Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

“A present for you, Master, a present.”

She stooped and took the flower. “Thank you, Groghe, it is beautiful.”

A knock sounded on the door with a, “It is time to dress, Lady Keleios.”

“Enter.”

Two serving girls entered, squealing when they saw the small demon. Keleios waved them inside, suddenly tired.

The short brown-haired one began to brush at the wrinkles in the skirt, tsking. Keleios could hear the rustle of the golden veil. It was lifted over her head, and they began to bind it in place with hairpins. It fell in a point past her knees, but was mid-thigh in front. They tugged and fluffed and finally said, “Princess Keleios, you look lovely.”

Keleios approached the oval mirror hesitantly. She did not recognize the creature who stared back. This person was impossibly dainty, all gold lace and silk. The brown eyes gleamed in the candle flames. She turned slowly, trying to see the back of the dress. The serving girls brought up a second mirror and positioned it. This wasn’t her. Someone else had come and stolen her away and left this—this woman—in her place. Keleios had one consolation: there was a knife in a thigh hilt under all the finery. Not that she could get to it in time, but it was comforting.

She flexed the muscle, feeling the familiar restraint of the sheath. She was not gone or swept away; Keleios Incantare, called Nightseer, was still under there somewhere.

Her only comment aloud was, “It will do.”

The maids exchanged glances, but it was not their place to criticize.

Groghe came closer and put out a tentative claw. “Shining,” he said, “shining.”

She smiled down at the imp. “It is that.”

Keleios lifted the moonflower from the table. “Please have this put in water.” The brown-haired serving girl bowed and took it.

Methia stepped in the door wearing the same blue dress she had worn earlier. “It is time.”

“Groghe, you stay in the room while I’m gone.”

He nodded and leapt upon the rocking horse. “I will do as you say, Master.” Keleios followed Methia out with the serving girls crowding behind, not wishing to be left alone with the demon.

Keleios said, “It was very generous of you to move the rocking horse in my room. Groghe is pleased with it.”

Methia sniffed. “The demon would not leave it alone. I found Llewellyn and that thing playing together. It can have the rocking horse, as long as it stays away from my child.”

Keleios smiled behind the golden veil.

In front of the castle were four horses. Two were pure white. One was black with a white blaze down its face and one white foot. The last horse was a light golden cream with a white blaze down its face and one white foot. The cream stallion had a side saddle on it as did one of the white horses.

Tobin came down. His tunic was cloth of gold and caught the first torchlight in coppery reflections. His auburn hair looked golden-red tonight. Behind was the black healer. The silver thread in his tunic caught the light. His hair fell long and free past his shoulders, and it shimmered with a light of its own. A plain silver circlet like a prince’s crown adorned his head.

Tobin and Methia stood to one side, and Lothor took Keleios’ hand. A great cheer went up from the people lining the torchway. He helped her mount the cream stallion, then mounted his own black. Tobin and Methia mounted the white horses, and the procession began.

The people shouted and exclaimed over the beauty of the princesses and the exotic but

handsome consort-to-be.

The temple of Urle lay in the east of the village. The procession stopped and dismounted. Lothor helped Keleios down. If he felt her reluctance, he said nothing. They walked with her left hand placed lightly on his right and entered the temple door. The only light was a fire at the far end of the darkened central room.

The rustle of silk and the tramp of booted foot was loud as they approached the priest. He was tall, broad shouldered, with a full brown beard streaked with grey. His eyes were blue, but he was not a native of the island. He wore a priest garment that draped to his feet. It was orange trimmed with brown, the colors of Urle. On the front of it was an embroidered flame and a hammer over it.

“Who has brought them to this joining?”

Methia and Tobin answered in unison, “We have.”

“You have done your duty; you may go.”

Lothor and Keleios stood, not touching before the priest, and he smiled down at them. “Is this a wanted joining?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

They glared at each other. The priest said, “You do wish to be joined?”

They both answered yes.

He stepped down and to one side, exposing the roaring pit of flame. “As fire is strengthened by each flame, let you be strengthened one by the other. As two pieces of metal are forged into one and made stronger, let it be so with the two of you. As the hammer pounds its message to the apprentice without need of words, let you both hear what the other truly means.

“It is time to give the gifts of yourself.”

Keleios unwound the gold chain from her right wrist and held it out to the priest. The shell dangled small and lovely from it.

Lothor held out a ring of some kind.

The priest grasped them both and prayed, “Let these gifts be a joyous thing. Bless this joining, Urle, our god, as two of your followers join together. Let these gifts be a token of your vows to each other.” He held the chain out to Keleios and she took it. Lothor had to bend down for her to slip it over his head.

“It will allow you to breathe under water for a time.”

He thanked her and took his own present from the priest. The ring was woven of his platinum hair; for a jewel there was a pale red dot of his blood. She gasped as he slipped it down her finger and stared at him. He had put his life in her hands. With such tokens an herb-witch could steal the life from a man. “My hair and my blood to prove that I will never willingly hurt you.”

“Join hands.” They did, and he had them kneel. Then he bound their hands together with

a strip of leather. If it had been a marriage, it would have been a length of chain. “Rise; you are joined.”

He unbound their hands. They walked out still hand in hand, for the crowd would expect it.

The crowd gave a mighty cry, and they were pushed apart by the crush of people. Two sedan chairs had come from somewhere, and they were carried on the backs of the crowd toward the feasting. The peasants had always had more freedom here on the isle. There were people in the crowd who had known Keleios when she was a babe. They remembered when she and Belor had gone around ambushing the island bullies for what they did to the budding illusionist one autumn. They yelled bawdy jokes and suggestions for the night to come.

Keleios caught a glimpse of Lothor’s outraged face over the crowd. At least he held his tongue and did not insult them for their impudence.

Tables had been set out on the grass outside the castle, and the entire village had come to feast and dance. The crowd carried them to the dance area. It was strung with bright ribbon and marked off by white-painted poles. The ground was well trampled and nearly clean of grass. All day as Keleios and her companions had slept and washed, there had been festival. The crowd was half-drunk and already well fed. There had been much to buy and see today. There had been sacrifices of the best fruits of the field, the best catch of the day. Now the laughing throng set the new-made couple on the dance grounds and yelled for music.

When it came, it was a haunting melody, a series of rising notes that tugged at the mind but not at the feet.

Lothor frowned. He was forced to shout in her ear to be heard. “I did not know I would have to dance. I do not know how to dance.”