Aethersmith (Book 2) (18 page)

With the pageantry out of the way, the blood-scholars took
over. Bookish sorts by nature, they seemed to thrive on being called away from
their recordkeeping duties to finalize the marriages their order arranged.
Varnus paid scant attention to the names they gave, or the fables they
recounted, or the history they invoked. It was dry, meaningless stuff, meant to
lend dignity and weight to the art of picking out which two sorcerers got to
rut in order to advance the breed. It worked the same with pigs, horses, or
hunting dogs. Everyone knew it, but few folk spoke of it in earshot of a Circle
member. They knew it too, according to Juliana. The blood-scholars’ words were
meant to remind them of their duty, of the upside, of being bred like cattle …

In the crowd, Varnus noticed Sir Brannis, the brawny knight
standing out in both garb and build among his family on the Solaran side of the
center aisle. He pitied the poor lad.
He’s got the weight of the Empire on
him, with the warlock over one shoulder and General Sir Hurald Chadreisson
hovering over the other, waiting for him to fail so that he can retake command
of the army. Juliana ought to have married him instead. Would have made her
happier, anyway. Seemed like an upstanding one, for a Solaran, even before the
knights got hold of him.
He had barely known Brannis, remembering him more
as a boy of fourteen summers who had courted Juliana at the start of their
doomed engagement. Protective as Varnus was of Juliana, he approved of the boy;
he could be trusted to put himself between her and a sword blow.

* * * * * * * *

At length, the meat and gristle of the ceremony began. While
the earlier pronouncements had been for the guests as much as the couple, the
blood-scholar turned his attention solely to Iridan and Juliana. “Iridan
Solaran, Warlock of the Imperial Circle, I call on you to make a binding oath.
Swear before all present … will you guard Juliana Archon against all harm?”

“I swear it,” Iridan replied solemnly.

“Will you place Juliana Archon’s needs before your own?” the
blood-scholar asked.

“I swear it,” Iridan answered.

“Will you disavow all other claims against your wealth, your
lands, and your heart, that Juliana may share equal claim of them?”

“I swear it,” Iridan replied. His possessions were meager
and his heart unclaimed by any other.

“Will you raise your children under the guidance of the
Imperial Circle, strengthening the Empire by joining your blood with hers?” the
blood-scholar continued.

“I swear this as well,” Iridan stated.

“Then swear your oath to your betrothed and pledge your life
to her,” the blood-scholar instructed.

Iridan turned to face Juliana. His voice caught in his
throat for just a moment as their gazes locked. He saw in her eyes a trapped
sort of fear that described his own feelings far more eloquently than he could
have hoped to with words.

“I swear, before all gathered here, that I will join my life
with yours. I will share your joys and comfort your sorrows. I will father your
children and teach them strength and wisdom. I will stand by your side until
the day of my death and wait for you beyond.” Iridan managed to get through it
all without his voice breaking, but they were the hardest words he had ever
spoken. They were oppressively heavy words whose weight he could barely stand
to carry. He could only hope that he would live up to them.

The elderly blood-scholar nodded approvingly. He had no
doubt seen more reluctant couples than the two before him and had heard poorer
oaths.

“Juliana Archon, Sorceress of the Sixth Circle, I call on
you to make a binding oath. Swear before all present … will you guard Iridan
Solaran against all treachery?”

“I do swear,” Juliana replied, inadvertently slipping up and
mixing in the Kheshi vows that Soria had learned.

Hold it together, Juliana,
she told herself.
Everyone is watching.

“Will you place Iridan Solaran’s needs before your own?” the
blood-scholar asked.

“I swear it,” Juliana replied, allowing herself a tiny sigh
of relief at getting it right on the second attempt.

“Will you disavow all other claims against your wealth, your
lands, and your heart, that Iridan may share equal claim of them?”

“I swear it,” she lied.

“Will you raise your children under the guidance of the
Imperial Circle, strengthening the Empire by joining your blood with his?” the
blood-scholar continued.

“I swear this as well,” Juliana agreed.

