addition to
trembling, she was very pointedly not looking at him. “What’s wrong?”
Amorda’s fingers twitched
uncontrollably. “I won’t...love, I
musn’t try to influence you in this, one way or the other! But this is a decision we shall have to make – to speak the vows of Dîor
and Anyarra...or...or not.”
Breygon blinked. “Of the two, which would have the greater
political impact?” he asked expressionlessly.
To his astonishment, Amorda burst
into tears.
He put his hand behind her head, and
tilted it back so he could see her face.
“What is it?” he asked, astonished.
She was flushed, her eyes red and
overflowing. “This can’t be about politics!” she sobbed. “Lupino...” She clenched her teeth and fists. “Bræagond, my dearest heart,” she amended,
“the great vow is forever. Forever,
do you understand?”
Tears were spilling across his
chest. “There has to be something...for
you, and me...after all this is over, after everything is done, and we can...can be just...just us. Together.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “At peace.”
“Yes,” he replied, nodding. “Yes, I think I understand.” He reached over and gently, very gently,
moved an errant strand of hair out of her face.
“What’s bothering you so?”
The elf-woman’s lips were
trembling. She stared into his eyes as
if she couldn’t comprehend what she saw there.
“Is this...love, am I really
what you want?” she whispered.
In response, he smiled and kissed
her gently on the forehead. “What comes
after the great vow?” he asked, speaking in a low voice, as he would to a
startled horse.
Her response was a new flood of
tears. He gave her a moment, holding her
tightly, wondering whether exhaustion and injury had caught up to her at last.
It took some time, but she gradually
regained her self-control. When her
breathing slowed again, he asked, “Better?”
“A little,” she nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
She chuckled miserably. “For gushing over you like a blowsy
fishwife.”
Breygon laughed. “Yes,” he said with mock severity. “Fine
behaviour for the lifemate of the greatest hero since Arngrim, Fineleor and
Yarchian.”
Amorda gasped. She balled up her tiny fist and punched him
in the stomach. Hard. “You, sir,” she
whispered savagely, “are an ass!”
“I’m your ass, my love,” he replied, smiling. Then he winced. That hadn’t come out exactly as he had
intended.
“You are indeed,” she chuckled. “For better, or worse.”
They lay together quietly for a long
moment. After a long silence, she spoke
again. “You haven’t answered me, you
know,” she said with false nonchalance.
“About the votum magnus.”
“That’s funny,” the ranger
murmured. “I was pretty sure I had.” He gave her a gentle squeeze, which she
returned with redoubled ferocity. “Once
again - what comes after the great vow?” he asked.
“Only three things more,” she murmured.
“First, the green cord binding our hands is untied. The priest separates the doubled strands, and
fastens one about each of our throats.
The halter signifies that we have entered into willing bondage to each
other.”
“Appropriate symbology,” the ranger
commented drily. “A rope, around both
our necks. What then?”
“Then, we sign the temple’s
register, if they have one,” she shrugged, “and prick our thumbs to seal the
signature with a drop of blood.” She
sighed. “And then, last of all, comes
the part that you dread.”
Breygon blinked. “And that is...?”
“The priest proclaims us to the
assembled throng,” she said quietly, “giving our full names. Including the name of our House.”
The ranger was silent.
“This is a decision that only you
can make, my love,” Amorda said gravely, when he didn’t respond. “You must
decide how we shall be proclaimed.” She
looked up at him again and caught his eye.
“What would you prefer?” he
temporized.
“No!” she exclaimed, alarmed. “No, I won’t do that! You’re the warrior, dear heart, not I. I’m a creature of the shadows; I’m not fit to
counsel you on this.
“But know that there’s no middle
road. It’s time for you to decide
whether to attempt to continue on in stealth, or whether you’ll take the field
with banners flying, damning your foes, and daring them to do their worst.”
She put a hand on his chest, feeling
for his lifebeats. “Whatever you decide,
you decide for us,” she murmured. “I shall abide by your word, and shall do my
uttermost to make it work.”
“As an obedient and dutiful wife?”
he asked.
There was a mocking tone in his
voice; but the elf-woman knew men, and she knew that it was not her towards her
that her lifemate directed this sudden derision. It was aimed against himself.
She tightened her embrace, and shook
her head. “As a partner. A willing and
enthusiastic ally,” she whispered. “A
determined and deadly one, who loves you more than life itself.”
Breygon felt his throat tighten and
found it suddenly difficult to speak. It
was an odd and unfamiliar sensation.
Her perceptions were at an
unaccustomed height, and she sensed his sudden distress. “What is it?” she murmured.
He harrumphed, in part to clear his
throat, but mostly to stall for time. It
didn’t help. He decided to say what was
in his heart. “I don’t deserve you.”
To his astonishment, the elf-woman
giggled. “Of course, you don’t, my
love!” she exclaimed. “And I don’t deserve you!”
He gave her a gentle squeeze.
“And yet,” she murmured, snuggling
into his embrace, “here we are.”
“Yes.” Breygon said distantly. “Here we are.”
♦♦♦
