Daughter of the Flames (19 page)

Sighing, I closed my eyes at last, burrowing deeper into my pillow.

A very short time later I felt sunlight on my face and smelled jasmine tea. I opened my eyes to see steam twisting gently up from a cup on my bedside table, and Mira sat in a chair by the bed.

“What time is it?” I croaked, sitting and reaching gratefully for the cup.

“Still early,” Mira said, her hand making gentle patting movements on the generous curve of her belly. “I held Anca back for a few minutes. It wasn’t easy – she’s almost beside herself with excitement.”

I thought about the little blonde Sedorne maid who had been coaching me in the marriage ceremony and supervising the fittings of my wedding costume. She was at least four years older than me, but acted in a way that I would normally associate with a small child. Her giggling got on every nerve I possessed.

“Thank you,” I said fervently, sipping the tea.

I looked down into the pale golden liquid in my cup and ran through the wedding vows in my mind. My knowledge of the Sedorne tongue, which had been so clear when the Holy Mother first touched me, had become less acute as the weeks passed. Likewise I’d found many of my childhood memories fading almost as soon as I recalled them – as if they had been with me all along, and had diminished with time. This had made it a lot more difficult to commit the complicated verses of the ceremony to memory, but I thought that with Anca’s and Sorin’s help, I’d finally got them right. I was more worried about the wedding dance.

I slurped the rest of my tea quickly and threw back the blankets and furs to get up. I bent to touch the floor near my feet, did a few stretching exercises and a slow backward bend, and then nodded.

“All right. Call her in. Have her bring the monstrosity with her.”

Mira smiled as she heaved herself up and went to the door. “It’s really not a monstrosity.”

“Would you ever wear a gown that weighs more than you do?”

“There isn’t a dress that weighs more than me,” Mira said, patting her swollen stomach again. “Now don’t hurt her feelings.” She pulled the door open.

A full two hours later I stood before a mirror of polished metal – an extravagant buy from the local merchant that Anca had assured me was vital – and surveyed my appearance.

The Sedorne wedding dress had remained unchanged for centuries, and every detail held meaning. The colours were chosen according to the birth element of the groom, so in my case they were red and gold. The embroidery was the plainest pattern I could argue for, but the curling golden flames rioted over more than half of the material. The bodice was so tight that I had to wear a special contraption made of ivory ribs and silk beneath it, and it was cut low and square so that most of my chest was displayed to the world. The billowing skirt and sleeves had two layers, the red overdress parting at my elbows and hips to reveal a golden one underneath. A short red cloak – with a golden lining – was anchored at my shoulders with cloak pins shaped like ducks, which, I was informed, were a symbol of fidelity.

My jaw-length hair had been twisted and pinned so tightly I was surprised it hadn’t dropped out in protest, and over the top a headdress made of red choris flowers and golden charms dedicated to Ioana bobbed and jingled cheerfully.

Anca was tearyeyed with pride. Mira was avoiding my gaze, but her lips were twitching suspiciously.

“If you dare laugh…” I threatened.

“Never, Reia,” she said gravely, but spoiled the effect rather by clearing her throat and turning quickly away.

I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to my reflection. All in all, I decided, I would probably never look more ridiculous in my life. But at least there was one thing I could be happy about.

I had given in to everything else, but I had stood fast when it came to veiling my face. Anca had been shocked speechless by my – to her – inexplicable decision. A Sedorne bride simply did
not
show her face. It was a gesture of disrespect to her would-be husband, and his family. She had pleaded and cajoled and argued with me until she had to go and lie down for half an hour to recover. She had even tried to enlist Sorin’s support. Unfortunately for her, Sorin had taken one look at my defiant expression and refused to get involved.

So now, in the midst of the ridiculous cake of a wedding dress and the stupid headdress and odd braided hair, I could meet my own eyes and be sure that it was still me under there. My face. Scar and all. My left hand twitched, but I held the fingers down with an effort of will. Not today.

I lifted my chin. “I’m ready.”

