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Authors: Robert V S Redick
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of Arqual enters us, and remains. Blessings on your courage, Thasha Isiq! Blessings on our prince! Blessings on Mighty Arqual and the Holy Mzithrin, and all lands between! Blessings on the Great Peace to come!”
The crowd erupted. All that had been said until this moment left them confused, but they knew what peace was, and their cry was a surging roar of hope and excitement and remembered loss. Beaming, King Oshiram looked at his new ambassador. Smile, Isiq! One would think you were at an execution, you queer old fellow .
“But the time to drink is still a moment off,” shouted the red-robed cleric, over the lasting cheers. “Enter now, Thasha of Arqual, and be wed.”
4
A Sacrifice
7 Teala 941
Seven thousand candles lit the shrine’s interior: green candles with a sharp camphor scent. The place was smaller than Pazel had imagined. When the king’s retinue, the foreign royals and dignitaries and Templar monks were all seated on the little stools brought in for the occasion, and the Mzithrinis (who considered chairs unnecessary, but not unholy) were seated cross-legged on the floor, there was scarcely room for the wedding party itself.
But squeeze in they did. Thasha and the prince stood on a granite dais; their families and closest friends stood below them in a semicircle. All save Pazel: as the holder of the Blessing-Band he merited a place on the dais, where he could tie the ribbon to Thasha’s arm at the required moment.
One way or another, of course, that moment would never arrive.
The last of the invited guests were still filing in past the Father, who glared like a fury, now and then making threatening bobs with his scepter. The guests, all cultured and important people, were not so awed by the man as the great throng outside. Some hurried past him with a shudder. A few rolled their eyes.
Last of all came Arunis. Pazel held his breath. The sorcerer looked exactly like what they had all once taken him for—a thickset merchant, rich and rather tasteless, dressed in dark robes as expensive as they were neglected. He wore a little self-mocking smile and kept his pudgy hands folded before him like a schoolboy. Less than a day had passed since those hands had worked spells of murder aboard the Chathrand .
“Kela-we ghöthal! Stop!”
The Father brought his scepter down like a nightstick, square against the mage’s chest. Arunis halted, blinking at him. Pazel saw Thasha glance up in fear. The Father was chanting in a rage: Pazel heard something about a devil’s chain and a Pit of Woe. Aya Rin , he thought helplessly, this can’t be happening .
Every eye in the shrine focused on the two men. Arunis smiled timidly, like an obliging citizen at a military checkpoint. He made a wobble with his head, as folk of Opalt do when they wish to show either goodwill or confusion, or both. The Father answered with a growl.
Arunis dropped his head. He shrugged, his lower lip trembling, and even those who knew better saw him for an instant as a good soul, one used to being last in line, one who had never dreamed he would be lucky enough to witness history in the making but who even now would give it up rather than cause any trouble. He turned to go. But as he did so he glanced once more at the Father.
Their gazes locked. Arunis’ cold eyes glittered. Then quite suddenly the Father’s ferocious glare went dull. Like an automaton he took the scepter from Arunis’ chest and stepped back, waving him through the arch. Smiling, the mage scurried inside.
Pazel closed his eyes. If he had been turned away! Oh, Thasha! We thought of everything but that!
He was so relieved that he barely noticed the ceremony itself—the monks’ recitation of the Ninety Rules, the song of the Tree of Heaven, some baffling Simjan custom involving an exchange of horsehair dolls. But he noticed other things. Prince Falmurqat was smiling genuinely at Thasha—the poor dupe. And the Father, who had come forward into the shrine, seemed
The crowd erupted. All that had been said until this moment left them confused, but they knew what peace was, and their cry was a surging roar of hope and excitement and remembered loss. Beaming, King Oshiram looked at his new ambassador. Smile, Isiq! One would think you were at an execution, you queer old fellow .
“But the time to drink is still a moment off,” shouted the red-robed cleric, over the lasting cheers. “Enter now, Thasha of Arqual, and be wed.”
4
A Sacrifice
7 Teala 941
Seven thousand candles lit the shrine’s interior: green candles with a sharp camphor scent. The place was smaller than Pazel had imagined. When the king’s retinue, the foreign royals and dignitaries and Templar monks were all seated on the little stools brought in for the occasion, and the Mzithrinis (who considered chairs unnecessary, but not unholy) were seated cross-legged on the floor, there was scarcely room for the wedding party itself.
But squeeze in they did. Thasha and the prince stood on a granite dais; their families and closest friends stood below them in a semicircle. All save Pazel: as the holder of the Blessing-Band he merited a place on the dais, where he could tie the ribbon to Thasha’s arm at the required moment.
One way or another, of course, that moment would never arrive.
The last of the invited guests were still filing in past the Father, who glared like a fury, now and then making threatening bobs with his scepter. The guests, all cultured and important people, were not so awed by the man as the great throng outside. Some hurried past him with a shudder. A few rolled their eyes.
Last of all came Arunis. Pazel held his breath. The sorcerer looked exactly like what they had all once taken him for—a thickset merchant, rich and rather tasteless, dressed in dark robes as expensive as they were neglected. He wore a little self-mocking smile and kept his pudgy hands folded before him like a schoolboy. Less than a day had passed since those hands had worked spells of murder aboard the Chathrand .
“Kela-we ghöthal! Stop!”
The Father brought his scepter down like a nightstick, square against the mage’s chest. Arunis halted, blinking at him. Pazel saw Thasha glance up in fear. The Father was chanting in a rage: Pazel heard something about a devil’s chain and a Pit of Woe. Aya Rin , he thought helplessly, this can’t be happening .
Every eye in the shrine focused on the two men. Arunis smiled timidly, like an obliging citizen at a military checkpoint. He made a wobble with his head, as folk of Opalt do when they wish to show either goodwill or confusion, or both. The Father answered with a growl.
Arunis dropped his head. He shrugged, his lower lip trembling, and even those who knew better saw him for an instant as a good soul, one used to being last in line, one who had never dreamed he would be lucky enough to witness history in the making but who even now would give it up rather than cause any trouble. He turned to go. But as he did so he glanced once more at the Father.
Their gazes locked. Arunis’ cold eyes glittered. Then quite suddenly the Father’s ferocious glare went dull. Like an automaton he took the scepter from Arunis’ chest and stepped back, waving him through the arch. Smiling, the mage scurried inside.
Pazel closed his eyes. If he had been turned away! Oh, Thasha! We thought of everything but that!
He was so relieved that he barely noticed the ceremony itself—the monks’ recitation of the Ninety Rules, the song of the Tree of Heaven, some baffling Simjan custom involving an exchange of horsehair dolls. But he noticed other things. Prince Falmurqat was smiling genuinely at Thasha—the poor dupe. And the Father, who had come forward into the shrine, seemed
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