by Cassia Meare
"Talking of your girlfriend?" Lamia asked.
Sefira flushed hotly. "She's not my girlfriend!"
Standing between the divans that held her sisters, Ahn looked from one to the other. Her eyes made them fall silent for a moment.
"I was about to say something practical," Lamia pointed out after the pause. "We should lurk. Wait for the human girl, what's-her-name, to find a heka and jump her. Just like we did before."
"We were scrying then," Sefira said. "They're on to us now."
"There has to be a way. We got magic, no?"
"This wedding cannot happen," Ahn insisted in a low voice. "Nemours needs to lose that army — and then he will have to talk to us and make terms with our terms."
"Nemours will have to...?" Lamia said idly. "Nemours? Should I introduce you to your brother?"
"I don't believe he would allow a war to happen with the odds stacked against him," Ahn said. "Let so many people die for nothing."
"How are the odds stacked against him, though?" Sefira wondered. "Even if Tayne stayed out of the war, our forces would be about equal."
"Red is right. You can't get Tayne over to our side now," Lamia said. "No one here can give him an immortal grandchild, unless you tried creation from mud, which is advanced and might just produce some little deformed monster. Besides, the man is a horrible bore about honor. He would never go back on his word because, no matter what, Nemours is going through with his."
"Leave me, please," Ahn said suddenly.
Sefira studied her with her usual scowl. "I don't like to see you giving up like that. The fight isn't over — it hasn't even begun. Why does everyone have to believe Nemours invincible?"
Ahn's eyes now were lost in contemplation. "I'm not giving up. I just need to think."
"Well, you do that," said Lamia, rising from the couch and throwing a cushion backwards in the air with a jangling of bracelets. "Since I'm so terrible at it, I'll go do something else. I'm sure I'll find out what you've decided."
For a moment longer, Sefira looked at her older sister, but then she also moved to the door. The priest glided from the shadows as if he were rolling on wheels.
"Stay," Ahn said.
Turning, Lamia realized Ahn hadn't talked to her, but to Lotho. She caught his slight smile as he closed the door.
The lords and ladies of Highmere looked even more magnificent than the day before, their colors a stark contrast to the somber hues of the bridal party.
The bride-to-be, on the other hand, sat next to Nemours in a dress of bright blue with gleaming stones around her ears and neck. She must have had the more fashionable clothes made as part of her dowry, and now she ate and drank using small movements while turning avid black eyes on all the people before her. A belt with more jewels on it, as well as exquisite embroidery, hung low around her waist, and a net of gold held her hair. She was only missing a crown on her dark head.
That, she would not get.
Some of the women were sending Lady Marget quick, jealous looks — but she only glowed more under the scrutiny, straightening her back until Nemours thought it might snap.
"Bit of a Christmas tree, innit?" Delian asked when they rose from the table to mingle and he joined Nemours near the window.
Nemours had to gulp hard to swallow his wine, which threatened to leave through his nose as he controlled his laughter.
"Maybe someone should whisper 'less is more’," Delian continued.
"That's the last thing I want to whisper to her," Nemours said.
"Oh, come on." Delian considered his future sister-in-law's figure again. "Seeing her naked is the only bonus to all this. And you need to look more gracious, or this will be a total disaster."
Delian was right, but it was going to be a disaster anyway. Nemours didn't require a scrying ball to know that. Still, it was true he should make some sort of an effort. He unglued his back from the wall, ready to join his betrothed.
"It won't be that bad ..." Delian repeated.
"Looks like I should have gotten you to marry her," Nemours said.
Delian smiled. "Not husband material, am I? Whereas you've done it before."
Nemours watched the party from Stonemount. Lord Tayne sat talking with Ty, and they seemed to be getting on. "He's a reasonable man, Tayne," Nemours said. "Not given to dreams. I think she is the one who wants the immortal." His eyes switched to Tayne's daughter, who was already holding court. "Strange that he should dote on her."
Delian raised his eyebrows. "Maybe she was cute when she was little."
"Maybe. But ambition is not an attractive thing."
"Greed mixed with pride, I guess."
Well, Nemours couldn't say he didn't have pride in spades. Which, he suspected, was going to complicate his marriage.
"Strength should come with joy," he muttered. "With generosity."
"Eh?" asked Delian, confused. "Where do you see that?"
Somewhere else, Nemours thought.
I have no idea what will happen, Ahn told herself. No idea at all.
Things did happen once magic was launched. It was forbidden for good reason. Look at the things that already took place ... Like that human girl stealing her voice.
Ahn could even now feel the trace of a connection across worlds. Elinor had opened herself to it.
Ahn could feel her unhappiness.
Nemours knew how to love, it was true. He had loved Sibulla, so much and for so long ... He had loved his brothers and sisters. Ahn could not deny that in his own way — his solitary way — Nemours loved the worlds. He loved creation.
She knew the girl had thought these things at the unbinding. That Nemours had love in him; that he was noble.
No, no. You're a poor human girl, taken from your home, your time, your father. Seduced. Abandoned. Picked up and thrown away.
