by Megan Bannen
The old woman wraps an arm around my waist. “You’ll feel better once we get you cleaned up.”
She’s mothering me, when the only person who has ever mothered me is gone. I start sobbing, a giant weeping over Mistress Dyer as she holds tight to me. She ushers me to one of the chairs, bringing over the water basin to wash this evening’s nightmare from my skin with a soft cotton cloth, working her way down from the top of my head to my arms and hands, taking care of me as if I were something precious.
“Are you from Saint Degmar?” she asks.
Of course it would come to this. It always does. “No,” I answer.
“Auria?”
“No.”
She looks up sharply, the cloth in her hand dripping on my arm. “Oh. You’re that one. The Vessel, the girl from—”
“Yes.” The usual shame of my origins thickens my throat. The Hedenski kill anyone who steps on their shores without permission, and the fact that they’re cut off from the rest of the world by the Dead Forest inevitably links them to the telleg. I can tell Mistress Dyer wants to ask me about it, but she doesn’t push, and I’m more grateful to her for that than for anything else tonight. She gets back to work, helping me out of my sash and tunic, leaving me vulnerable and exposed in nothing but my trousers and the linen wound tightly around my breasts.
“That’s lovely. What is it?” she asks, fingering the newly revealed triptych, the Goodson’s gift to me, the only thing left that is truly mine. Instinct takes over, and I snatch it out of her hand, clutching it protectively in my own.
“Forgive me,” she says, taken aback.
“I’m sorry. Just . . . please don’t touch this.”
I jolt in alarm when the door flies open, and a girl a little younger than I am dashes into the room, flushed and breathless. She clutches a thick parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine to her chest. “I got it!” she declares with a proud grin. Then her eyes bulge when she gets a good look at me, as if I were a telleg who came straight from the Dead Forest to devour her.
“It’s all right, Sveta. She’s one of us.” Mistress Dyer pats my arm, but the truth is that I don’t seem to belong anywhere or to anyone now, and that makes me feel like I’m dropping into a dark hole that just goes down and down, bottomless.
“Well, bring it over,” Mistress Dyer instructs Sveta as she lifts the basin off the table to make room. Sveta sets the package down and picks at the twine’s knot while the mistress takes the basin to the sink. I follow her, whispering, “I hate endangering her, a girl that young.”
“Elathians are in danger from our first breath to our last,” Mistress Dyer answers in her matter-of-fact way, adding, “You’re not so old yourself, you know.”
She shoos me back to the table, where Sveta flattens the paper and spreads a simple but finely made dress across the surface. It’s a deep brown color, probably dyed with the same walnut powder I spilled all over the workroom earlier.
I gasp in dismay as Mistress Dyer tugs at the cloth binding my breasts.
“The original owner of this dress is a full-grown woman,” she tells me. “You’re going to have to give it everything you’ve got to fill out the top.”
Embarrassed, I let Mistress Dyer unwrap me. Then she and Sveta put me into a corselet and pull the dress over my head. I’ve never worn a dress before, and it’s more form-fitting than I’m used to. My clothes have always been loose and flowing, designed to hide my womanliness, not flaunt it.
“You may be tall, but you do curve beautifully in all the right places,” the mistress murmurs as she smooths the fabric over my form. I’m a Vessel of the One True God. I am definitely not supposed to curve beautifully.
I walk over to the mirror to study my reflection for the second time tonight, only to find myself gaping in shock at the girl who stands before me now. I never really considered how my convent clothes washed my body out of existence, how the crimson Daughter’s sash, a symbol of Elath’s bloody curse on women, made me look sallow and sickly. It never mattered before. It still doesn’t matter. It’s only that I can’t help but see how my brown eyes and pale skin and even my freckles appear healthy against a backdrop of rich, earthy color, how my breasts and hips soften my appearance.
“Blessed be the Mother,” Sveta giggles, her pretty reflection appearing in the background.
“Be a good girl and help her get the veil on, Sveta,” says Mistress Dyer.
