“Atare?” a guaard warrior asked.
“Nothing.” So Lyte was the past candle. His thoughts were interrupted by Elana, her lovely face beaming, bearing in her hand orange firerose blossoms. He realized she was speaking to him, explaining Shinar was to have been flower bearer but still felt unwell. Braan tried to give the scientist his full attention but knew he had failed when she gave his shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze in parting.
Interesting to see who was chosen for each candle. He remembered his own wedding ... not painfully; too much had occurred to think of anything without allowing a proper perspective. Not fireroses. What had been in season during his ceremony? Moran entered the room and also Braan’s thoughts. The Atare scrutinized his sister’s chosen. Almost grim, too solemn for one so handsome. He had chosen to wear the traditional ivory pants and shirt of the groom. Braan refocused and noticed Lyte wore a Nualan outfit identical to his own, except that he had on his formal military cape. What to do for Moran, what to do about Lyte? The blonde warrior was paying a lot of attention to Teloa ... Shinar and Lyte. The Atare hid a smile as Teloa laughingly avoided the second officer.
“Atare?” He turned slightly. Jared. In wedding attire, yellow fireroses of the future on his shoulder? He had been in the bed next to Moran’s while they were in the life shelter. What had gone on... ? Deveah’s Jared. The one good thing Deveah did in his life, helping to bring that boy into existence.
“Jared. You look much better than you did.”
“Yes, Atare. Thank you.” Jared flushed a bit, both confused and embarrassed. “The high priest asked me to give you this.” The boy handed him the stiff, woven tapered straws he was to use to light his candle.
A murmur at the door captured their attention. Standing, Braan was able to see the entrance of Ronüviel. They had found the family dress—he felt tears momentarily blind him, remembering the older sister who was the last one to wear that gown. A riot of ivory syluan, twinkling in the pre-dawn shadows. He knew he was stepping toward her, as the others did; to touch one with child who was to be wedded was a lucky thing. Moran had been warned and wisely held back. Braan found himself with a handful of hair and ivory lace. Roe suddenly whirled and embraced him.
“Lucky, indeed,” she said, chuckling, meeting his glance. She quickly, gently touched the corner of his eye with her thumb, stealing the tear; and—holding it to her lips, accepting the gift, be it joy or sorrow—she looked for Moran.
A great deal of pain seemed to fall visibly from the groom’s shoulders. Lyte stood nearby, his face fluctuating between confusion and impassiveness. Now the group cleared the way, and Ronüviel walked up to Moran. She moved gracefully, considering her condition; she looked near her time, but of course, that was because it was twins. Roe extended her fist to Moran. Moran understood her gesture and cupped his hand. She hovered above it and set the Stone of the Seri in the center of his palm. Liel laughed out loud as Moran folded his fingers, and the spell was broken, everyone full of cheers, congratulations and admonishments.
Ah, the stones. Dug out of the ground in their final faceted form except for polishing, they were an old tradition. A Ragäree of ancient times had begun the practice, giving one to her lover off-world so that when he arrived on Nuala without her, none would mistake who he was. They were still called serae stone. Their color was a deep burgundy wine, and they were as hard as diamonds. He had given Enid one. Normally Roe would have surprised Moran with it before the ceremony, but as always now, there had been no time.
“Atare, will you please?” Arrez indicated he should take his place in the procession. Braan stepped up next to Teloa, the proper distance behind Lyte, and took the woman’s elbow. She flushed crimson under her acquired tan.
“Do not worry, we shall keep you from making mistakes. Arrez explained it all to you, did he not?” Braan whispered, allowing her to take his arm. She nodded quickly. The line began to move.
Lyte and Jaacav led into the garedoc, packed to capacity with Nualans both Amuran and outlander. A carillon announced the hour of prime. Every single person held a candle except the wedding party. The blaze of light within the cavern was still greater than the dawning. Tay released Braan’s arm as she went to stand next to Jaac on the opposite side of the altar. Liel was the third of the trio. Such a range of emotion visible on their faces. The cynical look of Jaac as she eyed Lyte, who was across from her; Tay’s hesitant joy; Liel’s exuberant glow. Braan wondered if he, Lyte and the boy contrasted as much.
