by Davis Ashura
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Rukh stood and put further distance between the two of them. “In Ashoka, when a man and woman become engaged, according to our traditions, they can no longer share intimacy until the wedding night.”
“This isn’t Ashoka,” Jessira reminded him.
“But I’m still Ashokan. In my heart and soul, it’s who I am.”
“But you’re of Stronghold now,” Jessira said. “We don’t have those kind of antiquated traditions.” She reached for him again only to see him dance away. Jessira sat back in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Rukh merely nodded.
“Of all the stupid, Devesh-damned, fragging, backward traditions!” she cried out. “How in the unholy hells…?” She looked at Rukh, wanting to make sure he hadn’t changed his mind. He hadn’t. He really wasn’t going to touch her, not until they were wed.
“I’m sorry,” Rukh said, looking miserable
Good. Let him be unhappy. Jessira flopped against the couch and closed her eyes, praying for strength and understanding. First Mother! Why did she have to fall in love with such a maddening man? Her frustration slowly ebbed, and she was able to consider the situation from Rukh’s point of view. She opened her eyes. Rukh stood near the hearth, clearly unhappy but just as clearly, still determined to follow through on his promise.
Jessira understood why. Rukh thought he had lost everything: his family, his friends, his honor, his home. He had nothing left except the traditions of Ashoka. She couldn’t ask him to give those up as well. The last of her frustration ebbed away and compassion took its place. Jessira stood and approached him slowly so he wouldn’t dart away. She took his hands in hers. “I understand why this is so important to you, love,” she said. “I can wait.”
“You don’t mind?” he said, sounding hopeful.
“They’re your traditions and you have to honor them. It’s who you are: a man of honor.”
Rukh smiled in relief. “I love you, Jessira.”
“You should,” she said. “And I love you, too; but you need to realize that I can’t be around you much until the wedding.”
“I know.”
Jessira kissed him, just briefly and not enough to tempt them to change their minds. “See you at the wedding.”
Rukh waited alone in the antechamber, a high-ceilinged, square room with a crystal chandelier to provide a soft light. Warm tapestries of beige and chocolate covered portions of the pale blue plaster walls. An expensive, but uncomfortable, couch took up one side of the room and was faced by high-backed leather chairs and a large, unlit fireplace. A painting—a scene depicting the founding of Stronghold—hung over the hearth. Shadows dappled the ceiling and tall, white double doors with fanciful gilding led into the ballroom.
Rukh paced about in nervousness, occasionally tugging at his collar, trying to loosen it and get some air. It felt like someone was trying to choke him. Unholy hells, but the thing was tight. In fact, his entire outfit was tight like that: stiff, and uncomfortable. It didn’t help that it was also as ugly as a Balant’s butt. Rukh grimaced. From the thigh-length, starched saffron shirt with its seven buttons—seven being a ‘propitious’ number—to the overwrought silver filigree vining up the sleeves and collar and down the placket; and the golden pants, billowy like sails and decorated with hundreds of tiny mirrors—it was not attractive. This didn’t even touch on the pointy saffron shoes also festooned with intricate, over-done silver filigree.
At least it was almost time for the ceremony. Timing was everything to the people of Stronghold. Here, every important event had a supposed ‘propitious’ moment when it was best for them to occur. For weddings, it was midnight. Even something as private as the consummation of a couple’s marriage was said to best occur with dawn’s light beaming down on them. A number of small cabins ringing Teardrop Lake had actually been built for just that purpose since very few could afford a flat with an eastern-facing window.
A knock came on the door, and the chamberlain—a tall, spare man in his fifties with a bald pate and a luxuriant, white mustache—poked his head inside. “It is time,” he said in a flat, formal voice.
Rukh took a deep breath. Here it went, the moment he’d been dreading all night when he would have to enter the banquet hall and face several hundred strangers, many of whom were very important here in Stronghold, all while dressed in as ugly a garment as he could recall seeing.
He smiled ruefully. A few months ago, their opinion of him wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest.
Rukh nodded to the chamberlain. “I’m ready.”
