by Diane Duane
Segnbora laughed again. “This is going to be one of those weddings where the participants outnumber the guests,” she said. “But who cares? Is there anyone else we should have in the family? That’s only five so far, not counting the children. What children there are so far, anyway.”
“I had thought about Eftgan,” Freelorn said. Herewiss and Segnbora looked at him with some surprise: but the Queen merely smiled. “Well,” Lorn said, “it’s not as if she doesn’t come of a good family. And there would seem to be certain—relationships—that might be more deeply explored.”
Eftgan laughed out loud. “Don’t ask me for help in being a demigod, lazybones! I’m having my own problems. But as for the business of uniting the two lines again, well, why not? It’s good for a young King to marry an experienced Queen, they say.” Freelorn leered at her hopefully. “I don’t mean that, you lecher! —It also much reduces the chance of something like this interregnum happening to either of our lines again. I’m willing enough, if you all are. But don’t ask me to be here much: I have my own row to hoe. And I’ll have to ask Wyn, of course. But he always did like crowds....”
“Let it be so then.”
*
A tenday later, so it was. Who was to officiate was a problem, since normally for a royal wedding, the king or queen of the other country came to do the honors in his or her capacity as the Goddess’s high priest. Finally Eftgan suggested that Kerim, the Chief Rodmistress, do the honors, and she agreed.
“Who are you going to invite?” Herewiss had said to Freelorn. Freelorn had looked at him in astonishment. “Everyone,” he said. And so that came to pass as well. Most particularly he sent word south to Lalen and Nia. Five days before the wedding they arrived, Lalen quite astonished, but cheerful in an ironic way, and Nia overwhelmed. She was made much of, stuffed with treats, sat in the Throne, and took to hanging about the rebuilding of Lionhall. Herewiss and the Dragons were managing this, and Nia shortly made common cause with with Herewiss’s sons, newly arrived from the Brightwood, who were also “assisting”—that is to say, ordering the bemused Dragons around, and driving Herewiss half mad. Meanwhile, Lorn was busy with wedding arrangements. All the people of Prydon would not fit into Kynall at once, of course, so much of the wedding feast was staged outside in the squares and the main marketplace. So was the ceremony, since at least one of the participants, in common with his relatives, could not fit more than his head into Kynall.
They came out into the marketplace, two hours past noon, in a blaze of color: Herewiss and Hearn in the white of the Phoenix livery, Segnbora blinding in the black glitter of dragonmail, Dritt and Harald and Moris in their best silks: and a somber spot in the middle, the black of Arlen on Freelorn’s surcoat, and the midnight blue of Darthen, both shadowed every now and then by Hasai, who was sitting on the fourth wall.
First of all that afternoon, Freelorn and Eftgan swore the Oath of Lion and Eagle again, briefly exchanging Hergótha and Fòrlennh, with the hilts stained with their blood. Then Kerim was called out, and the marriage began. The seven (for Wyn had arrived) took the vow, to share bodies and thoughts as pleasure and trust prompted, to live for and with one another and their children, to love while life lasted, though liking might come and go, and to do right by one another, as the Goddess would were She marrying in (which of course She was). Then they passed the cup of the sacral wine, and drank, pouring some over Hasai in lieu of actual drinking, so that everyone there burst out laughing at the sight of one of the bridegrooms being hallowed like a new-launched boat. And the the whole crowd—four thousand people, it was later said—drank with them and wished them the truth of their vow. Then the fiddles and horns struck up, and the serious eating and drinking began.
The dancing started almost immediately, and didn’t even slow down until a guard came riding into the square in some haste, a couple of hours later. She threw herself off her horse and hurried over to Freelorn, who was deep in a discussion of excise taxes with Wyn. “Sir,” she said, “there are Reavers at the gate!”
Freelorn blinked at her, a mild look. “Here for the wedding, I would guess,” he said. “I did invite everybody. How many of them are there?”
“Why, about four hundred—”
“Is that all? Plenty for them. Ask them to come in.”