Moran and Ronüviel were last in, the wandering melody of a gattar covering the soft undercurrent of the gathering’s pleasure. It was a good idea, this wedding, Braan thought briefly, not sure that he should have dismissed the idea of a coronation. Then he was lost in the opening words of the ceremony.
“We gather, brethren, at the dawning of a new day, to witness an occasion as old as mankind and as young as morning. We come together to join in the eternal mystery and gift of our Lord High Mendülay—that joy of two who become one and yet remain two,” Arrez began. “I offer to you now Ronüviel and Moran. This woman and this man wish to enrich their separate existence by sharing a life and by bringing new life to our people. I ask you now—be witnesses.”
“We are witnesses,” the crowd responded.
“You stand before us, man and woman, bringing with you past and present, facing the future yet to come. You each bring three persons, representing your lives and our ancient godhead,” Arrez said directly to the pair. “Behold the first of the four great elements: fire. It purifies and purges body and soul; it lights and warms our being; it represents Mendülay within our hearts. Come.” The priest turned and walked to the eternal flame, which stood to one side of the altar. Lighting a woven taper, he carried the tiny flame to the great, dark, bowl-shaped fire basin and ignited the wood within with a touch. There was a pause as they waited for the fire to settle into steady flame. Then Ronüviel stretched out a hand to Moran, and they stood facing one another across the fire basin. Braan knew it was not purely for decoration that the sleeves of the wedding gown and shirt were slit, baring the lower arm when it was bent.
Now the light-bearers’ role came into play. Braan studied the concentration in Lyte’s face, wondering if the man was trying to translate each phrase or if he waited for Jaac’s movement to signal his own. Arrez was pronouncing the ode to the past life, Roe and Moran repeating it. When they finished speaking, Lyte and Jaac both moved to the eternal flame, separately lighting their woven plaits and going to the altar. Seven candles were set up upon it in an inverted V tier. Silently the two lit the candles at each end.
When they returned to their places, Arrez began the speech of the present, short and direct, the repeated last words signaling Braan’s movement: “All that I have been, all that I am and all that I shall be, Mendülay willing, I shall share with you.” Braan nodded fractionally to Tay, and they stepped out to light their straws. Liel and Jared followed them a few moments later, and when Braan finally ceased to study the firelight reflecting from Tay’s hair, he realized the elemental ceremony was continuing. Arrez was done with the discussion of air, the mighty wind of the spirit, and had moved on to soil, the source of all nourishment. Braan watched as the high priest sprinkled the symbolic dirt over their clasped hands and into the firepit, ritually purifying it. Now water was poured over the couple’s hands, steam rising into the heights of the cavern. Braan knew from experience that their arms were far enough above the basin to avoid the heat and boiling steam, but it looked dangerously convincing.
The elemental offerings were through. Arrez had silently, reverently set the most ancient symbols of union and sacrifice, both essential in a marriage, before the eternal flame. No words—the wheat and wine needed none. Then, releasing one hand, the couple walked to face the altar. Taking up the prepared woven plaits that were lying on the block, they each set the tip in their three candles, lit by those individuals closest to them. Together they lit the center candle. The company awaited the final
words. Moran and Ronüviel turned back to face Arrez and the people. The priest raised his hands in blessing.
“Know that these words are among the most powerful in our language, and that they are spoken in the love of our Holy Mendülay. They bind in this world and all worlds, this life and all lives. It is finished, and it is begun. All people are one people; all times timeless; all loves one love; all gods, one God. You are One.” And when Arrez had spoken the last short sentence, A-tu Gare, a deafening roar broke out. Lyte and Tay were both startled, but Roe had spoken to Moran; they raised their clasped hands in a show of triumph as the assembly, as one, extinguished their candles and poured out to greet the dawn.