Jessira would already be inside. In Stronghold, the custom held that the bride entered the wedding hall first in order to soak up the admiration of all those in attendance. Rukh hadn’t seen her in the two days since his unfortunate decision to adhere to the traditions of Ashoka. He just hoped her dress wasn’t as ridiculous as his getup. She deserved to be beautiful on her wedding night.
Of course, he’d thought her beautiful even when she’d been sickened by the poison of a Kesarin’s claws, wearing the torn and bloody camouflage clothing of a warrior. He was sure she’d look lovely tonight—even if her wedding dress turned out to be as hideous and gaudy as his own outfit.
Rukh stepped through the tall double doors, and all thoughts flew from his mind.
The ballroom was full, but Rukh hardly noticed. His eyes were only for her.
Jessira stood at the far end of the hall. The glory of her honey-blonde hair was piled high, cascading down her neck and to her shoulders. Large, emerald-studded earrings graced her ears, and a slender, silvery net held up the mass of her hair. Mehndi tattoos covered Jessira’s hands, wrists, feet, and ankles and her bare arms rested at her side. Her dress was a soft cream-colored gown with threads of green, the same color as her eyes. It fit her every curve, trailing to the floor and swirling gently with her every movement. On one side, a single slit rose to her knee, exposing a riveting length of leg. Jessira’s emerald eyes sparkled with life, energy, and love.
Rukh smiled. The world was fine and wondrous.
Jessira smiled when she saw Rukh.
The Governor-General, or whoever had picked out the outfit, had chosen well. Jessira had never seen Rukh look so handsome. His clothes fit him perfectly, and he wore them well. Nevertheless, she understood he wasn’t nearly as enamored of his outfit as the tailor who had fashioned them. He looked uncomfortable and self-conscious, but it didn’t show in the way he carried himself. He walked with poised self-assurance. He was confident without being arrogant. He was a man whose presence demanded attention.
Rukh stepped forward, moving with an unmatched elegance. His every step was precise and defined and yet somehow languid and unhurried. He could move swiftly without ever seeming to hurry. Sometimes, she thought even his stillness was a dance. He was in all ways a Kumma.
She had to remind herself to breathe when his gaze met hers. His dark eyes soaked in the light like inky pools of blackness, yet glowed with an inner warmth. And his face, so classically handsome with his proud cheeks and full lips, held an expression of love and devotion.
How had they come together? It seemed so unlikely given how often they’d argued, neither willing to give an inch in their beliefs. Time and hard lessons had followed, but she was grateful for all they had endured, even the instances when she had wanted to do nothing but hit him in the mouth. Wisdom had come from their toil and hardships, and now here they were, moments from being wed. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought, and she wondered anew why fortune had seen fit to smile so beneficently upon her.
Rukh paced down the aisle, his gaze focused on her as if there were no one else in the world.
Jessira’s eyes welled. Life was so bright and luminous.
His daughter was to wed tonight. Sateesh struggled to contain his emotions. He was overjoyed for her—Rukh was everything he would have wanted in the man who married Jessira. Still, there was also sorrow. Jessira would b
e leaving his home, building a new life with Rukh. It was the way of life—Sateesh knew it—but the loss still brought a bittersweet melancholy with it.
He sighed as he glanced at his daughter, marveling anew at how lovely she was. Rukh was a lucky man, and he seemed to understand that. Even a blind man could see the love and devotion the Kumma held for Jessira and she for him. If anyone deserved such happiness, it was the two of them. They had been through so much together, so many tribulations and dangers—enough for several lifetimes—but now they were both home. They were both safe. They should have a long, prosperous life ahead of them.
Sateesh forced himself to pay attention. His part would come soon.
Mon Peace looked ready to speak. The Governor-General wore a simple, unadorned black shirt and pants and stood on a raised dais decorated with rose petals and lilies. “Our world changes, evermore and always, and we with it. What more lovely expression of this truism can we imagine than this wedding between two such wonderful individuals; born of different worlds, yet uniting at the last?” He said more words, chanting the holy mantras from The Book of All Souls that bonded a man and woman to one another.