An audible gasp rose from the people below when I stepped out onto the mezzanine level. I gritted my teeth, kept my eyes above their faces, and walked down the stairs just as Anca had told me. Stately. Graceful. Serene. The onlookers – Rua and Sedorne, the temple people and namoa who had stayed with me, fort servants, townspeople – parted for me, clapping and shouting my name and throwing choris flowers at my feet. I could almost feel their goodwill lapping at my skin, rising up like the sweet smell of the blossoms that crushed under my slippers. Someone darted forward to touch the trailing ends of my dress and was shooed away briskly by Anca. The feeling of an invisible wave of caring buoyed me up and pushed me along across the courtyard to where the gates of the fort opened wide.

The grey horse that I was to ride stood by the gates, Deo holding the reins. It had flowers and ribbons braided into its long white mane and tail, and looked very pretty. It tossed its head nervously at the movements of the crowd and chewed on its bit with a loud
glunking
noise.

I eyed it with apprehension. I’d never been taught to ride, and there had been little time to practise after I was told it was expected of me for the ceremony. I’d had more important things to concentrate on. I looked at Deo, who smiled reassuringly.

“Easy. Just like we did yesterday,” he whispered as he helped me to mount and sit side-saddle on the mare.

I kept my curses at the process quiet, for the sake of the people around us, even when the skirt bunched up awkwardly beneath me and the embroidery scratched at the back of my thighs. The long sleeves of the dress thankfully hid my glaring red and white knuckles as I clutched at the horse’s mane. Deo thoughtfully kept a firm hold on my skirt as he led the horse through the gates. The animal snorted and jigged a little under me; I wobbled but managed to keep my balance as we walked slowly down the road into upper Mesgao.

The wide road sloped gently, lined with cheering spectators. The horse jigged sideways again, and Deo muttered at it. Its ears pointed curiously and it settled a little. The air was filled with falling red petals; looking up, I saw people hanging out of windows and sitting on roofs in their finest clothes, throwing down handfuls of flowers.

Then the road curved and brought us to the centre of upper Mesgao. A circular dais sat in the open area, six wooden poles around its circumference, each of them blooming with dozens of long red, gold and yellow ribbons. On the far side of the dais, through drifting petals and fluttering ribbons, I saw a dapple-grey horse – and there was Sorin, waiting for me.

He looked at me intently for a moment, then winked. I pressed my lips together to preserve my solemn expression, and winked back.

Deo got me down off the horse and then I was walking through the rain of choris blossoms towards the dais. Sorin moved towards me, using a long ebony cane tipped with silver. The clapping and shouting died away, leaving ringing silence in its wake. I stepped up at the same time as he did, and we met at the centre of the dais. We looked at each other for another long moment. I saw his chest expand as he sucked in a deep breath; then he gave me a tiny nod, and we began.

First we spoke the three vows of loyalty, obedience and love. Then we each walked a half-turn round the dais and stood where the other had been standing, and repeated more vows: honesty and fidelity. Another half-turn and the third lot of vows: compassion, understanding and tolerance.

We separated and went to our opposite ends of the dais – Sorin carefully laying his cane down so that it wouldn’t get in the way – and each selected a handful of ribbons from the pole behind us to begin the final part of the ceremony. The wedding dance.

The intricate steps were taken to an ancient, compelling rhythm; the ribbons and how each of them braided together needed constant attention as we worked around the dais, towards, around, past, and then towards each other again. I tried to ignore the weight of the gown, the stupid jingling of the damn stupid headdress, the trickle of sweat down my back, weaving in and out of the poles. I tried not to worry about how Sorin’s legs and arms were holding up, and if he was as tired as me. We knotted, pulled and twisted the ribbons into a multicoloured wall that enveloped us within its circle, blocking out the world outside in a symbolic representation of the bond of marriage.

Sedorne girls and boys practised this dance many times a year on festival days, from childhood – I’d had only one month to learn it. Any tangle or hole in the woven curtain of ribbons was said to be a terrible jinx on the luck of the wedded couple. We couldn’t afford to have our people think us jinxed. I had to get this right. I wiped sweat from my face with my forearm and carried on.

