Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“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.