Salome at Sunrise
Page 27
Sunlight glinted off his medals, the dress sword belted at his side and the gold braid edging the black wool dress tunic. He hadn’t realized how many medals he’d accumulated until this morning when getting dressed. Now he felt like a braggart, showing off like a trained monkey.
He drew a deep breath, tugged his uniform straight and marched behind his second toward the priest standing before the king’s and queen’s thrones. A sea of guards, each one shined to a polish and dressed in royal livery, lined the aisle. Gleaming swords formed an arch above his head. Bryton looked each man in the face. These were the cream of his soldiers’ crop, the best of the best, and they stood in perfect formation to honor him. That tribute meant more than every medal on his chest.
The deep blood-red of Henic’s tunic striding down the aisle quieted the seated guests. Before Taric’s coronation, Bryton had taken one look at the Royal Guard’s colors and put his boot down firm. No way in hell’s asshole was he wearing ruby red with his hair color. He alone wore ebony with the small Segur crest in ruby on his chest. His mother fussed it made the white in his hair stand out too much but it was better than looking like a human torch. He lifted his chin and faced the assembled visitors.
A trumpet blast shot through the room, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Taric entered with Myla on his arm and the vaulted crown of his position high on his head. The gashes Bryton had inflicted had healed, although he was certain there were probably still a few lingering scabs. This sideshow of a wedding had been slapped together too quickly for there not to be.
“Congratulations, my captain.” The royal timbre of Taric’s words was laced with honest emotion. “We wish you and your bride a lifetime of peace and harmony.”
Bryton bowed but caught the ghost of a smile curving Taric’s mouth. He placed one palm on Taric’s shoulder and dropped his voice to a private whisper. “Give me a wedding gift and shave the goatee. You don’t have to become your father. You’re a damn fine king in your own right.”
A hard swallow worked Taric’s throat and his eyes glittered. “Thank you, my friend.”
Bryton grinned. “Don’t mention it…Your Maggoty.”
Myla and Taric took their thrones. The minstrel master waved his baton and a smooth song wafted through the hall. Batu entered first, a velvet pillow clutched in his hand, small diadem of sapphires around his head. The little Crowned Prince glanced around in shyness but raised his chin in bravery. The jeweled dagger on the pillow bounced as he barreled straight down the center aisle. Shoving the pillow at Henic, he ran to his mother’s side and buried his face in her neck. The crowd twittered in amusement.
Jana toddled in next, her wobbly steps guided by her nurse’s hand. The golden curls framed her round face like a sunbeam topped with a looped pink bow. She filled his already bursting heart with happiness. Although she carried a basket of wheat to sprinkle, Bryton knew she was too young. Still, when she took the first step and dumped the contents in a pile before falling to her rump, he laughed out loud. Most others joined him. Forgoing tradition, he walked back the guard-lined aisle and took her hand. She jabbered as they slowly trekked toward the dais. His mother pulled the little girl onto her lap, smoothing the pale pink ruffled gown over her diaper.
The minstrels chimed a bell. That single note spiraled through Bryton with nerves he hadn’t felt until now. His gaze shot to his father in the front row. Mactog was completely silver now and growing thick along his waist but his blue eyes sparkled sharp as ever. His red tunic was weighted with his own medals marking his station as former High Captain. With a solemn nod, he rose and faced the crowd, ceremonial words steady and strong.
“This is my son. I christened him Bryton Waru, Warrior’s Pride. Our king calls him his Might and his Law. Eldwyn has named him the Baron of Willowforge. He has sacrificed much for us all and proven himself a soldier of valor, a captain of honor and a man of integrity. Come now, bride of his choice, and be joined to him in the eyes of his king, his countrymen and the law.”
