Shadows of the Scriptures

FIVE: The Crane and the Crown

The morning was grim and overcast. But that, rather than dulling spirits, hoisted them - for it meant for the cityfolk of Rivate that, after a long dry spell, there was finally a chance of drizzle.

If any sprites or ghosts of old were wandering the city streets, they were feeling particularly festive to lend everybody such a springy mood. In Charmat - outside the Inner Terdam but within the dry moat lining the city borders - the poor smiled: there were as many royals as harlots in the brothels this eve. And inside the Inner Terdam, in the pristine Pardel, rose petals decorated each pavement. All domes were scrubbed, most work on hold.

Innkeepers bustled with astounding efficiency, handing customers ale of the finest (and most expensive) sort. Mugs were being raised either in disdain or in pride or in an excuse to celebrate.

Further deep into the city - at the nucleus of the Hadekin Palace - pageants and jugglers and foxtrot dancers were putting on shows. Bards and fools and acrobats, too. Odes were sung everywhere, signifying the opposite of laconic in the air. In the arena, jousters jousted happily, foolishly and bravely. Tourneys were likely ongoing throughout the five tethered kingdoms which fell under the Khad Dynasty.

King Alain Khad himself was seated on a temporarily erected platform in the palace plaza in front of four rising tiers of joined benches. These benches were all occupied. Directorates of the wedding scurried between them not much unlike innkeepers of Pardel.

Alain had not to ignore the jeering and cheering, for it was all stopped at the moment for a musical contest. The lyrist played first a heartbreak of strings. Then a harpist. Few lords and ladies sobbed into their kerchiefs. Then the contest was over, and the jeering and cheering picked up from where it had been stubbed.

Ser Jotin Halore lifted the lyrist's arm. A smattering of applause for him. When Ser Jotin lifted the harpist's arm, there was an explosion of claps and hoots from lordlings and ladies alike. They had an undisputed winner.

The instrumentalists were led off the plaza by the knight, the former with a wry smile and the latter with a smug one. Their smiles were wiped off when Ser Jotin left them to be escorted by an impassive Ardaunt.

In Alain's thought, the lyre was much harder to play than the harp due to the obtruding crossbar, but he was only a kid become king, so what did his opinion matter?

The garland of orchids around his neck suddenly felt heavy. As did his crown of spun gold and silver, and the gold-embroidered cape clipped to the neck of his doublet. It had long, tight cuffs, and an unneeded brooch around the collar to wrest it down. Clothing of his mother's choice.

Underneath it all, he wore a slim shirt of ring mail. For his feet Alain had black-dyed uggs on, to make him seem taller when he was standing.

He didn't feel like a king, let alone the King. He felt nervous, which was a feeling that did not strike right with him.

Alain looked to his side, where the Lady - Queen - Sterya sat smiling like a storehouse of beauty and fragrance. She had soft, olive skin. Her auburn hair was in a plait, with one adjusted chignon. A wreath of leaves decorated it also. She was sporting lambskin gloves and glass bangles, and indeed she sport them well. He could have looked at her for ever - not her satin weave, but her. His wife. Not Sterya Sanghon; Sterya Khad.

She caught his eye and smiled. It was a stunning smile. Her lips moved, but although they were only four feet apart, Alain could barely hear her. Then she pointed at the garland around her own neck, and he understood. Hoping what he gave her bore some resemblance to a smile, he looked away.

Holder bless, thought Alain. I knew I loved her since when she was Vaarin's, but I hadn't realized I was in love. I hope Saint Eladeen read us our vows right. If this marriage brings me misery, I shall have the ner'ang priests and Ardaunts all break his beads.