“Then swear your oath to your betrothed and pledge your life
to him,” the blood-scholar instructed.

“I swear, before all gathered here, that I will join my life
with yours. I will share your joys and comfort your sorrows. I will bear your
children and teach them loyalty and compassion. I will stand by your side until
the day of my death and wait for you beyond,” Juliana recited.

Just words. No magic to them at all. They only have the
power I allow them to have. They probably should have had Iridan pledge the
loyalty part, though.

“Now, if you will clasp hands …” the blood-scholar
requested. They complied, reaching out tentatively for one another. Juliana’s
hands were damp with sweat. She noticed his were shaking. “By the authority of
the Kadrin Empire and her regent, I declare you wedded. May your union last a hundred
springtimes.”

The crowd waited, hushed and expectant. She knew what was
expected of them, and they came together shyly, Juliana bending down to bring
her face level with Iridan’s.

Everyone is watching,
she thought.
Just do it and
be done with it.

Juliana closed her eyes, and pictured Brannis as their lips
met, hearing the eruption of cheering from the crowd as they kissed.

Their kiss broke off with a start as a trumpeting call
blared from high above. Three sailing ships sped through the sky above, circling
their wedding guests and playing a fanfare. The gleaming hulls were freshly
painted light blue and white, matching the midday sky. Trumpeters lined the
railing that faced the crowd, wearing alternating tabards of Solaran yellow and
Archon green. The crowd cheered anew at the sight, and Iridan and Juliana were
spared the intense focus on them as gazes turned skyward to take in the
spectacle.

A parting gift from the crews of your new airships,
Brannis?
Juliana mused.
You have always known what to do to make me feel
better.

* * * * * * * *

Varnus had worried that Juliana would “get a bit of Soria in
her,” as he called it when she acted without regard for anything but her own
interest. To his relief, the ceremony went much as planned. His eyes keep
sweeping through the crowd, looking for trouble in the habit of one who had
spent most of his life as a personal guard.

It was his training that perked up his senses as he noticed
a flinch in Iridan’s mother. Something had caught her attention, though she
showed only the barest hint of distraction. It was enough to set Varnus on
edge, to the point where his hand strayed to his sword hilt. The guests’
attention was drawn away from the palace steps, and even the warlock’s
attention was on the skies above, when a man appeared out of nowhere behind the
warlock.

Naked but for a loincloth, and covered in painted runes, he
carried a wicked-looking runed dagger in one hand, poised close enough to lunge
for Warlock Rashan. The assassin’s eyes widened as he made his strike,
unprepared for the warlock’s reaction. Rashan spun, catching his assailant by
the wrist and twisting, forcing the man to the ground. In the span of a
heartbeat, the man was thrashing futilely on the ground, with the warlock’s
small, booted foot pressed to his throat.

Only a few had taken notice of the attack, and Rashan cast a
quick illusion over the strange assailant to hide him from the unobservant
among the crowd. Brannis's sword hand had not even reached the hilt of
Avalanche before all had been rendered safe by the warlock's actions.

“You are nearly done. Pay this no mind and finish, if you
please,” Rashan told the blood-scholar who had been one of the few either close
enough or circumspect enough to have noticed the disturbance amid the fanfare.

Rather than orating on the future that Iridan and Juliana
were to be expected to share together, the blood-scholar wisely made a few
brief remarks and adjourned everyone to the feast as soon as decorum allowed.
The warlock kept his attention on the speaker, allowing his would-be assassin
just enough air to breathe to keep him alive.

It was an awkward end to a wedding, but it was better than
Varnus had expected.

* * * * * * * *

Rashan threw his attacker to the floor of a small storage
room a level below the palace’s main floor, where he had dragged him
immediately following the ceremony. The paint from his body had smeared the
floors all along the way, leaving blood mixed in as well, as not all of the
palace’s floors were polished smooth (and certainly not the stairs to the
servants’ levels).

“So you were sent by the Megrenn, I assume,” Rashan began.
“I admit I am impressed at your boldness and your skill at stealth. I did not
notice you until it was almost too late.”