Salome had no male relatives, no relatives at all, so she would enter alone. Bryton’s breath stuck in his chest as he waited, watching the archway. A glimmer of gold forced the air out with a whoosh. Salome wore a gown of sunlight yellow beneath a full-length shroud of transparent metallic gold. She floated, barely seeming to walk, to the end of the aisle before raising her chin to look at him. Through the translucent veil, her dove-gray eyes found his and she smiled. Bryton’s heart ached with love as he noticed what she held. Most brides carried a symbol of their love—flowers, a candle, maybe a jewel.
Salome carried a spoon.
Mactog’s voice boomed with command. “Who is this woman and who claims her?”
From behind him, Taric spoke in place of her family. “She is Salome Auroran Pacifico and she is claimed by the crown, family to my queen. We grant her dowry of a meadow of eternal golden peace. Her bride price is returned in honor of Eldwyn’s hero.”
Bryton swallowed. He needed no dowry and would have paid his last copper coin for her hand. He hadn’t expected Taric to name her or claim her but he had, named her for the morning serenity and claimed her as family. The magnitude of the gift settled like a warm spring breeze, surrounding Bryton in brotherhood. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Myla’s gaze. She winked a feline eye and smiled in secret knowledge. Bryton supposed Salome and she were sisters, of a sort.
“She is welcomed.” Mactog crossed to her in two brisk steps, lifted the veil from her face and took her hand. He led her to Henic. “My son’s bride has been presented and accepted. I entrust her to your care.”
Henic bowed and drew the dagger from the velvet pillow before taking Salome’s hand. He turned to Bryton, not even trying to hide his joy. “Shall I stand in your stead or will you claim her as your own?”
“I claim her.” He had claimed her long before this, in a dimly lit cavern in a faraway cliffside. This binding was for show; she was already his wife in his heart, in his soul.
The dagger point pricked his middle finger then repeated the bite on Salome’s. Henic pressed their fingertips together, mingling their blood and sealing their union. Bryton wrapped his fingers around hers as the priest began his long-winded speech of marriage and duty. There were no two people in the world who understood duty more than he and Salome. Their eyes never parted, exchanging silent, private vows heard only by their hearts.
“Pa-a!” Jana’s tiny grip tugged on his breeches and he glanced down. His mother’s face paled in shock. Apparently Jana had crawled away and was now interrupting the grand ceremony. The priest faltered but Bryton waved him on. He wanted this stupid public wedding over with.
Jana walked around his knees, chewed on his tunic edge then lunged for Salome’s gown. Joy sparkled from his bride as she lovingly allowed the tiny hand to wrinkle the sunshine silk. Jana played peekaboo through the transparent veil, delighting the crowd. Salome looked down and made a silly face, causing the little girl to erupt in laughter. Salome was a wonderful stepmother for his daughter and already the two were fast friends. The priest studiously ignored the antics but Bryton smiled until his cheeks ached.
Jana tilted her little head back and reached up to smack Salome on the stomach. “Baby!”
Bryton chuckled at the very clear word and cast a glance at the babbling clergyman. He shook his head at his daughter and whispered, “Give Papa some time, buttercup.”
“Baby,” Jana insisted, smacking Salome’s tummy once more. Her tiny china-blue eyes flashed with magic luminosity. “Sister.”
Salome’s eyes grew round. She turned to Bryton. “Did she just…?”
His mouth hung open but he nodded as the priest pronounced them married. A self-satisfied grin twitched at Bryon’s lips. “You’ve been human for less than a month. Damn, I’m good.”
About the Author
Inez Kelley has been telling stories since she learned to speak. She wrote her first tale at age eleven and hasn’t stopped since. She read her first romances in eleme
ntary school, under the bedcovers by flashlight, when she was supposed to be sleeping. They spawned dreams that never ceased.
Inez is a recent transplant to the mid-Atlantic from the deep mountains of Appalachia. She packed up her children, her home and all those dreams, but still spends most nights creating romance on the page.
Find Inez at http://inezkelley.com/ or http://twitter.com/Inez_Kelley.
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9025-3
Copyright © 2010 by Inez Kelley
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