Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

  This wasn’t a mere mortal man. This was the Seer King, who saw with the eyes of His God. Or rather, whose God saw with His eyes. The Eyes of Ruul.

  Unnatural, divine eyes which were looking straight at her.

  She almost turned and fled when he uncurled himself from his throne. His slow descent down the white-carpeted steps mesmerized her, like a mouse caught under the stare of an owl gliding over a meadow. Taller than most Guildarans, he towered over her as he reached the last step separating them. His hand lifted slowly, gracefully to her face. She shivered before he even touched her, eyes wide with fear, but his fingers were gentle. Calloused, too, slightly rough in the way that said he worked with his hands.

  The feel of those calluses bemused her, paralyzing her urge to flee from the contradiction. Gods didn’t work with Their hands; They were Gods and used Their will to enact great—and sometimes terrible—deeds. Mekha’s hands were said to have been cold and clammy, the hands of a corpse dragged from its grave. This hand was warm and dry, and very much alive.

  Do not fear me, Gabria.

  Her eyes widened. That ... he ... He, rather ... The voice filled her head, soft and low, but echoing as if it rumbled throughout the chapel, though she knew she hadn’t heard it with her ears. Nor had those full lips moved. It was all unnaturally, eerily, all in her head.

  Yes, I speak to you in your mind, hearing your thoughts. All Gods have that right. It is only your fellow mortals who are forbidden. I am pleased you come before Me willingly. Afraid of what you do not yet know, nor understand ... but willingly all the same. You are what My Seer needs, the right choice for him ... and, perhaps, I choose you a little for Myself. Those fingers curled and brushed gently against her cheek. The caress was both soothing and unnerving. You are a beautiful woman, inside and out, and a worthy vessel.

  ... Vessel? she thought, mouth too dry and throat too tight to have made an actual sound.

  His mouth curved in a slow, disturbingly male smile. Disturbing, because this was still very much a God staring at her with those unnatural gold eyes. You will be My vessel, strong and kind, bright and loving. My current Seer will fill you with untold pleasure as you fulfill the honor of becoming the mother of My next Seer King, in a line unbroken for over five hundred years.

  Shock held her still. Descending that one, last step, He leaned down—still taller than her by a full head—and brushed His lips against hers. Watching her with those owl-bright eyes. Somehow, she found the strength to try to speak, though not yet the voice. He took swift advantage of her parted lips, kissing her fully. Tasting like a man, touching like a man ... feeling like anything but a man as, somehow, He kissed her mind as well as her mouth.

  He pulled back after a moment, one hand still lightly cupping her cheek, the other lifting her right hand between them. This time, His voice echoed in her ears as well as her head, rolling like thunder in the distance. His lips framed each word as clearly as the windows framed the garden view, filling the glass chapel with His approval.

  “I accept this woman as Bride of My Seer King. She is blessed in My Eyes. Honor her as the Princess Gabria, wife of King Devin and mother of My unbroken line. Let their union be fruitful; let them love long and full!”

  The otherwise silent congregation of courtiers spoke up in near-perfect unison at that, startling her.

  “As it is said, so shall it be written!”

  “Thus it is proved, and so shall it be,” Ruul stated, satisfaction coloring His voice. Lifting her fingers to His lips, he kissed the ring that had materialized on her littlest finger. I will see you soon, Gabria. Hopefully without any more fear in your heart. You are too lovely to suffer from anything.

  Lowering her hand, He leaned down again, kissing Gabria fully on the lips with no teasing or hesitations this time. He also closed those unnerving eyes. A shudder passed through his frame, somehow diminishing him; he pulled back slightly after a moment, just far enough to gaze at her, their mouths not quite brushing. With brown eyes.

  Normal, mortal, plebeian brown eyes. With Seer King Devin’s eyes, not Patron God Ruul’s. He studied her a moment, as if this was the first moment he was finally seeing her face, then swooped in for another kiss. It wasn’t quite as masterful, but it was quite skillful in its own way. Shaken and trembling, Gabria leaned into him. Not for enjoyment, though the kiss was disturbingly nice, the nicest one of her life so far, but for physical support as her knees threatened to give way from sheer, overwrought nerves.

