So it set its tie elsewhere. Tiro wasn’t sure at first where the tie went. Into someone with the strength and determination to master the new Immanent and be sure it saw the world partly through mortal eyes rather than only through its own strange perception . . . Tiro opened his own eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them, but he opened them now to the ordinary, solid world of men, and found himself meeting Enmon Corvallis’s eyes and looking through him into the heavy presence of . . . not Raëhemaiëth. The new Immanent, bound to Talisè.
Tiro couldn’t speak. He had forgotten how to speak, but even when human language slowly opened up within him once more, he didn’t know what to say. All his efforts and Raëhemaiëth’s sacrifice had worked so well, and so unexpectedly.
Corvallis was going to be furious. He was furious; that was obvious. It didn’t really show in his face or manner, but the older man’s anger was as vividly plain to Tiro as though he had shouted. Talisè was not the city or the province General Corvallis had wanted. He would have rejected both and taken Suriytè if he could. But the tie had come to him anyway, the new Immanent setting its tie where it found the clearest echo. Enmon Corvallis held it now, and Tiro knew without a word having to be spoken that the man would not be able to give it up. Not now that he held it.
Not even though the new Immanent was still bound to Raëhemaiëth. The new one had been folded somehow through Raëhemaiëth, so that Tiro held a deep tie to both Powers at once, to the new one through his own. . . . It was indeed a different kind of ruling tie, one that gave Tiro a firm hold on Talisè as well as Raëh. It had worked almost exactly the way Tiro had hoped. He could see that he might indeed strip the tie out of Corvallis and set it elsewhere; that he could strip vigor and strength from Talisè, from the new Immanent and the land itself. That Talisè was not and would not ever be truly sovereign, but would always be subordinate to Raëh.
Corvallis had realized that too. He would never be King of Emmer now. He held Talisè, but his was not a ruling tie. If Tiro created many new Immanences of this kind and bound them all to Raëhemaiëth in this way, then if anyone became King of Emmer, it would be him. Corvallis had already understood that. No wonder he was so furious.
“Raëhemaiëth never meant to lessen itself in order to shape . . . Talisamaiëth,” Tiro said to him. It was as though the two of them were alone in this courtyard, in the heart of Talisè. He went on honestly, “It always meant to make . . . this kind of bond. I’m not—I can’t be sorry for it, though I meant the tie to go to Lady Maené.” He spared the lady a slight nod of regret, but made sure not to imply apology. She might have been easier to work with in some ways, but he couldn’t regret what the new Immanent had done.
“Talisamaiëth chose where it would go,” he said, still speaking directly to Corvallis. “But it had to be this kind of bond. It would have been disastrous to weaken Raëhemaiëth. You know that. This doesn’t weaken Raëh. You know this was the only way to do it.”
“I know,” Corvallis said, rather through his teeth.
Lady Taraä swung the ax from one hand up to rest over her shoulder. She was tall enough and strong enough to handle the massive weapon easily. It wasn’t exactly a gesture of intimidation. But the ax was big enough and impressive enough to make everyone, even Enmon Corvallis, look at her. Then she said in her calm way, to Corvallis but really to all of them, “It would have been the same in Suriytè. Unless you had let the Immanent there rise naturally from the land, and there wouldn’t have been time. I know this wasn’t what you wanted. But we can’t be cutting at each other. We can’t be at odds. Not now.”
“I know.” Corvallis glowered at Taraä and then at Tiro. Then he finally took a deep, deep breath and let it out, locking down his fury. “Your Majesty,” he said to Tiro. Grimly. But he said it.
Tiro set himself and nodded back, not letting himself glance at Taraä, though he knew her support might have made the difference. She was right. They all knew she was right. Even Corvallis. Now he had to trust that the man—Enmon Corvallis Talisaiän, now—wouldn’t change his mind. At least not yet. Not until they were through the dark turn of the year and one way or another this grim business with the Irekaïn Power was settled. He didn’t think the man would be able to break the ruling tie between Talisè and Raëh later, either. But if he chose to try, later was definitely better.
