As a result, the public is starting to become complacent again, which is both a good and bad thing.
Meanwhile, the Wedding preparations continue, all scheduled events having resumed in full force, under the watchful supervision of the Venerable Therutat and the Venerable Darumet, our yin and yang counterparts in this. Aeson and I find ourselves with odd daily obligations and rituals, and while we might both groan about it in private, Aeson realizes how important it is to put on a fine show for both public morale and the sake of Imperial tradition.
Indeed, the upcoming Wedding has become an anchor of normalcy—not only for us, but for the population of Atlantida in general. The media networks love to report on our progress, and happily focus on the little things, all of it building up to the next major event on our schedule, this one being the first shared formal Court event headed by both the Bridegroom and the Bride—the Gifts Assembly.
The Gifts Assembly is intended to be a magnificent Imperial affair, scheduled for the evening of Red Amrevet 5, Redday—the first day of the event-packed whirlwind week leading up to the Wedding. Aeson and I are supposed to preside at our first Imperial Assembly and receive the traditional wedding gifts from the Court.
However, before that event kicks off our final Wedding countdown, we have a number of necessary scheduled details to deal with in the weeks beforehand.
First up is Ghost Moon 19, the day I choose the Flowers. In the morning, two assistants of the Venerable Therutat arrive, and take me to an outdoor garden pavilion on the Palace park grounds, which serves as a greenhouse nursery for the Imperial garden staff. It’s basically a fancy hothouse flower exhibit and visiting space for guests to stroll through and admire the amazing varieties of flowering plants.
“Please take your time, Imperial Lady Gwen,” one of the young women tells me, as we walk in the dappled shade of the retractable trellis overhang along narrow paths between greenery. A glorious bouquet of perfume engulfs us—it’s carried on the cool breeze, with subtle notes of musk and earthy complexity. “Examine everything and make your preferred choices from any of the species growing here. If you have any questions, we are here to assist and advise.”
“According to tradition, you must choose three different flowers,” the other assistant says, pointing at rows upon rows of blossoms in a wild riot of colors, growing on the manicured sections directly on the ground at floor level, on upraised terraces, and even suspended in hanging planters. “The primary flower will be the dominant one used in the decorations and the design of the Wedding venue, and all other motifs, including the focal points of decoration on your dress. Take into consideration its color and size, for maximum effect.”
“Okay.” I nod, feeling overwhelmed by the choices before me. I shouldn’t be surprised by any of this, considering I’ve already experienced the horticultural wonders of Flower Day—but for some reason I had no idea of the complexity of flora on Atlantis.
Are most of these native to this planet? How many were brought from Earth originally, introduced into this alien environment, thrived, and evolved over eons? Granted, I was too busy recuperating from Stage Two of the Games during Flower Day to even begin to appreciate this natural beauty. . . . But now my mind goes off on a tangent. . . .
“The second flower selection should complement the first one,” the assistant continues. “It should be smaller and less prominent, but harmonious with the primary choice, in color and shape. Finally, the third flower you choose should be the smallest, but equally compatible with your first and second choices.”
I nod.
“Remember too, these flowers will be arranged in bouquets, woven into garlands, and otherwise incorporated into the natural design of everything on your Wedding Day—the Ceremonies, the Feast, the Amrevet Night, all related festivities—in all of the Palace and many prominent locations around the city.”
“Oh . . .”
Suddenly I’m curious how the flowers might be used on Amrevet Night itself, that special designation for the intimate time when im amrevu and I are joined at last, in the truest sense. . . .
“So, as you can see, you might consider all these things when you choose,” the second young woman says with a subtle, meaningful inclination of her head, even as my mind continues to stray to the other tantalizing topic. “Some varieties of flowers are better suited to being cut and arranged, and will last longer. Some are more plentiful than others. Indeed, some are rare and hard to procure in such large quantities.”