The guard rode off, wearing an expression that suggested she thought Freelorn had taken leave of his kingly wits. But Freelorn finished his conversation with his husband, and waved Eftgan over. They had a few minutes to speak before the first company of Reavers rode into the marketplace, looking around them with profound nervousness. The people in the marketplace looked back with exactly the same expression at the men and women on their little horses, all dressed in furs and roughspun: but there was a kind of splendor about them too, for they had dressed in their own best—ornaments of copper and carved bone, brooches of delicately interlaced wire, and wonderful copper-bound bows and spears. Freelorn looked at the man on the foremost horse as he came to a stand and looked around in all that great crowd for someone to begin speaking to.
Freelorn went forward, and the man whom he had last seen down in south Darthen looked at him, and his expression changed. Almost a smile it became, though it was clear this was a laconic people who did not smile easily. Lorn went up to the horse, and bowed: the rider laid a fist to his breast.
“This is one of the chieftains of a people called Ladha,” Freelorn said to the crowd around him. “We called them Reavers, because we didn’t know any better. But now we do: now we both do. The Lion and the Eagle have made peace with the Reavers: they will war on us no more. In return, some of them will be living in the empty land down by Bluepeak and Barachael. They will guard our southern borders, and trade us horses that can walk right up walls.”
The crowd was muttering at this, but Freelorn was distracted, because the chieftain was holding out a skin bag to him. Freelorn raised his eyebrows, took it, uncorked it, sniffed. His eyebrows went much higher.
“Somebody bring this man a cup of wine,” he said. He waited until the chieftain had been handed someone’s pottery cup, a big one full of Jaraldit from the look of it: then saluted him. They drank together. Freelorn was hard put not to choke, and his eyes watered.
“What is it?” he said to the chieftain.
The man’s eyes were glittering with amusement. He gestured at his horse, a mare.
Freelorn laughed and looked at the people around him. “Thought that was where they got that blond southern beer,” he said. The crowd burst out laughing.
Shortly everyone was offering the riders food and drink. Lorn drifted away, getting back to the business of being with his people again.
The dancing got started once more as soon as the horses were put back outside the city to pastur, and was still going on strong at dusk. Freelorn was having the legs danced off him by all comers, but that was part of a wedding, whether king’s or commoner’s. These were none of the stately dances of the court: these were country dances, stompers, thigh-slappers, circle dances with clapping and shouting. Freelorn was tiring out. Nothing odd there, he thought, considering the last few days. And he laughed at himself, for he was after all the Lion, better at short bursts of energy than long bouts of endurance. I’m going to sleep for a week when this is over, he thought as he finished a circuit of one of the circle dances, relinquished the hand of a young blond man from out in the country somewhere, and seized another hand that was held out to him, whirling the partner off—
The shock running up his arm, familiar, terrifying and wondrous, brought his head around with a snap. He looked at his partner. White linen blouse and heavier white skirt, soft boots, a countrywoman’s attire: long, long dark hair, that flew with the turns and whirls of the dance. Her face he knew, having last seen it in the Ferry Tavern. Dusk was not quite well enough along yet to be certain, but in the folds of the dusty cloak, he thought he caught a glimpse of starlight.
She smiled at him, and kept him dancing when he might have stopped. “What? So surpri
sed?” She said, and chuckled. “You did invite everybody.”
The rhythm changed, and Lorn got enough of his composure back to change the step with it, and let Her go for the side-by-side part of the dance. “You’re running yourself ragged, My dear,” She said, slightly breathless Herself with the stamping. “I thought I’d better take My chance while I could. It’s good luck to dance with a groom, they say... “ Her eyes met his, and such a flow of Her power, and joy, and pride in him filled him, that the breathlessness was suddenly all his.
“Let’s stop a moment,” he said, and pulled Her out of the dance. Off to one side was one of many trestle-tables with drink on it: Wyn had given the Throne an excellent discount. Freelorn reached out for a cup, but in the act someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind. He turned away from the tap, but it was only Segnbora, looking with astonishment at his partner. “Oh!” she said.
“Lorn,” Herewiss said from behind him, holding their lovers’-cup out to him, “why do you always— Oh!”
Sunspark peered out from under the table, in hunting-cat’s shape. What are you— it started to say, then looked up, and its eyes widened.