  By instinct, or perhaps divine guidance—an unnerving thought—he abandoned touching her cheek in favor of wrapping that arm around her waist, lifting and supporting her against his warm, strong body. His other hand came up and cradled the nape of her neck, beneath her flower-strewn braid. Turning her head slightly, he kissed his way to the soft skin just in front of her ear, and whispered into it.

  “I must now introduce you to the Prime Minister and the others. Face them with courage and grace, dignity and courtesy,” he coached her under his breath. “Once their eyes have turned elsewhere, and we are alone, then you may react as you wish.” One last brush of his lips against the curves of her ears, tickling them in an unnerving way, and he gently turned her toward the others.

  Mindful of his words, of having to make the best of this all-but-absurd situation, Gabria squared her shoulders and leveled her chin. Despite the clanking of her guts and the shivering of her knees, she reminded herself firmly that this was far, far better than, say, the old priests of the False God finding out she was a mage. Really, by comparison, finding myself unexpectedly . . . married ... isn’t so bad. At least they don’t seem to want to hurt me, or drain away my magics. So far.

  She also knew, from her modest handful of lessons in Aurulan culture and politics, that the Prime Minister was the bureaucratic power of this nation. The Seer King had the final say—or perhaps that was more Ruul having the final say—but from what she knew, his position was wrapped up in the duties of being head priest, prophet, and watchful Guardian of their nation, the spiritual head. It was the Prime Minister who oversaw the day-to-day running and practical governance of Aurul.

  So he’s sort of like Marta. Appointed into the position, not born, and wielding a great deal of power and respect, Gabria reminded herself, gathering her wits as well as her composure as the closest of the men stepped forward. He wore black robes decorated with thread-of-gold, counterpoint to the Seer King’s white, and his mustache and goatee were a full growth, rather than a neatly trimmed line. More than that, he looked like the man at her side. Not exactly like him, not like a twin, but quite possibly like a brother, or a cousin.

  “This is Lord Daric, our Prime Minister, and elder brother,” the Seer King introduced.

  Not quite ready to trust her still unsteady knees—and not inclined to bow anyway; she had played similar ranking games within the Hydraulics and Mage’s Guilds and knew she needed to establish her own position right away—Gabria managed a slow, hopefully graceful dip of her head. His mouth tightened briefly, but he returned it, placing himself as her equal.

  “Next to him is Lord Zuill, Prime Mage of the kingdom.” That was an older, gray-braided gentleman in rich brown robes accented with peach and gold. The head bow he gave her in return to her nod was a little deeper than the Prime Minister’s. “Lady Lianna, Mage of the Palace ...” She bowed a little deeper still, as did the rest. Gabria listened and nodded as her erstwhile husband introduced several others, ending with the blue-robed “Milord Souder, Master of the Royal Retreat.”

  Master Souder lifted his loupe-stick, eyeing her from flowered head to sueded toe. “Hm. Well. At least she cleans up well enough.” He lowered it and looked at his ruler. “She’ll need deportment lessons. She stands like a laborer.”

  “I stand like an engineer.” The words left her, sharp and crisp, before she realized it. Not that she wanted to stop them; his attitude irked her. Gabria held the other man’s gaze firmly as he blinked, taken aback. “My education and skills are far super
ior. As for deportment lessons, I would suggest you sit in on them and listen as well. As much as I may need instruction in Aurulan manners, it is also clear that you may need a refresher in how to be civil and courteous in public.”

  Souder’s brows rose, but not in affront. Instead, she had the impression she had pleased as well as startled him. Sweeping into a lower bow than the rest, he replied, “Of course, Your Highness. I apologize for any offense given by my forgetfulness.”

  She confined her reply to the same slight nod as before, and figured it was best to say nothing more on the matter. At least, unless and until he snipped at her again, or waved that stereoscopic loupe-on-a-stick disdainfully in her direction. Part of her—her engineering curiosity—wanted to know about its optical properties, but the rest of her didn’t quite like the man. Yet.