I get the hint. “Please be sure to tell me if my choices end up being ridiculous and difficult to obtain,” I say. “I want to make this as simple for everyone as possible.”
“Oh, but please do not be constrained, My Imperial Lady!” the first young woman says, with a reproachful glance to the other. “Whatever you desire will be procured! Your Bridal preference, regardless of anything, will always be accommodated!”
I smile. “Thank you, but I insist that you tell me if I make a poor choice.”
And so—after about an hour of wandering through the pavilion, examining and sniffing so many blossoms that I can no longer tell their differences from their combined sweet fragrance or remember the associated commentary—I finally make my choice.
My primary flower is white—an elegant sunburst blossom with curving spiral-folded petals and a faint delicate hint of perfume. Its name is dewa and it most closely resembles an Earth rose. They tell me it is reasonably common and easy to procure in large quantities—which seals the deal for me.
My second flower is veined blue and gold—an amazing brilliant hue that closely echoes the sheen and luster of the actual metal. It is odorless, shaped like the Earth orchid, and called li-hereret.
My third flower is tiny, bell-like, and purple—encompassing a whole palette of shades of deep purple to faint lavender, with a light but complex scent reminiscent of sandalwood and vanilla. It’s called iyatet and looks like a hybrid of baby’s breath and lily-of-the-valley.
On Ghost Moon 22, a more difficult selection awaits me—the Bride’s Song. What exactly this entails I’m still not entirely sure, but the Venerable Therutat sends more assistants my way—this time, a pair of experts in music and singing traditions.
“My Imperial Lady,” I am told authoritatively by a middle-aged man who is a renowned professor of music at the Golden Bay Lyceum and makes repertoire recommendations for the Imperial Atlantida opera. “As part of the Wedding Ceremony, you will perform a beautiful solo for your Imperial Bridegroom, even as he performs one for you. Your song must be very brief—an excerpt of a longer classic piece, ideally—and its duration must be no less than sixty heartbeats and no longer than three daydreams.”
“All right,” I say.
“Then, you will perform another song together, a duet, as you light the Wedding Grail. The duet is a traditional piece called the Eoseiara which is performed always by the couple at all nuptials in Atlantida, be they common, noble, or Imperial. Yes, there are many popular recordings available, but that is simply not the best way to learn this important duet. Be not concerned, we will teach it to you. I will then respectfully sing the Bridegroom’s part as we practice, because it is considered inappropriate to sing this piece together with your real Bridegroom before the Ceremony—but practice you must.”
“I see.”
“We will demonstrate the melody and the lyrics for you,” a woman who is an opera diva says, taking over the explanation. “In addition, I will perform for you the third piece that you will need to learn. It is the Amrevet Chant that you will sing in unison with your Bridegroom as part of ritual on the night of your Wedding Day. Again, there are various recordings that can give you an idea of the Chant, but it is best you learn its subtleties in person.”
Amrevet Chant? A ritual? My nervous thoughts take flight. . . .
The opera diva notices my awkward pause, and gives me a wise, calming smile. “Fear not, it will be lovely. I promise, it will only enhance the intimacy of the moment for you. . . . Suc
h is the intent.”
I smile back at her, even as my heart races with terrible wonder.
Then I ask a question, in order to take the conversation in a slightly less uncomfortable direction. “As far as my first piece, the solo—what kind of song am I permitted to choose?”
“Anything that you like, as long as it is appropriate—short and befitting the joyous solemnity of the moment,” the professor replies. “You may certainly select a song from your native Earth. Or if you prefer, we have a rich repertoire of Atlantean music for you.”
“That’s great,” I say, even as a surge of excitement fills me with the possibilities. I start remembering all the glorious music Mom sang, all the melodies she taught us over the years.
And then my heart jumps with a painful jolt.
Mom. . . .
“To make everything as pleasant as possible, we will practice several times in the next few days, until you are confident in your performance,” the opera diva says.