MT. AMURA
TIERCE
The normal wedding ritual called for a rest day full of feasting, games and song. Fortunately the weather cooperated and though cold, it was not unpleasant. The elders sat around firepits with wine glasses in hand, talking about the things that had remained since time immortal—the children, the neighbors, the harvest, the wedding. Sometimes new topics slipped in, such as the construction of the new city: Nuamura, as they were now saying it. The children chased and hid and teased, and although there was not food in plenty, the cake was the best in anyone’s memory. Musicians played a succession of lively tunes, the flat field at the bottom of Mt. Amura’s foothills becoming a massive dance floor. And Ronüviel told a new story.
Braan sat as entranced as any of them, listening to the tale unfold in his mind. He could see it now: the blazing ships, the fierce battle, the brilliant deception to get on board a pirate vessel. Roe told it better than Baskh had, and Baskh had been the one to live it. The new Atare occasionally tore himself away from his sister’s words to study the faces of his people. They were enchanted, engrossed—some shed a few tears. Time heals wounds and fades memories, Braan thought. Even those who had chafed under Baskh Atare’s rule were involved in the story. Of course, it was about something that had happened long ago, before Baskh ruled. The crushing of the pirate gold trade by a clever ruse—
A hand touched his arm. Braan glanced around.
It was Kavan. “I think you had better come.”
Caught by this intriguing message, Braan stood and followed him. The young man threaded his way back through the crowd, finally ending up at the hill where Arrez had decreed the eternal flame would stand, its socket sheltered in a shrine of piled rock. On the altarpiece before it lay a scroll. Braan reached over and picked it up.
A real scroll, made of feathered, scraped tazelle hide. It bore the black-and-gold tassel of the Dragoche clan. Braan slid off the band and slowly unrolled the message.
“Can you understand it?” Kavan asked.
Braan read the epistle twice, to try and glean every possible meaning from the statement. Then he rolled it shut. “It is basically a message of greeting to the Ragäree on her wedding day,” Braan said slowly. He started walking back to the crowd. “Wishing her and her child health and long life. They are waiting. And they have some connection with Corymb.”
“How so?”
“The Cied place these to be found. True, I had no coronation, but we never came across one acknowledging me as Amura’s new ruler. They do not; they wait to see who shall come out on top. I wonder how long they have been dealing with Corymb....” Braan stopped talking and looked at Kavan. “I think we are about to enter into a war of nerves. See if you can slap Kalith out of his solitude. If you think I can help, find me. Use Shinar. The next twohundredday will tell if our house is to survive. Corymb is coming back—soon.”
“Another thing; a ship comes. From the north, the skywatcher says,” Kavan added, his face now creased with worry.
Braan gripped his shoulder, not sure if he wished to strengthen his little brother or draw strength from him. “It is long overdue. Have them bring any messages to my quarters. I need some time alone. And ... if you get around to it, some of the spice cake, when Roe and Moran cut it.” Braan managed a faint smile, Kavan returning it.
NONE
It was out of a sound sleep that Braan awoke. Someone was pounding on the metal family seal Kavan had hung next to the private corridor entrance. In the distance he heard the lulling sound of the gathering. Braan sat up, steadying himself against dizziness. He had not realized he was so tired.
The Nova had brought mostly good news. Every 3AV tape showed the Nualans entrenching themselves for winter, storing up food and clothing. Some cities were in better shape than others, and the throne was being asked to negotiate the trade of goods among them. Words came from the border cities—the Cied had suffered during the attack, even with the protection of the shield. There were no bomb shelters in the ciedär. So far, offers of help from the coast were being refused. The strongest people of the hot city had survived, Gid reported and were rebuilding their homes above ground and below. More news: Tinyan was pregnant, and there was a possibility the child was his. Braan’s fingers tightened in his blanket at the thought. Gid would return to Amura, but first there was work to be done in Tolis.
“Great joy and long life, Gid,” Braan said aloud, contemplating the responsibility of another child. Asiai.... He fingered the 3AVs and the Cied scroll, aware that he would have to call a synod meeting the next day.
“Atare! Come quickly!” The voice was urgent. Braan dropped the 3AVs and rushed down the corridor toward the west entrance. It took but a few moments to reach the outside, and when Braan did, he was not really surprised by what he saw.
