Zandru's Forge (29 page)

Carolin set it aside with a sigh, wondering what she thought of the pompous rendition of his own likeness. He hoped she was as skeptical of its accuracy as he was of this one. At least, she looked young and healthy. She might surprise him, once they had gotten through the formal ceremonies and had time to become acquainted. He assumed she came willingly to the marriage, for she would be rich and as secure as anyone in these unsettled times, with powerful connections to benefit her family and friends. Someday she would be Queen and her sons would rule. But could she love him? Could he love her?

It was folly to entertain such questions. Love had nothing to do with it. Love was to be given to his people, his friends—even his favorite horse. Love was not for marriage.

And yet—he had seen couples who were happy with one another, and not all of them were star-crossed lovers sighing after impossible dreams. Varzil had mentioned that his own parents had been devoted to one another until the death of his mother, and they had been joined through family arrangements. It might be possible.

He sighed again and set the portrait in a suitably ostentatious place. Romantic love came at the whim of the gods, but the duty of a Hastur Prince was as constant as the rising of the Bloody Sun.

Lady Alianora’s party arrived at Hali a tenday before Midsummer. A festive atmosphere pervaded the entire city. Street vendors cried out their wares, ribbons and ceramic medallions with images of the nuptial couple. The weather had been fine, and the flower wreaths and pennons in the colors of Hastur and Ardais shone brightly in the sun. Within the castle, preparations for the impending ceremony proceeded.

Carolin watched the bridal cortege enter the courtyard with a mixture of detachment, curiosity, and dread. He had been up half the night, thinking about a case he had heard in the
cortes.
A metal smith had claimed that some of Lyondri’s men had stolen two valuable daggers. The men, part of the personal guard Lyondri had recently gathered, claimed the daggers had been gifts. It was one man’s word against the other, and in the end Rakhal had intervened, arguing privately with Carolin that if he were to rule in favor of the merchant, the entire Hastur family would lose respect. It would become impossible to enforce any law upon the city. Ordinary men could do what they liked and then lie in the cortes.

Moreover, Rakhal insisted, Carolin did not properly appreciate the risks he took in rendering these verdicts. Anything Carolin said might be taken as precedent. Was it not wiser to leave decisions to judges?

How else was he to know what was going on in the city? Carolin had wondered. And how would he know if those judges Rakhal had praised so highly were truly impartial, committed only to justice? In the end, however, he had given way to his cousin’s arguments. He must keep his mind on princely matters, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not be everything to every man. Although it pained him to admit it, he had human limitations.

As if to demonstrate that very point, here he was, his eyes scratchy with lack of sleep, his nerves frayed, on the very day his bride rode into the city. He straightened his shoulders and went to dress properly to receive her.

It took most of the rest of the day for the lady’s entourage to settle into their chambers, for her chests of gowns and jewels, her horses and retainers, lapdogs, maids and sewing women, all to be taken care of. She sent a message, pleading the fatigue of travel and begging to be excused from any appearance that day.

“A bashful bride you’ve got, Cousin,” Rakhal joked.

“All things come in their own season,” replied Carolin, and then they both spent the evening in his chambers, along with Lyondri and Orain, the four of them getting thoroughly drunk. It seemed by far the best thing to do, a last raucous fling before the catenas bracelet was locked upon his wrist.

Late the next morning, Lady Alianora was presented to the court of the Hastur and met her future husband for the first time. She walked in measured paces down the length of the presence chamber, trailed by her attendant ladies. Her heavy gown of pearl-studded gray satin, crossed by a tartan in the Ardais colors, rustled as she moved. She held her head high, with stiff, unblinking dignity.

Carolin watched from the dais beside his uncle. At least, the pounding in his skull had diminished to a tolerable level. Maura had seen to that, and he had rarely been so grateful for her laran skills. He much preferred her gentle teasing than the ministrations of the castle healer. He rose at the appropriate moment and recited his speech, welcoming Alianora to Hali.

She listened with an impassive expression, curtsied, and replied in the same formal tones. Then Carolin escorted her to the seat which had been prepared for her on the dais.

One of her courtiers brought forth the chests containing her dowry, coins and bars of precious copper and silver, along with documents transferring control of the Scaravel borderlands to her husband during her lifetime. Actual ownership of the lands would remain with her, passing to any progeny, but according to law and custom, her husband would have full authority to manage the lands as he saw fit.

The official declarations, couched in the language of legal treaties, went on for some time. Carolin forced himself to pay attention, although he was more interested in studying Alianora herself. She seemed so composed, her features so fixed in profile, that he could not tell what she was feeling. Nor could he catch any hint of her emotions, even with his laran. He told himself it was the combination of his own dissolute state and the tension of the situation.

The ceremonies extended well into the afternoon. By then, King Felix had sunk into slumber, occasionally snoring audibly. The court adjourned with a palpable sense of relief. Carolin sent a message to Lady Alianora, requesting a private meeting in the gardens. Each of them would of course be accompanied by the appropriate retainers, but he had hoped that in a less formal setting, they might begin their acquaintanceship.

