CHAPTER SIXTEEN
U p the steps they flew . Rand called for an immediate audience with Cyprian. By more than one alarmed servant, he was informed that his eminence had taken to bed with an unsightly stomach discomfort. At this information, he brandished his sword, saying he could make unsightly work of their faces if his message was not delivered. This threat sent servants scattering, already begging to be forgiven for the intrusion.
In their wake, he paced. She watched the austere lines of his expression fluctuate between imperiousness and worry. So much he had been trained for, the unlikely and improbable. Yet who trains for the impossible?
“What do you think he’ll say?” she asked.
He scoffed. “I can’t imagine.”
“I hope he blames me.”
“Why?”
“It’s my fault.”
“There is no blame here. It’s happened.”
“Still,” she continued, watching how he stared down the long halls, “I wish I could take some of the responsibility.”
“I don’t.”
“I deserve it.”
“Rid yourself of that narrative. It happened and we move on. There are more lives at stake here than ours.”
“You see how selfish I am, not to think of that?”
At this, a ghost of a smile haunted his lips. “Stop that. How can I defend my bride if she will not defend herself?”
The desire to reply with wit tugged at her tongue but she could not think of a clever rejoinder. Instead, she snorted.
Up from one of the long halls, a servant scurried with the audacity to look annoyed. This must be one of his majesty’s personal attendants. Servants closest to their master were always the most insufferable.
Winded, the overweight domestic stated that their audience had been granted but the emperor would remain behind his privacy screen in case there was need for “royal evacuation.”
“You have luck with him, Captain. He sees you with the taste of vomit in his mouth and the aroma of bodily solids in his nostrils. I say it’s most ungracious of you to demand audience.”
“Equally as ungracious as you speak now to me and my intended. As ungracious as not showing deference to both of us. You grow lax, Bastian.”
If the man’s eyes could have popped from his head, they would have. The manservant was suddenly seized with a coughing fit and his complexion splotched with red and unhealthy grays.
“Bow,” Rand barked.
Bastian hinged at the hips and gestured they follow, his eyes upon the floor. Petra felt herself begin to genuflect in response, but Rand steeled his arm.
Following the servant closely, the same flickering lights and sounds that filled the palace, the golden cages housing rabbits with three ears, and foxes whose coats were so white they appeared silver, did not strike her so forcibly now. She had seen and been touched by wonders far beyond these. Wounded.
Her Ensign itched with scabbing. She wondered if Rand’s had stopped bleeding.
Once or twice, their path doubled back, though Rand did not seem to find that strange. Of course, there were intentional dead ends and deceptive circular vestibules in the palace to confuse and misdirect invaders. There might be similar in Rand’s own home she knew nothing of.
How much I do not know of this life. How much I must learn.
Finally, after an abrupt turn and egress through a door hidden in the pattern of a mosaic, they arrived at the innermost chamber of emperor Cyprian. A privacy screen of densely patterned lace, stretched between gold and wooden frames, extended the horizontal length of the room. Intentionally difficult to see through, all Petra could make out was the shape of an upright body upon a divan four times the size of the body.
She knelt. Rand stooped. Both pressed the backs of their hands to their foreheads and touched their palms on the floor. Decorum might dictate they remain thus, until the emperor told them to rise, given the imposition of their presence.
And it was several minutes before a thickened voice spoke.
“Rise. Be quick.”
Assisting her, Rand did as beckoned, expelling a long exhale before he spoke.
“My sovereign emperor, an unthinkable thing has happened. The Antediluvian stone was awakened. It has bonded me to this woman.”
Immediate phlegmy coughing followed. Petra saw the shadowy figure rock back and forth.
“W-what? How-how in all eternity—”
“It’s done, Sire. I can show you the Ensign of Sacrifice. It bleeds still. I will not turn from my duties as Shivalry. Nor will I remain with a woman unwed. I shall lead the march to Mynydd, but she must come, lest I die. I will break my vow of celibacy. The council has to bear witness, Sire.”
More coughing, a viscous retch, and an effusion of foul odors erupted. Cyprian stumbled off the bed, instantly assisted by the same servant who had led them. From behind the screen, he appeared. His face was blanched, and he smelled of urine.
Before the emperor could speak, Rand lifted the hem of his shirt. Fresh blood oozed over blood already dried, and the waistband of his pants was soaked. Petra averted her eyes; it hurt to look.
“Damnation,” Cyprian whispered. “I never thought I should see it in my lifetime.”
“It should have remained in the history of Vale.”
“How did this happen?”
Petra bowed and stepped forward, but Rand pulled her back and placed his hand over her mouth.