Standing on the footpath leading into the mountain, surrounded by family, hangers-on and admirers, was Corymb. Braan saw that Arrez was also there; he was standing on the outer fringes of the crowd. The priest looked annoyed, an unnatural, impassive expression on his face. Acutely aware of the guaard behind him, the Atare drew close enough to hear Dielaan’s voice.
“I have heard much of this. I am very concerned about the seed shortage—building within the mountain, you say? I wonder how it will hold up during quakes?”
“There is no seed shortage,” Arrez said curtly but pleasantly.
Corymb turned a mild set of black eyes to the high priest. “Oh? Perhaps I was misinformed. I was told our chemicals are gone; that does tend to make many of our farming skills useless. No shortage yet, but that does not mean no problems next fall.” The edge of authority in Corymb’s voice vanished. He smiled, extending his arms as if to embrace the crowd. “Come, friends—we have returned in time for the wedding feast of our Ragäree. I must pay my respects. I would have come to you sooner, but I did not think I was so important to the people’s welfare that it was necessary for me to report in. And my sister’s daughter, Odelle, has been ill. Please have her husband take her to the healers immediately, so she may be diagnosed.”
The note of concern in Corymb’s voice appeared to be genuine. And why not? Odelle was the youngest of five children, none of them boys. And the other four had either died in adolescence or were dead from the bombing, Braan seeing no sign of them in the gathering. This frail, black-eyed young woman was just another power pawn. If she did not bear a healthy son and daughter, able to carry on the Dielaan title, it passed to another branch of the family. Only one generation without male issue was allowed. It would be Justinian and Url’s branch. Corymb would kill to prevent the title from changing hands; of that Braan was certain. Kill how many? For the second time that day Braan found himself thinking of Corymb and the Cied. Was it coincidence that Corymb missed the temple services on the day the bombs fell?
By now the delighted crowd had noticed Braan, and they parted like grass in the wind, clearing a path for their Atare. Corymb straightened at the sight of him, his response a nod. “Atare.”
“Corymb Dielaan.”
“Greetings to you, and eternal peace upon your predecessor.”
“Little enough did he find while living,” Braan remarked. “We have a council tomorrow, to deal with the news from the north. The computer in the back of the first level holds transcripts of what you have missed, both disc
ussion and vote. I think you will find them interesting.” Braan slipped his hands in his pockets, clutching the hard, metallic object he had carried since he had taken it from the Durite’s body.
“Thank you for your words, Atare,” Corymb answered, nodding and gesturing as Arrez stepped to his side. “I am glad to see we understand each other’s priorities and thoughts. Other than my dear Odelle’s condition, my people’s situation is foremost in my mind.”
Simple words. To repeat them later was to wonder that they once held power. “I understand, Corymb. Most assuredly I understand.” With that Braan removed the metal marker from his pocket and pressed it into Corymb’s hand, the Durite thong still attached to it. The Dielaan glanced down at the unfinished piece of trine gold, even as Braan turned and walked away. Only Arrez saw the older man’s face become momentarily rigid before he slipped on a mask of puzzlement, looking oddly after his Atare.
“Shall we go to the Ragäree, Corymb?” Arrez asked, gesturing with his hand. Smiling demurely, Corymb led the way as if he had trod it all his life.
Braan fought to control himself as he rushed back to finish the 3AVs, wondering cynically how Ronüviel would receive Corymb. In his hurry he almost ran down Teloa, who had been watching the arrival from the obscurity of the cavern’s mouth.
“How—how could you even look at that man!” she whispered, staring after Corymb.
“I am sorry, that is twice today I nearly—” Braan stopped when her words registered. He studied the woman, blazing in her fury for the insult given to the throne and to him, and then he laughed. Tay was startled out of her anger and whirled toward him. Braan seized her hand and bowed to press it to his lips.
“Atare?”
“Teloa, did I forget to tell you how beautiful you look and how well you assisted in the wedding? It was a delight to pair with you.” He straightened and met her gaze. “I thank you for your concern and request you continue with those pointed questions. They keep me thinking; with Gid gone, Roe and Arrez alone do that for me, and both are increasingly occupied with other demands. Only you seem to have the nerve to—“
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