  But ... I do seem to be stuck here, so I should try to get along with everyone. I just won’t let him or anyone else—not even a God—walk all over me.

  “The others,” the man at her side was saying, returning her attention to the assembled courtiers, “you will come to know as time progresses. It is time, now, for the Three Days of Grace to begin.”

  As if his words were some sort of ritual statement, everyone else in the glass-walled chapel bowed, stating as a group, “As it is said, so shall it be written; thus it is proved, and so shall it be!”

  They also started filing out, though many of the brightly clothed men and women kept their gaze on Gabria, studying her as they waited for their turn to walk back along the aisle and up into the palace proper. Rather than following them as she expected, Gabria found herself pulled gently to the side, led through a glass door in the wall to one side of the dais. Even though the chapel was roofed and walled in glass, the sunlight was brighter outside, and palpably hotter now that they were beyond the cooling effect of those scroll-scribed runes.

  The glimmering waters of the Jenodan Sea could be seen beyond the bushes and trees, and the breeze wafting up from the south smelled of flowers, moisture, and a hint of mud. She knew from her geography studies that the great body of water wasn’t a true saltwater sea, but was instead a vast freshwater lake, dotted with islands to the south and crags to the west. Before she could dredge up the names of the other kingdoms besides Aurul that claimed portions of its shoreline, the man leading her along the stone-tiled paths of the garden stopped and faced her.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  The question caught her off guard. “Uh ... yes. But what I really—”

  His fingers lifted to her lips, silencing her. Those brown eyes flicked around the garden. “We are not yet alone. The nobles and the ministers still watch us. Come. A small feast has been prepared for us in the fuchsia pavilion.”

  “The what?” Unfamiliar with the word, Gabria let herself be led along the path once more. They ascended a curving set of steps flanked by lemon-scented bushes and stepped up to a gauze-curtained, marble-carved structure. The broad roof was covered in solid, blue-glazed tiles, she noted, and the edges of the fluted roof hung with basket after basket of bright red, pale and vivid pink, and even a few purple flowers. More had been planted in large urns, and in planter boxes at the corners of the steps ringing the stone and tile pavilion. Gabria smiled at the bright colors. “Those flowers are lovely! What are they?”

  “These are fuchsias,” he told her, lifting his fingers to one of the dangling, colorful stems. “They grow abundantly all over our kingdom. Come; your journey may have been short, but your preparations were long. You must be hungry.”

  Pulling aside one of the aqua blue curtains, he revealed the interior of the pavilion. A low oval table lay in the center of a rug-padded, cushion-strewn platform. Like most of the other things she had seen since beginning that bathing ritual, the table was gilded and inlaid with semiprecious stones. Gilded dishes lined its surface, many of them covered with decorative domes.

  Leading her to one side, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Gabria. Until now, I have only seen whatever visions of you Ruul has granted unto me. I am honored the reality is more pleasant than the vision.”

  She stiffened at the name of his deity. “... Are we alone yet?”

  “Not quite. And I must introduce myself first. I am Devin, second-born son of Elric and Talinea, current Seer King of Aurul, blessed of Ruul ... but you may call me Devin, particularly when we are alone. You have met my elder brother, Lord Daric, of course.” Gesturing for her to sink onto the cushions, he lent her his hand for balance, then took himself around the table to the far side, continuing his introductions. “I also have a sister, Lady Atena; currently, she is our ambassador to the kingdom of Haida, which lies to the southwest of us, due east of Sundara. You, of course, are Gabria of the family Springreaver. Do you have any siblings?”

  “Two sisters.” It felt a little strange to be making polite conversation with a near-stranger she had just married, but she had resolved to make the best of the situation. For the sake of Guildara, of course. Finding what looked like a napkin on the table, she draped it across her folded legs. “I’m the middle child. My eldest sister is Marica. She works as an accountant for the Glassworks Guild. And, of course, she’s a member of the Accountant’s Guild.