“Veil?” I ask, but no one answers me. Sveta is clearly pleased to help, and she smiles as she reaches up to fit a long swath of forest-green fabric to my head with a stiff band.
With my bald head hidden beneath the veil, I look like a normal girl. The green cloth falling behind me to the middle of my back showcases a heart-shaped face and the cleft in my chin. Again, my complexion looks far healthier next to all that green.
Green.
The color brides wear.
A horrid suspicion bubbles in my stomach, and this time, it has nothing to do with the life I hold inside me. “Why am I wearing a veil?”
“Because you are to be married today, my dear.” Mistress Dyer goes on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. “Congratulations.”
“Wait!” I sputter as Sveta laughs and claps her hands, but the mistress pulls the other end of the veil over my face, leaving me in the dark.
My veil is down and will remain down until the end of the ceremony. I can see very little, just hazy outlines of the Dyers and Tavik and the other people milling about the workroom. I knew that there were pockets of Elathians inhabiting the kingdoms of the Ovinist Church in secret, but I had no idea there were so many in Varos da Vinnica. Now here they are, preparing for a wedding. Because I’m getting married. Today.
I explain the plan to Tavik, my voice flat, disconnected from the rest of me—the rest of me being a giant ball of throbbing unease. “The shrine of Saint Brivig is one mile north of the city. It’s a common venue for weddings since Saint Brivig is the patron saint of wives. We will exit the north gate of Varos da Vinnica in a procession with music and dancing.”
Tavik blows out a gusty breath. “All right.”
“No! It is not all right! I refuse to marry you!”
I can hear an eye roll in his voice as he answers, “It’s not real, Gelya. And for your information, I don’t want to marry you either.”
I appeal to the Dyers, squinting at their silhouettes beyond the green fabric over my face. “What if we have to see this ruse all the way to its conclusion?”
“It’s unlikely that we’ll need to go through with the ceremony, but we are prepared to take this as far as it needs to go. Your lives depend on it,” says Mistress Dyer. “Now keep translating, because there are a few more things he needs to know. Tell him it’s expected that a wedding party bribe the guards at the gate with an invitation. There’s an Elathian family throwing together a wedding feast at their farm near the shrine even as we speak, just in case.”
“Did she say something about food?” Tavik asks me eagerly, but Mistress Dyer plows ahead, addressing him directly.
“You are the son of Ukrenti immigrants. Your name is Semir Walema.”
“All right,” Tavik agrees. “I speak a little Ukrenti.”
Mistress Dyer takes my hand. “Daughter, you are my niece, Vina. I doubt you’ve seen many weddings at the convent, but not much is required of you, so don’t worry. Just leave the veil down until the end. If it even comes to that.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “We’re going to get you both safely out of Varos da Vinnica and on your way.”
I’m about to leave everything I’ve ever known or loved, possibly forever, so I cling tight to Mistress Dyer’s hand. Once I let go, I’m going to have to face my new and uncertain future with no one but Tavik at my side.
The sun is up by the time the Dyers escort us out the front door of the shop and into a waiting litter, which is hoisted onto the shoulders of several men, my “family” on the left and Tavik’s on the right. Someone taps out a beat on a drum, and a pair of pipers joins
in. The women have bells tied to their ankles, and they stomp along to the rhythm. Our fake families surround the litter, and we take off down the narrow street, a raucous party.
“All this trouble. All this risk. Why are they helping you?” I whisper to Tavik.
“Us,” he corrects me. “They’re helping you, too. The Dyers are the Milk Road contact in Varos da Vinnica. I was to report to them after my mission was complete.”
“But it is incomplete.”
“Thanks for pointing that out.”
“What is the Milk Road?”
“Later,” Tavik says, switching languages. “We should speak Rosvanian now, yes?”
“Yes,” I agree, but since Tavik doesn’t speak Rosvanian well, we remain silent, even though I have a million more questions to ask him. By the time we reach the north gate, my jaw hurts from the nervous clenching of my teeth. Elath’s strange thrumming in my belly does nothing to help.
