She very nearly gulped. How was she to last through an evening of this? Just what was considered proper? “I simply decided that I needed to see more of the world,” she ventured.
“I was referring to your lack of maids or guards.”
Well, at least that was an easy one to answer. “I have no need for those things.” Well, except for arranging her hair into complex patterns... and explaining how silk
dresses fastened at the back.
Yarrin raised his eyebrows. “There are many brigands and bandits out and about these days. They’d have that dress off your pretty back before you knew it.”
His wife threw a look at him, but held herself from making comment.
“Not likely, father,” Feyan answered, “she shot Evigan’s bow yesterday - pulled it almost to full extension.”
“Is that so?” Yarrin’s expression was utterly unreadable.
The table fell to silence while they ate, and while Artemi attempted to put some food onto the curious implement she had been given to eat with. Was it meant to help her pick up the meat or just to decorate it? Instead, she set the item down and tried to use her mouth for talking. Perhaps that was less dangerous. “How many children do you have, Lord Calyrish?”
He did not look up from his meal, but inclined his head slightly to his wife. “That is your area, darling.”
The lady smiled broadly. “If you are asking whether we have any more hiding upstairs, I am afraid not. They are all here. Three boys.”
“Three unmarried boys,” Yarrin
added.
Their faces each turned to look at her. Even Morghiad’s... Something had just happened. Oh, light of Achellon... what conversation had she just prompted? Perhaps she had shamed them somehow. She had to undo it. “Unmarried? They are so handsome and good-natured - I cannot believe that!”
Morghiad’s eyes widened significantly at her exclamation, and Artemi had the distinct feeling that she had just made things worse for herself. Blazes, why wouldn’t the fires just take her and burn her alive so she would not have to suffer this!?
Yarrin set his fork, or whatever passed for a fork here, down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. His old, stern eyes met hers. “Well then. It appears we have a match on our hands. Would you like to marry one of my sons?”
“I... I-” It was ajoke at her expense. It had to be a joke. They did this to all guests from abroad. Yes, that must be it. She managed to raise a smile again. “Ah... but I have only just met them, and they do not know me... and you do not know anything of my family... and-” she tried to clear her
throat. It felt very tight suddenly. No one was laughing. No one thought this was remotely funny.
Yarrin placed his elbows upon the table and leaned forward. “Edilea, I should hope that you have been educated in the ways of Hirrahan manners. Certainly, I am well-versed in the art of negotiation with Sunidaran families over such matters. Perhaps not for my own children, but for my sister, who is married to Lord Wydari’s brother. You will know, then, that a prior friendship with your marriage partner is not something that is necessary or even appropriate. An offer to choose between siblings is, however, how things are done, is it not?”
Artemi had heard of the choosing rule in Sunidara. One of the most famous queens in history had been offered a choice between brothers, and had later come to regret her decision. It had resulted in civil war. “Yes,” she said in a very quiet voice.
“And you will also know that a Hirrahan family will cut one of its trade links with either your family or your country if you do not accept? It is seen as a very grave insult for you to refuse. Should I take your hesitance as
refusal?”
Blazes, would they? Wars could begin over this sort of thing! “No... no, of course not.”
“Then you must choose.”
“Now?” This was absurd! And what would happen when he discovered her lies? Imprisonment? Another war?
“Of course, now! We don’t have all night.”
Lady Calyrish tried to offer a reassuring smile. “Go with your heart, Edilea. They are all good men. You will not be disappointed, whichever you choose.”
Qeneris was looking at her with his beautiful, big hazel eyes and the sweetest smile she had ever seen a man wear. She had no doubt that his heart was kind. To his right, Feyan smouldered like a hot, smoking hearth that could rouse at any moment. His eyes promised passion, and rather a lot of it. And then there was Morghiad. He looked utterly, completely drained of life. Unhappy and miserable; a thundercloud full of hopelessness.
“Mor,” she said softly.
“What?!” Feyan very nearly exploded from his seat. “Are you mad, woman?”
“Sit down!” Qeneris tried to bring his brother under some form of control. “Calm down, you fool.”
“She did not choose me over you because of love or attraction,” Morghiad said steadily, “She chose me because she is a wielder.” He met her eyes then. “You did the right thing.”
That quelled Feyan’s protests in an instant. He looked... horrified, questioning.
Artemi nodded in admission of her abilities. She had never felt so ashamed of them or her position in life as she did now. Perhaps Morghiad would live through nalka, and
everything would be alright. She hoped he would. He would live.
Artemi was taking far too long. Perhaps she had finally understood the joke his father had made at her expense, though it was unlikely. Three
racing horses might have bought her all sorts of treasures in her home town, but they would barely pay for the youngest daughter of the most minor of Hirrahan families. Any other noblewoman would have found the offer insulting, but she had forced a smile that could have been interpreted as one of gratitude. And the whole matter had revealed to Morghiad that Lord Calyrish had not fallen for their ruse in the slightest. Clearly he knew that she was no lady, and clearly he knew that Artemi was his youngest son’s bed fellow. It was more than a little confusing.