“A drink would be in order, I think,” She said. White radiance fell on Her from above, mingling with the moonlight that was already tangled in Her hair, though the Moon had not risen yet. Low, and awed, and triumphant, the great voice sang: “Sta-vhei’sduw rhdwae’Stihuw, hhwni-errhai’e!”
She gazed up at Hasai. “Oh, you are big,” She said, and chuckled again. “Joy and honor to you too, dearest.” She reached out and took the cup that Herewiss handed her, his own hand trembling: She steadied it a moment before taking it. “Thank you,” She said. “I’m parched.”
She drank deep, and handed the cup to Herewiss, who drank as well and passed it on. “Madam,” Segnbora said softly, taking it from him, “what brings You here?”
The Goddess laughed. “Every now and then, you know,” She said, “something goes right.” She looked around at them. “That I thought I might come to see... since My law forbids me interfering otherwise.”
Sunspark lapped at the cup that Segnbora held for it... then looked surprised to find the wetness of the wine did it no harm: and Segnbora held the cup up to Hasai, and was surprised to see the golden light he supped from it at the end of his long forked tongue. The Goddess took it again, took one more drink, handed the cup back to Freelorn. “It does say,” she said, “as if She were marrying in....”
They all gazed at Her, silent, in joy. It had become one of those times when hearts are suddenly so full, they will not admit of the spoken word, even among lovers and friends who have saved one another’s lives. But in this company, none of them felt odd about it. “I know,” She said to them at last. “Never mind.”
“Lady,” Lorn said at last, “a question?”
“From you, what else?” She said, laughing.
“Why did you forge us as we are?”
“To be weapons, Lorn. Surely you know that.”
“Surely. What this weapon wants to know is... will the battle ever be won?”
She looked at him with kindness, and rue. “‘Not forever; never forever... the Shore makes sure of that.’“ She sighed. “It will never wholly be won, child of Mine. Till time’s end, no weapon I can forge will ever buy Me peace... or buy it for My worlds. That is My burden to bear. Mine, too, that I have caused you to be what you are... suffer what you suffer... in a lost cause.”
“Lost causes,” Lorn said gently, as if comforting Her, “are what I was made for.”
“Beloved... that is exactly so.”
The stillness that fell then was mostly Hers. “Hreiha,” Hasai said, “here is one place, the one place, where along with the Immanence, Your power fails... as in the humans’ old stories, and our own. You cannot take away from us the responsibility, the desire, the will, that You gave us. Else Your worlds are truly hollow, and everything You’ve done has been vain. We did what we did—and would do it again, I know—whether you caused us to do it, or not.”
“We might have done it slower,” Lorn muttered.
“But we would have done it nonetheless,” Segnbora said, looking Her directly in the eye, though she trembled with love as she did. “Leave us our power, madam. And our love for You—which You could have forced—but in Your wisdom never did.”
The Goddess bowed Her head. “So be it, then,” She said, in a voice hardly above a whisper; but the earth trembled with it, and the stars in their courses shook. “As you give yourselves to Me... so I to you. Always.”
That we knew already, Sunspark said, its eyes glowing.
“Then go and rest,” She said. “I have other weapons in the forge, and other loves to attend than you Five. Keep sharp, you were best. And sire children, or bear them, as the case may be: live, and love, and set My world on Fire. As for the rest of it— The sword rarely has much warning, in a responsible warrior, if it’s to be drawn. But it will be thanked afterwards... and made whole.”
She smiled at them. Then the woman in the long dusty cloak did Freelorn a curtesy, and turned, and strolled off among the dancers, into the dusk. Moonlight glimmered in Her hair. Noticing, the Moon rose hurriedly behind Her, just before She vanished into the crowd.
Freelorn filled the cup again. “To Our Lady of the Long Dance,” he said: “who misses no step, and no partner.”
They all drank.
*
They danced the dawn in, as tradition requires. One of the dancers went missing, a while after the Sun came up. Long and black his shadow could be seen, stretching out across the fields west of Kynall, tangling with the shadows of the trees of Orsmernin. He carried a sapling tree, and a spade. To a space on the eastern side of the circle he went, and on a small mound there, planted the tree. A number of breaths he stood there; then turned away. Behind him, the sapling’s shadow got longer, and longer still, tangling with the shadows of the other trees in the Grove: seven year’s growth done in seven breaths, and then stillness, and green leaves rustling in the wind.