“Well now, I don’t think I can let a dangerous lot like you through,” says the guard at the gate. I’m half tempted to beg him to save me, even as my heart sinks with the fear of getting caught.
“It’s all right,” Dyer whispers up to us. “This is all part of the tradition.”
I can hear the smile in the guard’s voice as he says, “Try again on Saint Elbin’s Day.”
Several people in the wedding party shout, “Boo!” while most laugh.
“Hey, now,” says another guard. “It’s my turn to do a wedding. You did the last one.”
“Oh, come off it, Tomas,” says the first, but they are both shouted down by a third guard who yells, “No one leaves the city today, by command of the king of Rosvania. The Order of Saint Ovin is on a manhunt. Don’t you know there’s a dangerous criminal on the loose? Go back home! All of you!”
A deeply uncomfortable pause follows this declaration. Then Tavik scares me half to death when he leaps to his feet, making the litter sway.
“Gentleman! I have waited so long to bed my lady. Now you make me wait longer?” he shouts with a convincing Ukrenti accent, but I am too horrified to appreciate the effort. The wedding party roars with cheers and laughter all around us, playing along, but their enthusiasm quickly peters out. I’m not sure why until I hear the suspicious guard’s voice call up to us from the foot of the litter.
“Name?”
“Semir Walema of Ukrent,” Tavik answers as if he were the happiest man alive. “And you, my friend?”
“Elus of I’m-Not-Having-It. Who’s the lucky bride?” the guard asks snidely.
“My niece, Vina,” Dyer intercedes, coming to our rescue. “Please, sir, some of the groom’s family came all the way from Ukrent for this day. We really can’t postpone it. And there’s a banquet waiting for us at the shrine of Saint Brivig. You are most welcome to join us.”
“You know what? I’d love to join you.”
Though my face is veiled, I’m certain the owner of that sarcastic voice has his shrewd gaze fixed on me.
“Wonderful,” Dyer answers unconvincingly, and I sense Tavik stiffening beside me.
The man makes us wait for twenty minutes while he calls up a full contingent of city guards to escort us, enough to arrest every wedding guest if they discover anything fishy. I suppose I should be relieved when we finally make it through the gate, but the guard’s humorless presence tamps down everyone’s spirits. The music is quieter now, the dancing more subdued. The mile to the shrine feels more like five miles, and by the time we arrive, I want nothing more than to rip the veil from my head and make a run for it.
Just stick to the plan, Gelya, I tell myself. One thing at a time.
Dyer opens the litter’s door on Tavik’s side, murmuring, “We’ll eat first. The guards always leave after the feast. We’ll try to get them good and drunk. That should help.”
Mistress Dyer was right. I’ve never been to a wedding. But I do know the basics of how one works. A feast precedes the event where everyone eats except the bride, who is expected to fast as a sign of her purity, which is just as well since I think my stomach would rebel if I tried to put anything into it right now. So I remain mute beside Tavik, who mutters, “Unbelievable,” each time someone sets a plate of food in front of him. I’m sure he devours every single bite.
A baritone gets up and sings, and as the wine gets passed around, it sounds as though the partygoers are loosening up. I suppose they’re all of a mind that if they’re going to die or get thrown into prison today, they may as well enjoy themselves. It would be nice to join them, to feel a sliver of joy here at the end, but I just can’t. I remained shrouded in my veil, surrounded by people yet completely alone.
A young man’s voice pipes up close by. “Are we leaving yet, sir?”
“No, we’re staying for the ceremony,” answers the now-familiar voice of the horrible guard. He gives a shrill whistle, and when the music and laughter die away, he shouts, “I came here for a wedding. Let’s see it.”
“It will be all right,” Mistress Dyer assures me, but I’m ill with dread as she escorts me under the ceremonial canopy.
Any man can perform a wedding ceremony. Today, it’s Dyer, The Songs of the Saints open in his hands as he stands in front of the statue of Saint Brivig. His wife turns me to face Tavik’s blurry form to the statue’s right.
I can’t believe this is happening. Holy Father, please tell me this isn’t happening.