“How long do I have to decide on the song?” I ask.
“Not too long, for your own ease of mind,” she says. “We recommend you take tonight to begin thinking, and let us know your final choice in the next three days. Until you do, we will begin today by learning the Eoseiara. Now—you should know that you’ll be accompanied by traditional musical instruments as you sing the duet, so you will need to become comfortable with the melody first, then the timing. . . .”
While the opera diva continues to explain to me the details of today’s lesson, the music professor scrolls through his digital tablet database to present me with audio samples to inspire my own choices for later that evening when I am on my own.
We get to work.
The very next morning, Ghost Moon 23—even as my thoughts are still going wild, and I’m overwhelmed with the possibilities for my Bridal Song selection—I get to see a whole retinue of people related to the planning of the Wedding. The Venerable Therutat sends her primary assistant Lady Isulat with meticulous new details of scheduling, several junior priestesses with various expertise, and three high-end seamstresses. At the same time, Consul Denu arrives with a fashion designer and his assistants, an array of fabrics, and another exclusive tailor and seamstress, all of whom serve the highest nobility and the Imperial Family.
Here I must add: I’ve had appointments with Consul Denu regularly over these several weeks, in regard to memorizing the Imperial Consort Protocol. Harking back to the days of serving as my Protocol Instructor during our journey to Atlantis, the good Consul has resumed his expert instruction in Imperial graces and diplomacy, except our circumstances and power dynamic are now completely switched and taken to a different level.
During my time on ICS-2 with the Fleet, I was a humble pupil who needed to be taught the basics—correct manners and staff protocol for interacting with the Imperial Family and Atlantean nobility in general—for the sake of my job as an Earth Aide to the Command Pilot who happened to be the Imperial Crown Prince. And now that I’ve been elevated to the status of future Imperial Kassiopei myself, the Consul is my humble servant in teaching me what I must do and how I must behave for the rest of my life.
Holy crap. . . . Let me repeat that, for the rest of my life.
This same realization comes to haunt me every now and then: the burden of impossible responsibility and the utter alienation of royalty and everything that goes with it.
This time, I am taught so many prosaic details of Imperial behavior that I am put in awe—from eating protocol to bathroom visitation and servant interactions; from micro-nuances of Court receptions and treatment of foreign dignitaries to specific behavior in public places; from style of dress and correct appearance, to tone of speech and vocal inflections. It’s frankly too much. But I’m good at studying, so I resort to the brute-force method of memorizing everything for now and worrying about it later.
“The Imperial Consort must reflect only the good graces of the Imperial Kassiopei Dynasty in her very existence. She is the Imperator’s balance and foil, his bright companion, partner, and confidante,” Consul Denu tells me. “She is the other force on the Throne, and sometimes she is the main anchor who keeps the power contained and focused where it must remain, in order to truly serve the nation and the people. She is the secret strength, and sometimes she must be the better one of the two.”
“I understand,” I say seriously, thinking at once of Devora Kassiopei.
“My dear Imperial Lady Gwen, I’m entirely confident that you do.” The Consul smiles at me. “It is clear that only the routine details must be imparted to you—not the grand philosophy and ethics for which you seem to have a natural instinct.”
And then, such as this morning, we forgo the Protocol lesson in order to deal with the urgent topic of my Wedding Dress.
Consul Denu is a known trendsetter and Court fashion expert, and his sometimes-flamboyant perfectionism when it comes to the fine details of dress, hairstyles, and personal grooming, has earned him the reputation of being difficult to please. Fortunately, it is precisely the kind of thing that is required right now to help me make my spectacular fashion choice.
The Venerable Therutat has coordinated with Consul Denu in this. As we all sit down in the large sunlit reception chamber on my side of the Crown Prince’s Imperial Quarters, it is all explained to me.