The Governor-General gestured and Sateesh’s wife, Crena, dropped her end of the antarpat—an embroidered, white, diaphanous curtain—while Sateesh still held his part of it. The gauzy fabric was meant to symbolize the separation of a bride from her groom, and only when her parents had dropped it, could she marry the man they had approved on her behalf. Crena dipped her fingers into the vermillion powder held in the silver chalice Mon Peace offered to her. She turned and applied a bindi, first to Jessira, and then to Rukh. She moved aside, standing behind their daughter.
Mon Peace chanted more mantras before gesturing again.
It was Sateesh’s turn. He let the antarpat slide to the ground and stepped forward. The Governor-General offered a silver platter. On it, resting on a bed of dried rice stained with turmeric was an unadorned wine-red, ironwood bracelet—Rukh’s kalava—and a necklace made of small, black beads the size of mustard seeds—Jessira’s thaali—her hallowed thread. The bracelet represented Rukh’s promise to work in all ways to keep Jessira safe and happy. The necklace, which would lie next to her heart, was Jessira’s vow to keep her love for Rukh sacred and for him alone.
Sateesh slipped the thaali around Jessira’s neck before placing the bracelet around Rukh’s left wrist. He moved aside.
More chanting while Rukh and Jessira held hands and faced one another.
“I love you,” Sateesh heard Rukh whisper to Jessira.
“I love you, too,” she whispered to him.
Sateesh blinked back tears as Mon Peace finished the ceremony and shouted his proclamation, announcing that Jessira and Rukh were wed.
Dawn’s first blush streamed through the clear panes of the mullioned window, a shimmer of gold highlighting dust motes before it settled upon the four-post bed, covering it with a bright sheen. The light also shone against the glossy cherry finish of the armoire standing on the wall opposite the bed and even the door beside it leading out into a small front room and kitchen. Outside—visible through the window—lay a narrow sward, dewy and bordering Teardrop Lake, which sparkled in the early morning sunshine. The world was quiet within and without.
The wedding ceremony had been brief, but the reception that had followed had seemed to stretch on interminably. Eventually it had wound down, and afterward, Rukh and Jessira had made their way here, to one of the small eastward-facing cabins nestled along the shores of Teardrop Lake made specifically for newlyweds.
Rukh laid his head back, resting it on a pillow as he tried to catch his breath. Jessira lay curled up beside him, breathing heavily as well. A patina of perspiration beaded her forehead as she clutched the thick comforter up to her chest. Just then, Jessira chuckled, soft and low, a fascinating combination of satisfaction and pleasure.
Rukh warmed to the sound with a smug sense of accomplishment. He grinned as he rolled over to face her. “Was it worth the wait?” he asked.
Her expression of disbelief was his first warning. His second was when she clutched the comforter to her mouth, hiding her laughter.
Rukh’s face reddened. Jessira stifled her mirth as best she could, but she shook convulsively.
It apparently hadn’t been worth it. As Jessira laughed, Rukh found himself getting annoyed. It hadn’t been that bad…had it?
Jessira must have noticed his rising embarrassment. She wiped away tears of laughter and got her hilarity under control. She hiccuped. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding not the least bit apologetic. “It’s just your question…Was it worth the wait? Of course not.” She grinned, her teeth flashing in the soft light of sunrise. “I love you, but this is something we should have done two days ago. Two months ago.”
“So you enjoyed it?” After her laughter in response to his earlier question, Rukh needed to hear her say it.
She put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. “Yes,” she said. “And if you kiss me again, I’ll show how much.”
Rukh’s worry and embarrassment vanished. Instead, he gloried in the feel of her in his arms, the sparkle of her green eyes, the brilliance of her smile, and the warmth of her soul.
Mother’s certainty is exceeded only by Her madness. But sometimes even in Her insanity, She has a means to perceive the truth.
My heart grows fearful on those occasions.