Then Tiro looked around, wondering belatedly whether the other rulers of the hollow provinces would be willing to go on with this now that they all understood that even in the best case they would be tied to Immanences that would be unavoidably ruled by Raëhemaiëth and by Tirovay Elin Raëhema, before even their own will or desires. That was very different from an ordinary ruling tie. Tiro wasn’t sure what to call it: not just a ruling tie or a king’s tie. An overlord’s tie, perhaps. A high king’s tie.
“Can we do Leiör next?” Lady Taraä asked in a decisive tone that made it clear she wasn’t worried about any of that. “Or, I suppose Cemerè, since it’s right across the river. But then Leiör next after that. And then Nuò, I suppose, to set the border against anything coming down from Suriytè.” She raised her eyebrows at Duke Miya Nuòseir, who of them all seemed the most skeptical. “Surely no one thinks it’s better to leave their province echoing and empty?”
“The lady’s grasp of strategy is adequate,” growled Corvallis. Lord Enmon. Or he might be a duke. His Immanent might be powerful enough for that; if not yet, then soon. Talisè was a fairly large province, and Corvallis a great deal stronger-willed than the former line that had held Talisè. Now he gave Tiro a grim little nod and went on. “Cemerè is not actually essential, however. Nor is Nuò; I hate to give it up, but if we have to, Talisè can serve as our northern border.” Duke Miya, obviously dismayed, began to protest, but Enmon ignored him. “We must have Leiör to cover anything coming against us from the northeast. And that ruthless wolf’s whelp in Eäneté had better keep his promise to cover us from the southeast and south.”
“I’ll write to the Duke of Eäneté.” No. Tiro would write to Kehera, and trust her to make sure the ruthless wolf’s whelp who had forced himself on her would keep his part of the bargain. Surely his sister would be able to do it. She might even persuade Innisth terè Maèr Eänetaì to join the rest of them, actually tie his obviously very strong Immanent Power to Raëhemaiëth. . . . Well, no, probably not. The Eänetén duke was ambitious enough to annex southern Harivir into what he plainly meant to make into a new kingdom—and callous enough to force Kehera to help him do it. A man like that was not likely to surrender anything he held or owned to Raëhemaiëth.
If they all survived, if they all survived intact, or intact enough . . . he swore to himself that he would find a way to punish the Eänetén duke for what he’d done to Kehera and to Harivir. It almost physically hurt to know that if Innisth terè Maèr Eänetaì held the south and southeast and protected all those lands from the Irekaïn Power, he would actually owe the man.
He didn’t say any of that. It was none of Enmon Corvallis Talisaiän’s business.
“I don’t—” began Duke Miya, finding his voice at last.
“We’ll do what we have to,” Enmon said grimly. “All of us. We’ve no choice now.”
“I know,” said Tiro. And what they could do would have to be enough. Seven days until the Iron Hinge of the year; only seven days. He was almost certain the Irekaïn Power meant to achieve its apotheosis during the Iron Hinge days. No later than midwinter itself. Nine days. At most.
He was not at all sure it would be enough.
24
Kehera had attended many weddings, of course. The people of Raëh had all her life taken her presence at their weddings as a sort of charm. Dyed wheat, apple blossoms, blown robins’ eggs of the most delicate blue, and the cheerful presence of the Elin Raëhema heir: all good signs for a long and happy marriage. Kehera had always wondered, watching ardent or glad or resigned women and men tie the cords and exchange their vows, what it would be like to take the bride’s p
art of such a ceremony. This . . . was not quite what she had ever envisioned for herself.
Weddings normally took place during Apple Blossom Month, of course. Or sometimes, daringly, during the Golden Hinge Month, as spring turned to summer. The Golden Hinge was a chancy time, for the bright turn of the year meant not only burgeoning warmth but also change and transformation, not always in predictable directions. But Kehera’s women had liked to tell romantic tales about poor but audacious couples who married during the Golden Hinge days, thus changing their fortunes and carrying their families to brighter days.