Morghiad gave his father a quick glance and a thin smile. Why was the old man encouraging a marriage between a peasant girl and one of his own sons? Did he think that Morghiad was such a shameful example of his family that he deserved to be wedded to the dirt? Was this his punishment for what he had done? Well, he was determined to be a good son now. He would comply with whatever his father asked of him, perhaps even stay faithful to her in what little time was left to them. Besides, this would prove to Artemi that he did possess her, both in principle and now in law. There
would be no more arguing over that fact.
He clasped his hands at his back and drew himself straight. Where was she? Everyone else was here. Even the estate’s guards had lined up to watch the spectacle. Morghiad moved his eyes back to his father. He was holding an old, tattered binding under one arm. It was the register of their family, and already Artemi’s – or rather Edilea’s – name had been added to it. That was something that could not be undone. Names were never crossed out of that book, no matter what crime was committed or if adultery occurred.
Names stayed in there forever, names like Morghiad.
There was a shimmering of light beyond Lord Calyrish’s shoulder, and when Morghiad’s eyes came to focus on it, he realised that it was his bride. Artemi was walking through the rays of the sun, and yet the rays that shone from her seemed to be brighter than the sun itself. That was not possible.
Morghiad turned away rapidly. He was not supposed to stare at her like a gurning idiot through this part of the ceremony. That part was for later. But when he shut his eyelids tightly, he found that the image of her fire-fibred
hair had branded itself into the very fabric of his mind. It glowed there like a damned beacon set to warn of enemies approaching.
It was a long wait for the enemy to approach, but when she did, he met her glare with a look of fierce disapproval. She looked pretty enough for an ill-bred clod – even peasants could have a sort of handsomeness about them if they wore silk, bathed and brushed their hair. But
there was no getting away from what she was, even if some fool had braided her hair as if she were a Hirrahan lady. Morghiad did not unlock his eyes from hers, and would not do so until custom demanded it. He was quite sure that she would not relent at any point before he did, and he was prepared to admit to himself that he had a sort of respect for that tenacity.
“Time has come to this moment, and this moment is for union,” his father began.
“This moment is for union,” the assembled audience echoed.
“Time has risen from the fires, has wrought the past and has brought about our present. It will thrust us into the future, and in time, we shall return to the fires. But time has also brought
together my son and this young... woman.” He smiled. “Today she becomes one of our family, and the fires will forge their bond for eternity.”
There was a rather uncomfortable truth to that, though his father could not have known it. Morghiad had not raised the matter with her, but lately Artemi’s power had been growing by the day.
“... It is time to make your pledge. Mor- Renw - oh, sod it. Everyone knows you as Morghiad, and that’s who you are. Morghiad Kinheron Furul Dergarin – and occasionally Renward – Calyrish, from this time,
and onward, you will bear the responsibility that is a wife: to protect her, love her and to possess her. She is your most valuable asset. Does she have your word that you will treat her as such?”
Possess. Though Artemi’s emotions were not betrayed elsewhere, her eyes were wide with fury and her jaw clenched.
This was beginning to amuse him. He nodded solemnly and said, “She does.” His ownership of her, sealed in Hirrahan law.
His father turned to Artemi. “And you must make your pledge.
Edilea of Kharafar, from this time, and onward, you will bear the responsibility that is a husband: to protect...” No. This part of the ceremony was not in the book! SHE was to be owned! No!
Lord Calyrish pressed on. “... to love him and to possess him. He is your most valuable asset. Does he have your word that you will treat him as such?”
Her face was a picture of victory, and a smile so smug it could have embittered the most sporting of losers began to spread across her features. “He does.”
“You are bound by the fires...”
Morghiad ceased to listen to the rest of his father’s words. He tried to send thoughts to his new wife, thoughts that communicated his utter contempt for her attitude and thoughts that explained her true position. She would never be his equal. A wife’s activities were decided upon by her husband in Hirrahan society. That was how it would be. He would decorate her and make her pretty to look at, but she would learn to behave herself. No more outlandish opinions and ridiculous accusations. No more threats and no more battles.
But he could hear her counter
argument in his thoughts. “You cannot live without our battles,” she taunted. “Oh, I can,” he replied.
“I don’t want to fight with you any longer,” another voice said. It sounded like his own, but couldn’t have been. It was far too weak and pathetic. Morghiad looked around himself, breaking eye contact with Artemi. All expressions were as expected, which meant he had not spoken any of his thoughts aloud. When he returned to Artemi’s glare, he found her eyes questioning rather than smug or angry. Burn it. He had broken first. That was a poor show indeed.