“It cannot be undone. Does it matter how it came to be?”
Cyprian looked at her, dried saliva on his lips, leaning heavily on the servant’s shoulder.
“To force a Shivalry captain from his vows is punishable by death but we should have to kill him before he allowed any harm to come to you.”
She shrugged off Rand and moved to her knees. “I am prepared to suffer with him and assist him any way I can. I will not let him endure this alone! He does not say that it was my fault, but it was, and I will not turn aside from my mistakes.”
“Brave little mouse.”
***
T HE COUNCIL WAS CALLED . Members were pulled from the comfort of their rooms and the other captains of Shivalry arrived in full ceremonial dress. Within two hours, the main throne room of the palace was full. A huge, curved instrument that took three men to carry, was brought forth. The herald trained to play blew and all of the Cloistered City heard the blare, declaring a rare, formal, closed council.
Outside the palace, ears would be primed for tidbits of information.
Petra felt the horn’s droning, rumbling sound in her bones. She shuddered and Rand moved to stand behind her, as if his body could deaden the echo in her skull.
Confused, squelched faces of councilmen filed forward and knelt, doing their utmost not to crane their necks in search of the emergency. The four captains immediately looked at Rand, their expressions fierce. They saw how he stood behind a woman of no consequence.
Cyprian was the last to arrive. Bathed in ice water to settle his insides, he was dressed lightly and flanked by two servants with feather fans. Others wheeled him out in a rolling chair. He was then carried up the ten steps to the throne’s platform and established on his rightful seat.
All this, because of me. I meant to come here quietly and seek an answer that meant nothing to no one except my mother and me. Yet, I have forced the very hand of the emperor.
At the flick of Cyprian’s wrist, silence dropped over an array of fidgeting, mumbling bodies. One dared not blink or breathe too heavily, lest the baited quiet demanded by the ruler of the country be disturbed. Council members sat back on their heels; hands folded in their laps. Shivalry captains continued to stand but moved their feet together.
Petra was not aware she swayed, unsteady on her legs, until Rand put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
Cyprian spoke. He stated the unthinkable situation simply and Petra saw not the ruler who thrust Bessarabiah’s offer back in their face, nor the man sick from his own bodily fluids. Indeed, this was the sovereign of Vale. No elaboration followed his statements. He spoke as if he held every tongue by a string that only he had the privilege to pull. To shocked expressions, he continued as if he rattled off the itinerary of a long day at court.
Of course, the emperor’s command did not stop the looks drilled into her. She and Rand stood at the bottom of the ten steps, facing the sea of judging bodies. Keenly, she felt the anger and disgust of all she stood before. Their damning ruling pushed down hard upon her, and it was difficult to keep Rand’s advice in the front of her mind.
She must not lower her gaze. She must not drop her chin in deference. No longer was she the feinting servant. Now, she was a betrothed of Shivalry.
Continuing to speak, the emperor stated that the outcome of this unfortunate event must be witnessed by all. The monks and priests were being readied to perform a ceremony he hoped would never happen again. While they waited, his most trusted advisors were permitted to voice and air their concerns.
“But you will speak to me,” Rand stated, barely before Cyprian finished talking. “My intended will not be forced to defend herself.”
“Does she know her luck,” the first captain of Shivalry asked, “to touch the Antediluvian and live?”
Rand did not answer. The statement caused a low hum of conversation to buzz through the conclave. The councilman to nearly beat her if Rand had not stepped in and claimed her as his courier tottered to his feet.
“How do we know she is human? Mermaids can shapeshift. Snakes are devious. Is her blood red? She has been a siren to you from the start.”
“Cause her to bleed,” Rand snapped. “And see how quickly your own blood spills.”
From farther back in the room, Larkin shouted. “It’s an ill omen! That such a thing should happen when you are set to march out—your loyalty is split now! What of the safety of our men? The emperor is gracious to you because of his goodness but this bodes harm for our country!”
Rand pulled her behind himself. To the hilt of his sword, his hand flew and the daylight illuminating the space, the torches and lanterns, too, guttered. Suddenly, his voice took on an unearthly echo and resounded off the walls.
“ You dare accuse? Better you had never been born! All of this is your fault. If you had not lusted for Lady Melisende then her brother would never have been raped by you, taken from behind, while Melisende forced him from the front. The both of you made a mockery of Sacred and Sacrifice! His only escape was to kill himself!”
The resonance of his voice pushed outward on the walls.
In the shuttering light, the fifth Shivalry captain ran forward. Tripping and stumbling over the mass of panicking bodies, he called Rand.