Apple Blossom Month or the Golden Hinge Month, those were the most auspicious times for weddings. Couples seldom wed at other times of year. Certainly never during the Iron Hinge Month. The whole dark month carried ill fortune. Yet Kehera made ready for her marriage to the Wolf Duke of Eäneté on this winter afternoon with the hinge looming before them like a dark storm, only four days removed.
They had at least withdrawn to Viär rather than holding the marriage ceremony in a tent at the edge of the trampled and bloody mud below Meilin Gap. Viär was nearly in sight of the gap, so it was simple to repair to the town for a night and a day to recover from . . . everything, and hold something like a proper wedding ceremony. Though it was not a large town, Kehera could see it had remained prosperous despite the recent long years of drought. No wonder Lord Toren seemed so much older than she remembered from only a few years ago; he had poured his own strength into his land so that it should not suffer.
The homes of Viär were mostly large, as was the custom in towns and villages near the mountains. They were meant to house extended families over generations, these homes; built solidly of local stone and timber, with wide windows to the west and the south to catch the sun that spilled across the barley fields in summer. They had no windows at all facing the mountains from which came the black winds of midwinter.
Lord Toren’s house was of that same sprawling construction, easily large enough to house the lord and his young wife, her children and his son by his first wife, his brothers and their wives and children, and innumerable cousins of various degree. All of these folk appeared determined to attend Kehera’s wedding.
She missed Tiro, though she didn’t want to think of what he might say about this wedding of hers, which would bind her to Eäneté and bind Raëhemaiëth to Eänetaìsarè. She thought all this was as much Raëhemaiëth’s doing as hers, or even the Wolf Duke’s. But she couldn’t decide whether Tiro would agree with her about that, or whether he would be horrified by the very suggestion.
She missed her father so much. Not only because she longed to ask his advice and counsel, not only because she could imagine how frightened he must have been for her, but simply because his absence was a stone weighing down her heart. When she had been a girl, it had never occurred to her that she might marry among strangers, with none of her own people around her.
On the other hand, she had been prepared to marry the Mad King of Emmer if he had forced her to it. Compared to that, she was entirely content to marry the Wolf Duke, in Viär or a muddy camp or anywhere else.
Of course, she had never intended to stay in Emmer. She’d always meant to escape, or at least try to escape. Though after that horrifying visit to Hallieth Suriytaiän’s tower, she’d never believed she would get away unscathed.
And of course she hadn’t. Not unscathed. She’d lost so much. She missed Eilisè even more than her father, which in a way made her feel guilty. But Eilisè had been her own age, and a woman, and her friend. Kehera would have felt so much less alone if Eilisè had been with her here.
These days were so perilous, anything might happen. They might yet all be crushed beneath Irekay’s cold Immanent. But Eilisè should have had her chance to fight through these days in her own quiet woman’s fashion, and live, and make a life for herself, and someday marry for love the way a princess could not. Kehera should have looked forward to going to her friend’s wedding, to throwing handfuls of dyed wheat over her and giving Eilisè her own wreath of apple blossoms. It seemed so bitter that none of that could ever happen.
They stood in the great hall of the house, surrounded by Lord Toren’s household. Kehera, of course, had only Eöté and the thankfully calmer Morain Lochan to attend her. But the Wolf Duke, having left his soldiers encamped at Meilin Gap, was even more sparsely attended than she. Kehera was sorry for that, too; sorry that Gereth Murrel could not be here, sorry that the duke had no brothers or cousins or, so far as she knew, friends, to stand with him. Even Caèr Reiöft had absented himself, showing a delicacy that did not actually surprise her at all.
Kehera glanced covertly sideways at the closed expression and unrevealing eyes of the Eänetén duke. Innisth terè Maèr Eänetaì. She wondered what he was thinking. All these days in his company, even some sort of understanding between their two Immanences, and she still couldn’t tell. Except that when she had demanded this marriage go forward, he had acceded. Princesses did not marry for love; nor did dukes. But as she had asked, he had sent her a courting poem written with his own hand. Perhaps he cared for her . . . a little, at least. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she might have learned to care for him. At least a little.
He was not a comfortable man. But she admired his strength of will, his dedication to Eäneté and to his people, even his ambition. He was not exactly kind. She would not have said kind. But he was often generous, though he seemed not to realize that himself.