“One demon I was prepared to kill. Two, I was not ready
for,” the man confessed. His accent sounded familiar to Rashan, but a hundred
winters of exile from the mortal world had muddied dialects in his absence. “I
do not know what strange magic stripped my spell from me, but I think it was
not your own.”

“Yes, take pride that you fooled me at least,” Rashan
conceded. He looked the dagger over appraisingly. “You were dead the moment you
used this thing, you know. It would have sucked your Source dry in an attempt
to destroy mine.” Rashan paused a moment, concentrating his attention on a few
key runes, then studying his attacker’s Source. “It might have worked, too.”

“I was glad to die to rid the world of you,” the man
proclaimed. “I would have been a hero.”

“Well, hero, take heart that I have little thought to keep
you alive for information. As one warrior to another, if you tell me where you
would like your body sent, I will see it returned to your people,” Rashan said.

Someone is going to pay for this,
Rashan thought.
And one life is not going to suffice.

The man studied the warlock’s face, but found it impassive,
betraying no insight to the demon’s thoughts. “Truly?” he asked warily.

“You will be dead before the first course of the wedding
feast is over, whether you tell me or not. The only difference is whether I
send your body home or feed it to whatever lives down in the sewers these days.
I have neither the patience nor the inclination to torture. It is the idle
amusement of a sick mind, and no proper pastime for a warlock,” Rashan bluffed.

Come now, put a name to your homeland for me. I will
bring your body to them, of course. I would hate for them all to die confused,
with no explanation for my anger at them.

“Hu’nua. It is a small island in the western half of
Gar-Danel,” the man admitted. “Do you know it?”

“I do.”

“Thank you, demon. Die well, and soon,” the assassin closed
his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.

* * * * * * * *

Brannis could not help glancing down the long feast table,
to where the bride and groom shared the head. Off in another part of the palace
grounds from the ceremony, they supped out of doors in the new springtime air.
Fires blazed all about, warring with the stubborn vestiges of a winter too bold
to retreat upon its celestial expiration. A fire a few paces behind him was enough
to warm Brannis against the worst of the afternoon breezes. He wondered whether
his proximity was by good fortune or design. A great many sorcerers feasted
that day and all but the least among them could protect themselves against such
paltry inconvenience as weather.

Juliana looked gorgeous, preened to display her beauty,
rather than flaunting it as she often did. Brannis understood the difference
and obviously so did whoever styled her gown and jewelry.
She is trying so
hard. That toothy grin is not hers, though. I have seen every smile she has.
Brannis wondered what it would have been like in Iridan’s place. It had been on
his mind the whole of the ceremony, including the point where he would have
drawn his blade to protect Juliana against the would-be assassin. Brannis took
another long swallow of his drink. The ale was weak, to keep the feast going
longer and to moderate the drunkenness of the guests as the night wore on.

“When will they get their gifts?” Danilaesis asked, seated
next to him. He had kept quiet through the wedding, for which Brannis had been
thankful, but apparently the reprieve was at an end.

“Not likely until tomorrow. They must have gotten hundreds
and the feasting will last all night,” Brannis replied.

“Not all night, Grandfather said. They—” Danilaesis began
but Brannis cut him short.

“No! Stop right there. I know and I know you know. I do not
need to hear it,” Brannis told him. He glared over the top of Danilaesis’s head
at his grandfather. “Did you really need to tell him all that?”

“What? The truth? Of course not. I could lie to him like his
father and blather on about babies popping in from the aether. I could tell him
women have the same bits as men beneath their robes and that they get married
because they love each other. But then he goes and finds out different and
thinks us all liars. Well, he shall know his grandfather will tell him true and
that is worth something,” Axterion said, not quite facing Brannis as he spoke.
The ancient wizard was nearly blind and used aether-vision to get by. With his
weak Source, Brannis was hard to see either way.

I sometimes wonder if you enjoy being thought senile, old
man. You get away with far more than if more folk realized your wits were
mainly intact.