Ahn closed her eyes and thought: No one will ever feel like Nemours again. No kisses will be like his. No touch. No one's eyes on you. No one's skin, no one's body will be like his.
No one's voice.
No one's smile.
Did it feel good, girl?
To have the morning bathe you in its light — the first light of dawn; the sun, warm after darkness — and then to live in shadow?
You'll live in shadow now, girl. The sun is shining elsewhere.
Nothing will ever feel the same.
Nothing would ever feel the same.
No one will ever feel like Nemours again. No kisses will be like his. No touch. No one's eyes on you, all hot and cold. No one's skin, no one's body.
No one's voice, whispering to you in bed.
No one's smile.
Elinor sat on the floor of her bedroom and sobbed.
She hadn't even turned on the light, and the ghost was there — shaking his head and scowling. Did I bring a puny girl into the world, pining for a man or anything he may be?
"I don't know why I'm feeling like this," Elinor said aloud. "I don't want to."
The ghost wasn't a ghost, she now realized. It was just a memory of her father. The obstinacy of keeping him with her. She wanted him to comfort her. She wanted him to scold her into doing what was right.
What a puny thing, to pine for a man.
Why did she pine? She had hardly known Nemours time enough for any roots to take hold.
Why?
She sobbed and thought it must be magic, but she could not find a thread of it in the house, and no spell helped her.
Perhaps, when she was able to move, she could make a potion. Water of Lethe: the plant of lotus, to forget — mandrake root, to sleep and feel no pain. A dash of poppy.
A sprig of harmless lavender.
But a sorrow had taken root — and the root had gone deep and bent inside her, so she could not pluck it out.
Ahn opened her eyes and gasped as if she had been under water.
What had she done?
The poor girl ... Why have I done that?
The girl sobbed so hard her human chest would rip open
. She was hurting so much.
Why had she done that to the girl, who was guilty of nothing?
"I'm sorry," Ahn whispered. "I didn't mean it."
13
It was done.
It was done and couldn't be undone.
The ceremony had been held in the golden splendor of the Temple of Dawn. Only his brothers and Tayne's party had attended. His sisters would have been there, had this not been a wedding designed to defeat them.
Marget followed the custom for Stonemount brides: Her face had been powdered white, with an abstract form of her father's eagle painted on her chin in red, and the form of the panther above her heart in blue to symbolize her husband. She had come from a house and was entering another. A crown of intricate silver flowers held an embroidered veil of deep red that at first covered her face but was lifted when she gave her consent to the union. Her dress, too, was silver.
Today the stark contrast was provided by Nemours, wearing dark colors only softened by a hint of white shirt at neck and wrists.
Everyone, he was sure, was thankful that the ceremony was brief.
They reached the balcony to the cheer of the crowds flooding the streets — lines of people moving in waves like the enormous serpents in the Sweet Seas. No prince of their world had ever wed, but Nemours wondered idly why it should make people so delirious with joy.
True, they were getting a celebration. Food, drinks and presents that included coins with Nemours' head on one side and Marget's on the other. Those had been minted quickly and would probably be spent even more quickly.
Delian was even now trying to convince Ty to go into town with him. The party there was bound to be less boring than at the Hall, and they would be closer to the fireworks to be launched from the wharf.
When the newlyweds left the temple, a throng stood on the steps, kept to the sides by the guards. Little girls and boys waved golden pieces of paper at the bride and groom.
"What are those?" Marget asked.
"We call it pinning," the Set-Tuaa who had performed the ceremony explained. "They quite literally pin their hopes on you as the bride. They think your happiness will get them their wishes granted."
Marget gave a short laugh. "Do children have so many wishes already?"
"Their parents write the notes," the priestess said. "It's just custom."
"Then I must go to them," Marget said decisively.
"You'll get jostled," Nemours warned.
"I'm their princess now," Marget said, and motioned to one of the guards. "Just tell them to be careful."
As the man spoke to the group, she lifted the hem of her skirt and moved to the right. Exchanging a look with his brothers, Nemours stayed where he was. One of these days she would learn; despite the coins, she was not his consort, only his bride. She was not there to rule.
Marget bent to listen to the children and offered her shoulder or her arm for them to pin their wishes. Soon she was covered in papers.
"They're sweet," she said tonelessly as they kept descending the steps to the carriage. A breeze from the sea lifted her veil, making the golden papers flap.
Hours later, after another dinner at High Hall, Lady Marget retired to the nuptial chamber. By the time Nemours joined her, she was sitting on the bed in a white nightgown.
His new wife was beautiful, he noted. Her full breasts rose and fell fast under the sheer fabric.
"Will you come to bed?" she asked.
Instead, he moved to a table near the balcony and poured himself some more wine. He must pay the price for an army, and many men might be happy at this part — leaping into bed with Marget.
But the sadness would not leave him. He wanted no child, no wife; not this one. The wine slowly swirled into the glass as he still hoped against hope that something might stop it all from happening.
Behind him, her voice sounded hoarse as she asked, "Have you not had enough wine?"