Tavik takes my left hand in his right, as Dyer instructs him. His hand is steady but damp with sweat, while mine trembles in his grasp.
“The groom will repeat after me,” Dyer intones.
Oh no.
“I promise to honor you with my words.”
Tavik is listening so intently, his nerves practically beat me over the head. He repeats each phrase with clarity and precision and a good Ukrenti accent. “I promise to honor you with my words. I promise to respect you with my actions. I promise to protect you with my body. I promise that my heart will beat for you.”
A genuine vow lingers in his words, a truth buried beneath the phony surface. He said he would protect me with the last breath of his body, if only for the Mother’s sake, and he will honor and respect me as the Vessel of his goddess. His sincerity flusters me, bringing a pink tinge of confusion to my cheeks.
“My body shall be your body, and your body shall be mine,” he repeats. “My soul shall be your soul, and your soul shall be mine.” Each word from his mouth links his fate with mine in ways I don’t know how to unravel.
“All this I vow in the name of the Father, the One True God,” Dyer concludes, and while I’m certain Tavik is less than thrilled to repeat this promise, he forces the words out of his mouth.
I am faced with another choice now. I could either refuse to go any further, turn myself in, and let everyone involved be caught by the city guard, or I could save my own skin along with all these Elathians and see this sham of a wedding to the bitter end. I wish I could say that I dither, but I don’t. I take the ends of the veil and pull the green cloth back, revealing my face to Tavik for the first time in hours.
The complete stranger before me is scrubbed clean, smelling faintly of lavender soap. His long hair has been cropped and surrounds his head in sleek dark curls that are beginning to show signs of unruliness, defying whatever means the Dyers used to tame them. He is clean-shaven, and his smooth cheeks make him look even younger than I thought he was. The rich ocher of his groom’s attire, symbolizing the sun in the Father’s heaven, flatters the warm undertone of his skin and brings out the green of his eyes.
He freezes at the sight of me. Aside from the blinking of his eyes, he’s not moving at all. I don’t even think he’s breathing.
And I am frozen, too. Because.
Tavik.
Is.
Beautiful.
He gapes at me as if he has never seen me before, his soft lips hanging open, and even that is beautiful. How can a mouth be beautiful? And why am I even thinking this? I’m not supposed to think of men a
t all, beautiful or otherwise. But as Tavik continues to stare at me with those lovely eyes, a ridiculous scarlet blush paints me from head to toe.
“Your bride shows herself to you,” Dyer tells him. “Look upon her and kiss her if you would take her as your wife.”
A second passes. Two. Three. Tavik’s eyes widen as if he has just woken up, and I realize that he didn’t understand what Dyer said, that he has no clue what he’s supposed to do.
And that leaves me to do it.
Holy Father, I was never meant to kiss anyone. Ever. How do you kiss a person on the mouth? Why on earth did humanity decide this was a good idea?
I lean in but hesitate, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath disappearing. Tavik’s gaze shifts to my mouth, and my blush might burn me to a crisp as he closes the distance between us. He kisses me, and I go rigid, my lips dry and awkward. His lips move against mine, softening my mouth, melding into me, strange but not terrible.
Not terrible at all.
Not even remotely terrible.
The sensation pings through my entire body, sending a pleasant fizz all the way to my toes. It doesn’t last long, only the span of a breath or two, although I can’t truly measure time in respiration since I’m not breathing. Tavik pulls away, his unforgivably beautiful face still inches from my own, and the only words I can form in my mind are I think I liked that. One corner of his mouth ticks up into a perfect, lopsided smile. I’m still blinking through a kiss-induced fog when that guard who has doubted us from the first steps to the front of the wedding guests. He looks from me to Tavik and back to me again, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off the groom.
“You Degmari?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I gasp, finally remembering to draw breath. “On my father’s side.”
“Huh.” He looks again at Tavik, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me either. “Huh.” He grins and claps Tavik on the shoulder, a big manly thump that finally breaks our gaze. “Congratulations,” he says with a toothy grin before ordering his men back to the city gate.