“And now we shall witness that these two be joined as a single commodity for the trade of family. Take each other’s hands, please.”
Morghiad grasped her fingers in his own as calmly as he could manage, and breathed in the raging torrent of fire that coursed under his skin from it. But something was different; it felt out of balance. Her power verged on the edge of control; it was furious and desperate for escape, but that was normal for her. He searched the sensation and tried to understand it. What had altered?
“...Though the economics
around you may change, the survival of your fortunes will depend upon your strength and willingness to cooperate...”
As was usually the case, the more he tried to search The Blazes, the more complex their structure became to him. It was like looking into a maze made of webs: the more one understood of their pattern, the more questions would arise in explaining their assembly. But the answer soon presented itself, and it was far simpler than he could have anticipated. The fires that had made their home in Artemi had grown to such a degree that they had become too great for him to wield. She had outgrown him, surpassed him and excelled him. His days were finally numbered: no more than fourteen of them remained. It was either nalka or be incinerated.
“...And though you may question the nature of value...”
Artemi’s expression betrayed nothing. In truth, he was sure that she had not even noticed the new difference in their abilities. This woman would kill him, and she would not even know about it until it happened. Though Morghiad had spent much of his life learning how to deal with an
imminent death on the battlefield, he still did not know how to reconcile the idea of it happening here.
Of course, he had heard the rumours about eisiels and eternal madness from being burned alive in the arms of a wielder, but he would rather think that a simple, painful death would be more likely. Would that be better? To die from nalka and succumb to his body’s own self-destruction? It made perfect sense, really. He had proven himself unfit for either marriage or fatherhood. If he could not successfully maintain a relationship with a woman he had chosen to sleep with at such a
ridiculously young age, then his body no longer had any purpose. It had tried to teach him a lesson, and his own foolish choices had bound him into an inescapable death. Now it wanted to end its own existence out of dismay at the mind that operated it.
But that left no opportunity for making mistakes and making amends. How was a man to make any choices when fate had already decided everything for him? When Artemi had demanded that he attend her in her room, he had done so without the merest refusal. Had he really been presented with a choice at that
moment? In another world, would he have said no and turned his back to her? It was unlikely, given the way she had looked on that day, or the way she had provoked him after years of practice at the art.
But now the realisation came to him while he stared at her, and it was a realisation he did not like in the slightest. She was not merely a commoner with an uncommonly pretty face. She was... beautiful. His mind scrambled for an explanation, but the more he thought on it, the clearer the truth became. Through his years in Hirrah and Sunidara, he had never met anyone as ideal in both looks and spirit as she was, and likely never would again. Flawlessness made physical.
Morghiad quickly stuffed the thought into the deepest recesses of his consciousness. It was his secret, and no one else had to know about it.
“...And it is declared that Edilea is joined with our family. You are married.” There was some weak applause from the guards, and some embarrassingly loud claps from his brothers. He had no doubt that they were trying to rile him by behaving with insincere enthusiasm. He chose to ignore it.
“Are you going to show her some sort of affection, son, or are you just going to burn holes through her head by staring at her like that all day?”
“Ah - father?”
His father folded his arms across the large book. “Kiss her.”
Both he and Artemi’s faces whipped round in surprise, and he heard her echo his single word of response, “What?”
Lord Calyrish’s features were drawn together in a light frown. “Well, you don’t have to. Many marriages are like that, I suppose.”
“No, it’s fine,” Morghiad found
himself replying. “Of course.” He would be a good son in what time was left to him. He would. He steeled himself and turned back to Artemi, whose dark eyes seemed almost fearful. Akiss. That was simple enough, surely? He just had to make his lips touch hers and everyone watching would be convinced that he was both dutiful and in charg
e of the situation. Just a kiss. Blazes, but they had done more than that plenty of times! Morghiad closed his eyes, leaned forward and prayed that Artemi would not choose now to embarrass him.
As it turned out, she did not.
Their lips did meet briefly, and he did enjoy the sensation of the burning heat that came from it, but he really did not know how to proceed from there. He could feel the eyes of everyone assembled upon him, assessing him, judging him and making their own conclusions about his performance in the art of kissing. And then there was Artemi’s judgement, which he was quite sure he knew the essence of. No doubt he would be feeling the wrath of that soon enough. He could also feel the urges from his own being, emphasising that he really ought to take his new wife to bed as soon as
possible, and that he should forget about the consequences. Most of all he felt awkwardness. It was too awkward. It had to end now.
They broke contact at both lips and hands, and he was left feeling cold, if somewhat thankful that the entire ritual was finally over with. Artemi was looking everywhere but at him.
“Good. Let’s go inside and be merry. Perhaps a bottle of wine each will put a smile on your faces.”
The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle Page 171