~From the journal of SarpanKum Li-Dirge, AF 2062
Though the wind gusted about him, Li-Choke stood as still as an unmoving boulder. His face was composed, like the morning quiet following a snowfall. He waited, his hooves digging into the soft ground, wet after yesterday’s storms. Today looked to be similar. The scent of rain carried on the air, heralded by the gloomy clouds and the blustery wind. A few early blooms—pale, white flowers lying low to the ground—dotted the grass-covered hills. A single blossom lay tucked behind one of Choke’s ears.
He listened to his fellow Baels speaking softly to one another. A month ago, the western brothers had arrived, sent by the Queen to take control of the Eastern Plague. By the time of their coming—shortly before Choke and Chak-Soon had returned from their venture to Hammer—the Eastern Plague had almost completed its disintegration, falling into squabbling discord and dissension.
It hadn’t been easy, but the newly invested SarpanKum, the relatively young Li-Shard, and his capable, hard-bitten SarpanKi, Li-Brind, had worked diligently and speedily to gain control of the situation. It had taken all their efforts, as well as those of their western brothers, but eventually, Shard had succeeded. Through regimented and consistent discipline, the Eastern Plague had rounded back into fighting trim with the various Chims overwhelmingly glad to have the Baels once more in command. Even the Tigons had been relieved when the yoke of leadership had been taken from their shoulders.
As for Choke, upon his return, he had reported to his new SarpanKum and explained all he had witnessed since Mother had annihilated Li-Dirge and the other eastern Baels. Some of it, the western brothers had already known, but much was new, such as Rukh Shektan’s role in the caverns of the Chimeras; how he had risked everything on behalf of his supposed enemies, going so far as to plan for the Baels’ safety in the Hunters Flats. Choke’s recitation had raised gasps of disbelief and fervent awe from the assembled Baels, especially when he had been bold enough to name Rukh Shektan a friend. One young brother had even wondered if Hume’s heir had finally been found.
It was a question the others had laughed off—Hume was a legend and no Human could ever measure up to the man or his myth—but Choke wasn’t so sure. Rukh Shektan was special.
So Choke had remained quiet as the others chuckled over the young Bael’s embarrassment. His silence had been noted and he was asked to continue his narration. Choke went on to describe the final destruction of his eastern brothers when Mother had re-discovered them. Then, came the long journey to Hammer and falling in once more with Rukh Shektan and Jessira Grey. H
e spoke of how the Humans had protected and Healed them, both he and Chak-Soon, a Tigon who had grown to accept the truth of fraternity.
By the end, all the Baels had fallen quiet, shifting about, unwilling to break what seemed a holy silence.
“His heir is found,” Li-Shard had declared. “Two of them.”
“Three,” Li-Brind corrected, looking dumbfounded and amazed. “Chak-Soon as well.” The older Bael, so world-weary and cynical, had sounded amazed. He wore the guise of one whose faith—buried beneath heaped up mountains of skepticism—had been unexpectedly redeemed. “Humanity has heard us.”
At that moment, Li-Shard had shouted, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy, a cry echoed by their brethren. “Never did I think such a miracle could come to pass. Li-Dirge’s sacrifice shall never be forgotten!”
“Through Devesh all things are possible,” another Bael intoned prayerfully.
“Perhaps,” Brind had said. “Or it may be that a Bael of uncommon courage and decency simply saw the moment and seized it.”
“And found a willing heart in Rukh Shektan, and eventually Jessira Grey and Chak-Soon,” Li-Choke reminded them. The role of the Humans and the Tigons shouldn’t be forgotten or diminished.
“Two Human friends.” Li-Shard spoke the words as though tasting them. “It is truly a time of miracles.” He turned to Li-Choke. “And you are a Bael of destiny to be able to claim such an attribute.”
His brothers had murmured similar sentiments, but Choke found himself troubled by their adulation. He had simply done as he had been taught to believe was right. Was living a moral life really worthy of such praise? Should it not simply be an expectation, rather than an exception? Or perhaps Choke was simply misreading the situation. Perhaps by praising him, his brothers were reaffirming their own faith and teachings; as though Choke’s accomplishments were the final expression of everything their ancestors had struggled so mightily to achieve.