“The Imperial Wedding Dress is a living symbol of the Bride as she joins the Kassiopei Dynasty,” Consul Denu begins, handing me his digital tablet with images of previous Imperial Brides in their Wedding outfits, going back several hundred years. Their beauty is so extravagant and breathtaking that it’s somewhat terrifying. “The color of the dress is of foremost importance. In the general wedding tradition of Atlantida, an ordinary bride wears a dress in the color of her Quadrant affiliation or her personal preference, or her future husband’s and his family’s preference—underneath a veil of gold.”
“Okay.” I nod. “So, there is no traditional wedding dress color here?”
“Not for the dress, only for the bridal veil—which must be gold,” the fashion designer says in a definitive tone of voice. He is a small, impeccably dressed man in dark colors, with elegant manicured fingers and heavy rings to rival Consul Denu.
“Oh, great,” I say.
“The color of the dress for the Imperial Bride is a different matter,” the Consul continues. “The dress can only be one of the following four choices—the current Imperator’s Court Colors, the Crown Prince’s future Court Colors, her own great foreign Family’s colors, or gold.”
My lips part. “So—no white?” I ask with a small twinge of sadness. Not even sure where that’s coming from, since I’ve never before given any importance to the color of my own imaginary future wedding dress or given it much thought.
They all glance at each other. Then one of the priestesses says humbly, “Not unless you are the daughter of a foreign royal house and their color happens to be white.”
I am the daughter of Earth, a sudden thought comes. My “House” is as great as a planet and all the people who fill it . . . and white is the Wedding color of choice in so many of Earth’s cultures, including my own. . . .
Should I express any of this out loud?
I should.
And I do.
When I’m done, there is brief silence. Consul Denu and the others appear to be deep in thought, considering the notion of Earth being my “great foreign House.”
And then one of them, a full-figured older woman seamstress who has been sent by Therutat, speaks up. “My Imperial Lady Gwen, I believe I have a much easier solution for you.”
As she proceeds to explain, the others present begin to nod in agreement, while my eyes widen with curiosity, excitement, and then absolute joy.
“Yes!” I exclaim.
“Now that’s settled, let us go on to the actual design and shape of your dress,” Consul Denu says.
I smile with excitement, and we get to it.
Chapter 49
Afte
r a painstaking session of discussing every aspect of my Wedding Dress design and examining fabrics, I am measured once again (despite having undergone that annoyance multiple times already) and visually evaluated by the designer and all the seamstresses. Apparently, the seamstress tasks are highly specialized—bodice, waist, sleeves, skirt, collar, veil, layers, trim and decoration—so they must each focus on those parts of me for which they will be responsible.
“Will you be using a 3D printer for any of this?” I ask at one point.
I am met by horrified stares from everyone, and one of the priestesses makes an amuletic hand sign that I’m told is done to avert the evil eye.
“Oh no, my dear Imperial Lady,” Consul Denu explains tactfully. “The Dress of the Imperial Bride is a one-of-a-kind work of art created manually by the most skilled artisans—to be worn once and then treasured in memory by future generations. And as such it is not to be fashioned by any other means.”
“Everything must be done by hand,” a young priestess adds. “Prayers must be spoken and blessings must be given all throughout the process.”
“And when we put it all together, it will be sung by all of us into being,” a seamstress adds. “Then it will shine gloriously upon you.”
My lips part in a sudden realization of wonder.
They don’t merely sew the dress, they literally fuse it together by means of sound tech. . . .
Which means that at least parts of it will be orichalcum. Why am I not surprised?
“The Dress will be finished by morning of Red Amrevet 6, and you will honor us with your presence for the Final Fitting,” the tailor informs me with a perfect courtly bow, just before they depart. “Any alterations or improvements will be undertaken then, according to your wishes.”
I thank everyone, ready to be left alone so that I can return to mulling over my choice of Song.
With perfect bows and curtseys to me, Consul Denu, the fashion designer and his assistants, the exclusive tailor, and seamstress, leave the room.
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