There, an excuse for him to get angry and leave, at least for tonight. Maybe there would be a reason every night.
But even as he turned with a scowl on his face, he could hear her retching. Nemours found his new wife still kneeling on the bed, but her face had turned red, and her lips frothed. Her eyes bulged as if they would fly out of their sockets.
He rushed to her side and she gurgled, clutching his hand, unable to speak.
And on the spotless white of her nightgown, above her right breast, a red dot — tiny as a pinprick. The pinning ... Poison.
"Tetyen veo nygoret," he whispered. It was the first time he had used magic at home — but he couldn't let her die."Tetyen veo nygoret ..."
His words had no effect. She was beginning to convulse. She must be in terrible pain.
He needed help, and he didn't hesitate.
14
The women in the Toxic Relationships meeting told stories that made Elinor reflect how common it was nowadays for females to own their own lands, property and money; pick their husbands; make love with whom they willed without unwanted pregnancies or shame; choose whether or not they wished to be mothers and when. And not die in their youth.
She had known all that from television, of course — albeit in something of a confused way. She had learned that they cut their hair because it was no longer the fashion for a lady to have glorious tresses down her back, and that trousers made you freer, unless you wanted to feel sexy. And it was your choice.
In fact, that very day she had had her own hair cut, although she would not let the man, an Italian called Piero, chop it as he willed — right under the chin, he had said.
"I shall not go around looking as if I had just recovered from the ague, my good man. Or as if I had to rid myself of lice."
At the mention of lice, a cry had gone up in his place of business, and Piero himself had jumped back several steps. She had explained again that she did not have lice or the ague, and did not wish to look as if she had.
In the end, they had settled on a cut below her shoulder blades, to Piero’s pursed-mouth disapproval, and Elinor had never felt as naked. She decided not to buy herself breeches; one unpleasant advancement for the day was enough.
After that, she had had a glass of wine at the Public House, where women could frequently be found alone. Maybe she had had three glasses. And, chancing upon the meeting about toxic relationships, part of the 21st-Century Woman Week, she had thought somewhat dizzily it would be a good idea to attend — except that the organizer, a kind, plump woman, had said in a low voice while showing her to a table, "You might want to refrain from alcohol next time, my dear. Bring your best self."
Well, if one must talk, it was clearly better to be drunk — as the truth was bound to come out more easily. But modern English people had their own notions.
The woman gave Elinor a pen and told her to write her name on a small paper, which she stuck to Elinor's chest while saying, "What lovely handwriting!"
Elinor wished she could return the compliment. The name "Carol," written on the lady's chest, was rendered in a script that was both childish and graceless. But she smiled all the same as she was shown to a chair.
Carol had also given Elinor a paper on "alcoholism" and a square white pebble, and told her to chew on it. Elinor crushed it gingerly between her teeth, finding it had the flavor of mint; it expanded in her mouth like glue and was difficult to swallow. It was still partly lodged in her throat.
The participants told of the terrible men in their lives, although none had beaten them or kept them locked in a tower or brought their bastards and mistresses home. It seemed, in fact, that these women had willingly entered amorous bonds which they might have left at any moment with property and self intact.
Many spoke of their fathers, saying they sought approval in the men they met because they had not received it at home. Elinor’s own father had tended to disapprove of her once she reached womanhood, and she wondered whether she had let Nemours kiss her (and more) because of that, or whether it had been because he was beautiful and had magic. P
erhaps it was all combined, with also the fact that he kissed more than passing well.
Altogether, Elinor had decided that she might be in the wrong event for the 21st-Century Woman, as she would have preferred something more joyous; although she supposed from what the others were saying that sitting on the floor of a room and sobbing because a man had seduced you and married another might qualify as feeling abused.
"Elinor?"
She jumped in her chair at being addressed; she had, in fact, been eying the door and wondering whether she could leave without giving offense, or whether she could have done an utra tala. But the whole circle now had turned to look at her.
"Do you want to share your story?" Carol asked gently.
"My story?"
"The story of your relationship?" Carol explained. "Don't worry, we aren't here to judge."
"Well, I find it hard to judge a—" Elinor stopped short of saying a prince. "A person with responsibilities to the worlds. World."
There was some nodding from Carol. "He's a man in public office then. Older than you?"
"Much, much older," Elinor said.
"And were you very young when you met him?"
"Younger in experience than I am now. I lived with my father, as my mother died when I was little, and he came as a guest—"
They said they would not judge and were now shaking their heads. Elinor frowned at them.
"So he was a friend of your father's—" Carol urged.
"Not a friend, but not a foe either."
"All right — but a guest, in any case."
"Indeed."
Carol still coaxed her. "And you felt attracted by his station, his power?"
The Chevalier de Nemours, riding by in his white steed ...
"Yes. He had performed many astounding deeds. I saw him fighting, and it was extraordinary."
"A military man?"
"You could say that."
"And you saw him fight?"
"Kill!" Elinor said eagerly, thinking of Nemours and the evil angels at Canterbury. She ignored the gasps, remembering how magnificent he had been. And she had managed to stop short of mentioning the cathedral.