village. If the prince had to meet each individual one, it would indeed take quite some time to winnow through them.
And all for a Ceremony that had produced no fruit in over a thousand years.
These people were fools. To put such trust and hope in a ceremony with so little results. The cords of Lady Mila’s dress cut into her palms, and Seri bit back her sigh of irritation. It was going to be a very, very long night, she thought as the crowd surged forward once more, cycling a fresh crop of eager ladies before the prince.
Minutes dragged past as Seri and Lady Mila waited in place for their turn. At the back of the room, over the slow passage of time, they wound their way to the front of the hall. Hours had passed, Seri was certain. Lady Mila’s jaunty feathers were starting to droop, and even her flimsy costume was starting to stick to her moist skin.
And still nothing happened. The prince greeted each woman with the same bored yet polite expression and the priests chanted, all in vain. Seri began to have a hint of sympathy for the prince.
Time wore on slowly, and she began to think of all the things she could do with her princely sum of three dru . There was the new cow, but if she sweet-talked Rilen, he’d let her bring it to his farm and impregnate it. Then they’d have a calf as well as fresh milk, all within a year’s time. She’d have to buy some grain, but maybe if Josdi made a few more of her charming pillows, they could forge ahead with that. Maybe she’d spare a couple of pence and buy some pretty fabric for her handfasting with Rilen. Something in green, to match her eyes—
The cords in her hand jerked and Seri looked up to see that the last woman before them had exited the central area and now Lady Mila was making her grand entrance. Her breath caught in her throat—so close to being done!
Hands spread like she had been taught, Seri matched her steps to Lady Mila’s gliding ones, and she carried the excessive train of skirts out with aplomb to the center of the floor. Prince Graeme’s eyes focused in on her, his eyes flicking to Seri’s savage appearance and then back to the lady before him. He gave her a curt nod, the same as all the others.
Lady Mila stood before the prince. She touched her hand to her forehead and then sank down into a deep curtsy. Behind her, hands entangled in the noblewoman’s skirts, Seri hesitated. Everyone was staring at her with expectant eyes, waiting to see if she’d bow… or hoping that she wouldn’t so she’d be punished.
Biting her lip, Seri closed her eyes and bent her head, the closest approximation to deference that she could give without blasphemy.
With her head bent, she was unable to see the priests as they raised their arms, but she knew the ceremony had begun when their liquid chanting reached her ears. The words flowed together in the old language, the language that all had shared long before the kingdoms had sundered and there had been Vidari or Athoni. She kept her head bent and her figure relaxed in repose, wondering how long it she would have to wait for Lady Mila to get up and move.
Moments passed and Seri began to grow nervous. There was no familiar tug on the painful cords in her hands to let her know that it was time to get up. Was she in trouble because she had not bowed? Were the guards approaching even now to come and take her away? Was this what Mila had planned, knowing full well that Seri wouldn’t bow?
A voice gasped to the side of her and then a low murmur began in the room. Curious, Seri opened her eyes and looked up.
A white glow of light had descended on the center of the floor, and Lady Mila looked up with a radiant face. The two priests continued to chant in the fluid language, their voices no longer bored, but exultant. Whispers flew around the room as the prince stood and stepped down from the dais, approaching the two of them.
A tiny, evil part of Seri was disappointed. As the prince’s chosen bride—the first in a
And all for a Ceremony that had produced no fruit in over a thousand years.
These people were fools. To put such trust and hope in a ceremony with so little results. The cords of Lady Mila’s dress cut into her palms, and Seri bit back her sigh of irritation. It was going to be a very, very long night, she thought as the crowd surged forward once more, cycling a fresh crop of eager ladies before the prince.
Minutes dragged past as Seri and Lady Mila waited in place for their turn. At the back of the room, over the slow passage of time, they wound their way to the front of the hall. Hours had passed, Seri was certain. Lady Mila’s jaunty feathers were starting to droop, and even her flimsy costume was starting to stick to her moist skin.
And still nothing happened. The prince greeted each woman with the same bored yet polite expression and the priests chanted, all in vain. Seri began to have a hint of sympathy for the prince.
Time wore on slowly, and she began to think of all the things she could do with her princely sum of three dru . There was the new cow, but if she sweet-talked Rilen, he’d let her bring it to his farm and impregnate it. Then they’d have a calf as well as fresh milk, all within a year’s time. She’d have to buy some grain, but maybe if Josdi made a few more of her charming pillows, they could forge ahead with that. Maybe she’d spare a couple of pence and buy some pretty fabric for her handfasting with Rilen. Something in green, to match her eyes—
The cords in her hand jerked and Seri looked up to see that the last woman before them had exited the central area and now Lady Mila was making her grand entrance. Her breath caught in her throat—so close to being done!
Hands spread like she had been taught, Seri matched her steps to Lady Mila’s gliding ones, and she carried the excessive train of skirts out with aplomb to the center of the floor. Prince Graeme’s eyes focused in on her, his eyes flicking to Seri’s savage appearance and then back to the lady before him. He gave her a curt nod, the same as all the others.
Lady Mila stood before the prince. She touched her hand to her forehead and then sank down into a deep curtsy. Behind her, hands entangled in the noblewoman’s skirts, Seri hesitated. Everyone was staring at her with expectant eyes, waiting to see if she’d bow… or hoping that she wouldn’t so she’d be punished.
Biting her lip, Seri closed her eyes and bent her head, the closest approximation to deference that she could give without blasphemy.
With her head bent, she was unable to see the priests as they raised their arms, but she knew the ceremony had begun when their liquid chanting reached her ears. The words flowed together in the old language, the language that all had shared long before the kingdoms had sundered and there had been Vidari or Athoni. She kept her head bent and her figure relaxed in repose, wondering how long it she would have to wait for Lady Mila to get up and move.
Moments passed and Seri began to grow nervous. There was no familiar tug on the painful cords in her hands to let her know that it was time to get up. Was she in trouble because she had not bowed? Were the guards approaching even now to come and take her away? Was this what Mila had planned, knowing full well that Seri wouldn’t bow?
A voice gasped to the side of her and then a low murmur began in the room. Curious, Seri opened her eyes and looked up.
A white glow of light had descended on the center of the floor, and Lady Mila looked up with a radiant face. The two priests continued to chant in the fluid language, their voices no longer bored, but exultant. Whispers flew around the room as the prince stood and stepped down from the dais, approaching the two of them.
A tiny, evil part of Seri was disappointed. As the prince’s chosen bride—the first in a
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