And he had certainly taken some pains for the ceremony. Kehera looked at him sidelong. The Eänetén duke was not smiling, but his austere features did not seem well suited to smiling. He was perhaps a little pale, though that might have been the chilly light of the season. Eilisè would have pointed out that his height and the breadth of his shoulders showed off his elaborate wedding coat to very nice effect. Kehera couldn’t help but wonder whether Caèr Reiöft might have packed that coat with his own hands, or whether that was a garment borrowed, like the house, from Lord Toren.
The duke’s coat was stiff with embroidery. Blue for marriage, of course, and gold for strength, both against Eänetén gray. Kehera had borrowed a dress from one of Lord Toren’s cousins, an azure and violet gown with abundant skirts and gold embroidery on the bodice. She and Eöté and the cousin and the cousin’s two daughters had taken up the hem and fitted the bodice and added dozens and dozens of tiny pearls to the panels of embroidery, because the cousin was determined to have the dress fit for the Raëhema heir. Kehera had thought the pearls unnecessary, but she had to admit the gown was beautiful.
It had taken Kehera almost half an hour to get into the dress even with the girls to help, and then the cousin had insisted on arranging her hair with strands of lapis beads and more pearls. Then she added the weightless strand of hollow robins’ eggs, which was like being crowned with a strand of hope and belief in the possibilities of future days.
After all that, Kehera had actually felt quite shy when the duke had called at the door of her borrowed chamber to escort her down to the central hall of Lord Toren’s vast house.
She hadn’t been able to help noticing the slight widening of the duke’s eyes when he saw her, the minimal change to the stern line of his mouth. Kehera had laid her hand gravely on his arm and wondered if there was the slightest chance that he was glad to have it there, not because she bore a deep tie to Raëhemaiëth or he would find her useful in the struggle with Irekay, but just because it was her hand.
Now their hands were clasped together, her fingers interlaced with his, with the twice-braided cord of black horsehair and bleached flax looped around their hands and wrists in token of a binding that was supposed to last all the rest of their lives. The knot was complicated. The cord was not supposed to be untied.
The vows were very simple: his to protect and cherish, hers to be faithful. But when it came to the moment for the vows, the Eänetén duke swore to protect and cherish not only her and her children, but her people as well. She was not surprised
at all. Generous, yes—if not kind. She met his eyes and nodded to show she trusted his vow. His yellow gaze was inscrutable as the gaze of a wolf. But he nodded back gravely.
When it was her turn, she swore to remain faithful and cleave only to him for the term of his life and hers. It occurred to her that she could rather easily imagine that, despite everything, despite Methmeir Irekaì and his horrible Immanent Power, their lives might prove to be long. But what surprised her was that she thought she might not mind living a long life with the Eänetén duke, however unlike her imagined life that might prove to be. She still did not know whether she liked him. But she thought she trusted him, in a way that she could not define even to herself.
Then it was done. They held their bound hands over the candle, and the cords went up in a brief, dazzling burst of flame that was over so quickly the fire did not have time to burn their skin. Kehera rubbed the faint red mark that was the only sign of the burning and then slowly dropped her hand back to her side. She tried to decide whether she felt any different, but she could not tell. She looked at him—at her husband. He gazed back, his expression remote. He honestly did look very forbidding. Kehera thought, with a faint sense of surprise, He is almost as nervous as I am, but then she was not sure whether this was true.
The duke touched her arm, and they turned together to face the assembled folk. There was a little cheering, not loud and joyful as Kehera had heard—and participated in—at other wedding ceremonies, but subdued. The household had lost loved ones at Meilin Gap, and feared what next might come from the east, and were not certain they should wish her happy in her marriage to this foreign duke. But the children threw handfuls of dyed wheat nevertheless. Kehera made herself smile at the gathering with all the reassurance she could muster, and was rewarded by a slight relaxation of the tension in the room. But she was glad enough to escape to the privacy of the hall when the duke conducted her out of the great hall.
Winter of Ice and Iron Page 48