Chapter 64 #2
I shook my head, staring at the back of the room. The Bard walked in from the hall, trailed by his wife and the Clark.
At his appearance, another group of conjurers slipped out.
“You seem to be losing guests,” Jacob said as the Bard walked past.
I frowned at the three conjurers on the ground. They were wearing illusion. I hadn’t thought anything of it. Most conjurers here were wearing at least minor illusion. Now that they were dead, the knots were slipping free.
As the Bard, his wife, and the Clark approached, the bodies on the floor shifted to their original forms. Two Bards and a Clark. Cousins I recognized from the games.
I quickly looked at Luvic. He stared back, his expression flat.
“Let’s try that again,” the Bard said. He twisted his hand and conjured a cup filled with wine. “We can’t trust the wine here to be free of poison. So . . . we do what we must.”
He drank, his mouth twisting with disgust, then handed the cup around. After the principals, the Bard’s wife drank, then Primus, then he handed the cup to me.
“We all drink. As witnesses to the pact.”
I nodded and took a quick swallow.
The wine was bitter and chalky. It tasted like tart grapes crushed in limestone, fermented too long. Yet because it was conjured drink, it was also delicious. It filled me with a warm, fuzzy glow that made me want to tip back the cup and swallow the rest of the ambrosial liquid.
I vibrated with greedy thirst, my mouth watering and puckering for more.
Primus watched me with a knowing gaze.
I forced myself to hand the cup to Last.
She wrinkled her nose and swallowed, then she thrust the cup to Luvic. He drank the last of the wine, smiling the whole while.
Once we were done drinking, there were only ten conjurers besides Jacob left in the hall.
Primus looked over the empty seats and chuckled. Last’s cheeks glowed red from the wine, and her black eyes sparkled.
“Now, the rings,” the Clark said, gesturing to the pillar.
It was eerie, the way they continued with the wedding ceremony, ignoring the bodies of their cousins.
The Clark picked up the rings and pressed them into both Last and Luvic’s hands. “With these rings,” he said, “you pledge yourself to each other. You promise to combine your essence and bring new life to your line. You promise to remain true.”
Luvic swallowed, and with that small movement, my stomach dropped. I could only imagine all the words he was swallowing; all the things he was holding back.
“With this ring,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rattle, “I pledge myself to you.”
Slowly, he slipped the ring over Last’s thin, pale finger.
As the ring settled at the base of her finger, Luvic shuddered imperceptibly. At the tremor, Last looked up and gave him a blinding, joyful smile.
“With this ring,” she said, her voice as cold and eerie as the catacombs, “I pledge myself to you.”
Luvic held his breath as she slipped the ring over his finger. His shoulders were tight, and he didn’t move as the black ring settled around him.
Where were Celia and Ragnor?
Why weren’t they here?
“You have pledged yourselves,” the Bard intoned, “and now, you will bind yourselves together for the rest of your lives. Repeat after me. Conjure your troth.”
I leaned forward. I’d never been to a conjurer wedding before.
I’d heard about them, of course. Rou loved to tell about how conjurer brides and grooms created an illusion of two threads tying together in an infinity knot.
She said, supposedly, the knot was attached to their soul and sprouted from whatever it was that powered their illusions.
No conjurer could break a wedding promise.
Like the Bard said, they were united for life, whether they wanted to be or not.
Rou claimed it had begun thousands of years ago, when too many conjurers were being murdered right after their weddings.
They often came from rival families and were entering a contract marriage.
There was no love and a whole lot of hate.
The binding left conjurers less inclined to murder and more inclined to mutual loathing with procreation on the side.
Thousands of years later, the tradition remained, although brides and grooms married for love more often now than in the past.
Rou liked the tradition. She thought it was both pragmatic and romantic.
I’d never thought one way or another about it. The binding didn’t matter to me.
But now?
My breath was short as the Bard tied Luvic and Last’s right hands together with a length of conjured air.
“Repeat your vows,” he said. “I, Luvic Gregory Bard, bind myself to Last Clark. My illusion will flow through her always, and she through me. I bind myself.”
Luvic’s chest rose quickly, his breath coming out faster than I’d ever heard it. There was a small chirp from his pocket, and then he said in a quiet rush, “I, Luvic Gregory Bard, bind myself to Last Clark. My illusion will flow through her always, and she through me. I bind myself.”
He twisted his right hand, and a shimmery ribbon of golden water rose over his fingers, hovering in the air.
I’d never seen anything like it. It was beautiful, like the soft, fragile edges of a dove’s wings.
There were knots, but not any I’d seen before.
They weren’t in any book or in any picture.
There was no beginning to it, and no end.
In fact, the illusion sank into Luvic’s left hand and glided up his arm to his heart.
Was this . . . was this the source of all his conjuring?
The Bard had already prompted Last to say her vows.
She smiled, staring greedily at Luvic’s illusion.
“I, Last Clark,” she began, “bind myself to Luvic Gregory Bard. My illusion will flow through him always, and he through me. I bind myself.”
I shivered, a cold ice creeping over me.
Last twisted her hand. A black, thorny rope, dripping with venom, hovered over her hand. It twined into her palm and twisted over her arm until the thorns pierced her chest. It shuddered and writhed, twisting toward Luvic’s fragile golden ribbon.
“If anyone denies this binding,” the Bard said, “speak now, or die a thousand deaths if you later come between a couple rightfully bound.”
There was a small, frantic chirping from Luvic’s pocket. The cricket. Everyone ignored it except Last, whose mouth curled into a happy smile.
The Bard looked over the wedding hall, searching for any protest. Almost all the conjurers had slipped away.
There was only Jacob now, near the back.
He was fidgeting, tapping his hand against his right thigh.
There was Thirteen, the Clark body, seated by himself.
And there were two old men, Clark cousins, seated near the front.
Everyone else had gone.
The Bard smiled. “No one denies this binding. You may now bind your troth.”
One of the old men—the ancient, stooped Clark who looked like an old crane searching for a bug—stood and pointed to the Bard.
“You’ll bind them,” he said, his voice rheumy and shaking, “over my dead body.”
Last whipped around, her binding illusion vanishing. “Then you’ll just have to die, won’t you?”
“Smiths!” the Bard snarled.
But it wasn’t.
I grinned. They’d come.
The old man twisted his hand, heaving a giant flaming meteor across the hall.
The wedding arch exploded.