  “My younger sister, Zeda, is a journeyman chef for the Hospitaller’s Guild—those are the people who serve in taverns, inns, restaurants, and the like. She was originally apprenticed to the Glassworks Guild, since our eldest sister had some clout and it’s a good career for a woman, it doesn’t require as much strength as, say, the Iron Smelter’s Guild, but she discovered she really prefers working with food.” Gabria eyed the dishes between them and gestured hesitantly at the lids. “Are we going to begin eating, or ... ?”

  He lifted his hand, and two men in the cream-and-lavender robes of the royal household parted the curtains on the side opposite from their entrance. They came in, bowed to their king, bowed to Gabria—nearly as deeply, she noticed, though not quite—and uncovered the dishes. Bowls of greens rested on chunks of ice, as did mixtures of exotic, screw-shaped spirals of something vaguely pastry-like tossed with tender vegetables in a glistening sauce. Other dishes held gravyslathered chunks of meat cooked on skewers. Strange peach white curls of what looked like meat formed rings on another plate, encircling a dish filled with some sort of creamy gold, herb-speckled sauce.

  The two servants brought forth bowls of water and little towels. Watching Devin dipping and scrubbing his fingers in the water, Gabria did the same. The water had been scented with lemons and was refreshingly cool. The little drying cloths were soft, exotic cotton, which came from so far away, Gabria couldn’t remember the name of the place, other than that it was extremely expensive. Marta has a set of cotton drying cloths, a coronation gift sent from Sundara. She let me touch them ... but these are even softer than hers. I think because they’ve been washed and used many times, like well-worn linen.

  Once their hands were clean and dry, the servants shifted the bowls and cloths to the end of the table, then brought forth pitchers, etched with cooling runes, and poured water into two of the goblets, and what smelled like a pale golden wine into two more, placing one of each in front of the two diners. Bowing again, they retreated to the pillars to either side of the curtains they had entered through, knelt on a pair of cushions laid out for them, and settled in to wait until needed again.

  Bemused, Gabria glanced at them, then at the Seer King. He lifted the goblet of water nearest him, cleared his throat, and spoke. “Praise be unto Ruul, who brought you into my life.”

  Holding the blown-glass cup aloft, he waited patiently. Pointedly glancing at her own.

  THREE

  Sighing, Gabria lifted her cup, though she didn’t say anything. She had a problem with his God and couldn’t quite bring herself to lie about it. Thankfully, Devin didn’t seem to be offended by her lack of words. Lowering his cup, he sipped from it, so she sipped from hers. It was cool, sweet, and quen
ched some of her thirst. She copied his moves and started serving herself small portions of this and that, sticking mostly to the foods she recognized.

  “There are certain ... rituals ... involved in the marriage of a Seer King,” Devin stated a few moments later, after having bitten into one of the white peach curls of meat and sipped at the wine placed by his water glass. “Rituals and traditions. Since you are an outlander, I need to enlighten you as to this particular one. We have begun the Three Days of Grace. They are designed to allow the Seer and his bride the opportunity to get to know each other first, without the pressure or expectation of begetting any heirs.”

  She blushed at his words. That was one of her strongest points of objection to this whole mess, second only to the fact he harbored a God in his body, and she was deathly afraid of all deities, thanks to her people’s unpleasant past. Gabria opened her mouth to address that fact, only to find herself silenced again when he raised his hand.

  “I know, you wish to speak of Ruul’s intentions regarding your presence here. There will be time for that, I promise. First, you must know what these three days are. Out in the rest of the kingdom, these are three days of rejoicing for my people, of celebrations and feasts and prayers of well wishes for myself and my bride. Prayers for you, that you will, ah, be fruitful and kind, and prayers for me, that I will be fruitful and loving. But as you and I come to each other as strangers—as most Seer Kings and their brides have been—we are given three days to become better acquainted, and to begin a lifelong friendship.

  “In fact, my father dined with my mother in this very pavilion over forty years ago,” he added, making her aware that he was, indeed, older than her, mid-thirties to her mid-twenties. “They both still live, and he is still a holy Seer, though obviously, he is no longer the Seer King.