“Captain! Captain! Steel yourself.” In front of him, the man dropped to one knee. “I will come with on this march. Your bride will be respected, and the loyalty of our men will not be questioned. You have done no wrong.”
“Rand,” Petra whispered.
His grip on the sword loosened. The roar of the wind groaned and died down, restoring light to the hall. Then, with ferocity, he pulled her to his side.
“Behold!” the emperor shouted. “This is why Rand Tsenturian and his bride will be treated with only honor and respect. You have seen of glimpse of it, now. The dark power of a Sacrifice when his Sacred is threatened. Bring forth the monks and priests! Fetch a stole for her to wear! They shall be wed. He has asked not to dwell with this woman outside of matrimony, determined to live righteously.”
Everything happened so fast.
Men of faith, wearing heavy garments that trailed behind them, their heads shaved save for a small, square patch at the vertex, moved into the hall. Some walked with their hands folded across their chests. Some walked with their fingers laced and their arms slack. It was clear among the assembly who respected these of faith and those who believed it was fairytales for adults. Some bowed their heads; others rolled their eyes.
Seven female servants scurried towards Petra. One held a large basin of hot, perfumed water. Two clutched polished, round jade stones. Two held washcloths, and two more carried a roll of white silk trimmed in red.
Vigorously, Petra’s hands and face were scrubbed, while her neck and legs were rubbed with the stones. One of the women saturated her hands with lemongrass oil from a small vial around her neck and combed the fragrance through Petra’s hair. The wedding stole was long and had to be wrapped twice around her waist and then tucked over her shoulders. Meanwhile, a servant took three long silver pins and coiled Petra’s hair atop her head. A virgin bride’s slippers appeared from somewhere, pale blue for her inexperience, and were worked onto her feet, a little snug.
The seven women, the lowest customary number for a bride to have attending her, fluttered and swarmed to make her presentable. From the corner of her eye, Petra saw how Rand had also been pulled aside.
Upon a smooth jasper rock slab, he was presented with two silver cuffs. Custom dictated these would be engraved but there was no time. The only decoration that would be given was the imprint of the emperor’s seal on the thick leather strap that fastened the cuff around the wrist. She saw the fifth Shivalry captain bring him a cape of solid black on one side and white on the other. He affixed it around Rand’s neck and shoulders with the white facing out.
When the women stepped back from her, Petra saw that all the bodies in the hall now stood, and the religious were in two parallel lines. They began to hum, and Rand stepped beside her. With slow, deliberate motions of his hand, the high priest, garbed with a green stole, guided the wordless chanting in lilting, low tones.
Her thoughts swam.
Her skin throbbed from the rigorous scrubbing and her scalp was tender from hasty styling. Her feet hurt and her throat was dry but, nevertheless, none of this felt real. Beside her stood a handsome stoic man. His life was now fused to hers and she felt the presence and pressure of him in her chest. Before all these witnesses and Eternity, he was hers and the knowledge was heady and frightening.
No one had ever belonged to her. Nor had she ever belonged to another.
He slid the cuff over her hand, and she did the same to his. A lone tear trickled from his eye, and it pulled weeping from her own.
The chanting grew louder, and the priest now spoke over his brethren. The captains of Shivalry drew their swords and pointed Heavenward. A blacksmith, with a burning rod, came forward and the emperor lifted his right hand.
Rand raised her wrist first. A wet cloth was shoved between her skin and the leather. There was steam and hissing from the hot pole before she lifted Rand’s arm. Onto the straps, Cyprian pressed his ring before ice water was poured to set the imprint.
Now the chanting filled the entire hall. Rand took the generous length of fabric from his robe and swept it around her. The white silk shrouded them both, innocent to this new life.
The monks’ intonations grew sonorous.
With care, Rand led her forward and the sea of witnesses parted before them. His body was warm and his grip around her strong. She wouldn’t fail his strength—his life as a soldier. Her small existence had ransacked his. She would not let their sudden future be ruined.
Petra squared her shoulders. The harmonies of the monks swelled like flocks of birds riding updrafts in the sky. It was glorious and terrifying. Her knees were weak, but her steps were assured.
They were halfway through the hall where a rickshaw waited that would drive them down the main road, trailed by flute players so all might see and know.
Under the praising accords, she heard a cough and saw a wad of phlegm splat on the ground before them. Councilman Percival, at the front of the crowd, wiped his mouth.
Rand lost no step. His sword flew from its scabbard and swung sideways, like a lightning bolt. The councilman roared in pain and crumbled to the floor in his own blood, cloven at the knees.