Up, in, around the pole, twist the red ribbon, grab a new yellow ribbon, turn, pull, down, around the pole, up, twist the gold ribbon, duck to pick up a new red ribbon, then down, around the pole again… My back aching, breath coming hard in my throat, I danced for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t spare the time to look up and check – or take the chance of losing the rhythm. I just had to dance.

Then suddenly my hands were empty. There were no more ribbons. I turned to see Sorin, looking as dazed as me, on the other side of the enclosure we’d made. He staggered a little, and I leaped forward to catch his arm and keep him upright.

“Did … did we?” I stammered.

He turned his head, inspecting the flame-coloured barrier that enclosed us, then laughed incredulously. “We did! It’s perfect! Not a mistake in sight!” He wrapped his arms around me, and we kissed in a burst of relief and happiness.

I distantly heard a surge of noise outside the ribbon barrier. We broke apart and stood, hand in hand, as the people outside undid the woven wall, carefully cutting the barrier apart with short knives and throwing the ribbons up into the air with wild yips and shouts. Young Sedorne women and girls ran forward to snatch up handfuls of the gleaming scraps: good luck when sewn into their own wedding gowns. The town elders – four ancient Rua – stepped up onto the dais to embrace us both and bless us. One bent, with some effort, and handed Sorin his cane.

I looked up at him. “I can’t believe it’s over. We did it!” I whispered.

He didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on something over my head. I watched his face turn to stone as ominous quiet dropped over us. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Rua resistance leaders hastily backing away and disappearing into the heaving crowd. The Sedorne lords were doing the same.

I turned.

On the edge of the cleared area a large party of heavily armed gourdin on horseback were forging through the crowd. Ahead of them came others on foot, brandishing cudgels and shoving people aside, spreading through the crowd to surround the area. When the horseback soldiers reached the edge of the dais – only a foot away from where I stood – they peeled back to reveal a figure seated confidently on a tall blood bay stallion.

The shock of recognition ran through me like lightning.

Even on horseback it was obvious that the man was tall and well muscled. He was also extremely good-looking, with coppery-blond hair braided intricately around his head, and smiling grey eyes. He looked at Sorin with an expression of fond amusement, and then swung down from the saddle to stand before us. He was about two inches shorter than Sorin – only a little taller than me.

“Well?” he said, his pleasant voice bright. “Don’t you have a welcome for me?”

I felt Sorin tense with rage. His fingers tightened around mine until my bones ground together – and I knew without a shred of doubt that he was about to throw himself at this man and try to kill him. I also knew that the other man was braced for exactly that. So were the sixty or more armed gourdin surrounding us. Sorin couldn’t even grip a knife and fork properly, let alone a sword.

“Yes,” I said, prising my fingers free of Sorin’s grip and stepping down from the edge of the dais. I dropped a little curtsy, looked up into those pale, laughing eyes, and held out my hand.

“Welcome, Uncle Abheron.”

The king seemed to freeze. Then he took hold of my bare hand and clasped it firmly between his gloved ones, staring at me in what appeared to be genuine shock.

“Emelia…” he whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

Traitor. False king. Murderer. My skin crawled until I imagined it rippling and twitching in his grasp. I clenched my teeth against a swell of sickness that made my head spin. God, if only I had my knife.

He smiled, a devastatingly attractive, rueful smile that reminded me horribly of Sorin. I swallowed against the bile rising in my throat.

“You have remarkable eyes, my dear,” he said quietly.

Suddenly Sorin’s arm was round me, drawing me back. I pulled at my hand. To my surprise, Abheron let it go without a fuss. I leaned gratefully into Sorin, clenching my hands in my skirt.

“You are not well,” he said roughly. “Someone bring a chair!”

“She’s white as a cloud,” Abheron said in apparent concern.

There was a bustle of activity near by, and then Casador Fareed emerged, carrying a wooden stool. He placed it down with a bow and I plopped ungracefully onto it, uncaring of the crushing of my silk gown. Sorin kneeled slowly and painfully beside me, dropping his cane again to chafe my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my eyes down on my feet. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Apart from a sudden, overwhelming desire to slash and rip and tear my uncle open and smell the hot metal smell of his blood. He killed my family – my whole family…