The man in the field looked eastward at the city, and at the black banner cracking from the topmost pinnacle of the tower of Kynall’s keep in the morning wind. Past the tower, flying, wheeled two great shapes, vanishing eastward: they flew, it seemed, into the Sun.
Freelorn smiled, and gave his new allegiance to the Dawn, and started walking back to town.
***
Here ends THE DOOR INTO SUNSET. The fourth volume
of this sequence, which tells the end of The Tale of the Five,
will be called THE DOOR INTO STARLIGHT.
ON THE PRONUNCIATION OF LANGUAGES
For those interested—
Generally speaking, vowels in the Arlene and Darthene languages are pronounced as they are in the Romance languages of our world—the long vowels are “pure” sounds (a=ah, e=ay, i=ee, o=oh, u=oo). There are no silent vowels in any language spoken in the Middle Kingdoms. Pairs of vowels may show up looking like English diphthongs, but they are almost never pronounced that way. The only exceptions are words derived (or apparently derived) from Dracon: Laihan (pr. lye-han), the tai- and stai-prefixes, etc.
Diacritical marks are therefore tucked in here and there to indicate that an apparent diphthong is actually meant to be split: as in Héalhra (pronounced HAY-al-hra). The diacriticals will also sometimes indicate where the stress in a word is meant to fall, in cases where there may be doubt. Sometimes they do both. If there are two diacritical marks in a word (Skádhwë), the second one is usually there to indicate that the vowel in question is not supposed to fall silent, or is unusually long: “SKAHD-hway”. Or it may indicate a secondary stress, occasionally stronger than the [usual] first one in the word (Héalhrästi, As’t’Raïd).
Consonants for the most part behave themselves and are all separately pronounced, though there is a tendency (common to the drawling North) to soften or elide some compound consonant structures, like the properly divided d-h compound in Skádhwë, into a breathed “t
h” sound, a là the Welsh. This is sloppy pronunciation, but the author is hardly likely to carp at it, having fallen into the bad habit a long time ago while still learning Darthene. —As regards words that seem to have been translated into English cognates from their native Arlene or Darthene (e.g. Freelorn, Herewiss, Britfell, etc.), they should be pronounced just as they look.
Dracon pronunciation is very different from that used for Arlene and Darthene, and has its own set of difficulties. Dracon has diphthongs after the manner of English—and tripthongs, and tetrathongs, and longer compounds not appearing in English or any other human tongue. But the diphthongs do not always run together as expected (sdahaih, for example, is pronounced “s-DAA-hay-ih”). With words containing multiple run-on vowels (ohaiiw) and longish consonantal combinations (such as rhhw’Fvhr’ielhrnn, the Dracon transcription of “Freelorn”), the reader is encouraged to do exactly as he or she likes; the author, in mild desperation over her accent, has been doing the same for years.
But there are a few general hints for the determined. The main stress of a word almost always goes on the first vowel or diphthong to make an appearance. In words beginning with one or more consonants (nn’s’raihle), the rule remains the same, but all consonants preceding the diphthong or vowel must be separately pronounced. Nn’s’raihle therefore has, not three syllables, but six: approximated for ease of human pronunciation, “en-ne-s-R’EYE-heh-leh”. This last example demonstrates how it sometimes helps, when trying to speak Dracon, to “fake” a vowel or two in a long string of consonants; even in a short one—like the honorific/species-descriptive lhhw, which can safely be pronounced “lhew”, as long as the sound is kept breathy. In the case of multiple vowels, the multiplicity is intended to indicate unusual length—of duration rather than sound. Singing the vowels in question may help, though it by no means makes them last as long as they’re really supposed to. Dracon is a leisurely language, as might be expected when members of the species that speaks it can live a thousand years before shedding their skins for the last time and going mdahaih, at which time (free of the hectic demands of living bodies) they settle down to work on complete mastery of the tongue. Humans, who have less time, or more on their schedules, must just do the best they can.