Alianora replied immediately, using the same messenger, that she was wearied with travel and begged his forgiveness. Her response was perfectly correct. Carolin could find no fault with her desire to rest, to acclimate herself to her new surroundings.

Unreasonably irritable, he put on a soldier’s padded, leather-strapped vest and went down to the training yards. Orain was already there, whacking away at a wooden post with a practice sword. Orain brushed lank, damp hair back from his forehead and greeted Carolin with an overly formal bow.

“If you mean to insult me, do it in some other way,” Carolin snapped. “I’m sick to death of being reminded of my princely status.”

“I hope you’re not thinking of running away again,” Orain said, referring to the ill-fated expedition to Hali Lake.

Carolin, selecting a wooden blade from the rack, shook his head. The days of careless, impulsive adventures were over, but it would be cruel to say so to Orain. At least, Carolin had some possibility of happiness in his own marriage.

Within a few moments, the two of them had taken up their positions on the marked field, circling and feinting, testing each other’s weaknesses. The anxiety and frustration of the last few days fell away. His concentration narrowed to the dusty circle, Orain’s eyes, and the sword in his own hands. A fey exhilaration rose in him. They clashed, blocked, sprang apart, and circled again.

Once, when Carolin’s attention faltered, Orain caught him across the side with the flat of his sword. Carolin jumped away, his breath momentarily frozen. The next instant, fire spread from the point of impact and he knew he’d have a line of purple along his ribs by nightfall. The pain sent an odd thrill throughout his body.

Blood sang in Carolin’s ears. Senses sharpened. The heavy wooden sword grew light. A sheen of sweat dampened his skin and his joints felt oiled. With every breath, he drew in new vigor, clean and uncomplicated. It was as if some god, far less exalted than Aldones, Lord of Light, had shouted in his ear, “Wake up! Pay attention!”

He gave himself over to the moment, watching the shift in Orain’s stance, flexing his own muscles, throwing his power into each parry and thrust. Their boots raised clouds of dust and it seemed that time itself hung upon the air.

When at last they halted, lungs heaving, bodies radiating heat, sweat-drenched hair plastered to their skulls, both of them were laughing. Carolin threw his free arm around Orain’s shoulders in a spontaneous gesture and felt his friend’s response, the instant of relaxation that comes with true acceptance. There was nothing either of them needed to say.

Carolin had rarely felt as drained and yet as wrought up as on the evening of his marriage. The ceremony itself had gone by in a blur, a cavalcade of richly ornamented costumes, flashing jewels, the mingled glare of laran-charged glows and banks of ordinary candles, the suffocating clash of perfume and incense. He had stood in a room filled with the dignitaries of his family and Kingdom, people he had known since childhood and many he had worked with since returning to court, and yet he had never felt so utterly alone.

King Felix alternated between napping on his throne and giggling in delight like a child. Rakhal had taken over much of the ceremonial direction, always making it seem as if the King were performing those functions. Orain was somewhere in the throng. Maura waited with the other Hastur ladies, including Liriel, who had returned briefly for the wedding. At one point, she caught his eye and smiled encouragement.

Lady Alianora was resplendent in a gown of silk stiff with embroidered lilies and tiny winking jewels. Under the confection of diadem and veil, her face was unreadable. She walked as if she could hardly breathe. As she took her position, she gave no sign of greeting, no hint that she was aware of any other person.

Carolin stood beside the woman who would be his wife, whose life would be bound to his as long as they both lived. The ancient words rolled over him, and he felt nothing. He wondered what he had expected of this moment. In a flicker of thought, he remembered a hundred comments by older men, who loved and honored their wives but made no pretense of understanding them.

He held out his wrist, as Alianora did, to receive the copper-chased
catenas.
The locks clicked shut. Common folk might take one another as freemates, or follow the country custom of sharing “a bed, a fire and a meal.”
Comyn
marriages followed the old irrevocable tradition.

The final phrases completed, Carolin turned to Alianora and lifted her veil. His hands were clumsy, catching in the gauzy stuff, but eventually he got it folded back. Her eyes were pale blue and round, her expression glassy. Her blonde hair had been plaited with care and dressed with tiny jeweled butterflies. Under the faint rouge on cheeks and lips, her skin was very pale.. He could see her trembling, and he wanted to take her into his arms and whisper that everything would be all right. Instead, he bent and brushed his lips against hers. Her lips were cold and she made no response, but neither did she pull away.

After a suitably decorous procession, they went out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Under the watchful eyes of Lyondri’s handpicked guards, the people of the city waited there with baskets of petals, ready to hurl them into the air. The herald presented their Prince and his new bride.

The crowd went wild with cheering. Carolin waved back. Their joy swept over him. He smiled, at first stiffly, then broadly, then with a laugh that seemed to spring from his very center. This was, he thought, the very best part of being a Prince of Hastur, to know that these people were his, to rejoice in their delight, to serve them with honor. If for no other reason, he accepted this marriage because it gave them cause for such celebration, and an assurance of the peaceful continuation of rulership.

Alianora stood at his side as was her duty, unmoving except for a slight swaying. She allowed the people below to see her, but whether this was torment or pleasure, she gave no sign.