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LUCA BREATHED DEEP, feeling his muscles slip loosely as he moved down the street. He could just detect the lingering scent of Marla’s embrocation. She had caught him as he hesitated near the door, fussing at his sleeves in a final delay before starting down. “You’ll be seeing them,” she had said simply.
He nodded. “Only Sara and Jarrick. The wedding won’t be a public affair.”
“But you’re thinking of it already. I can see it in your shoulders.”
He shifted his arms self-consciously. “Is there anything you don’t see?”
It was eerie, how easily she could read him. Luca had thought he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself in his years as a slave. But worry, he supposed, was clear to see, and she was a close observer. She had smoothed the tension from his shoulders with a few minutes’ work and sent him on his way with a clearer head.
A shout warned him, and he stepped aside as a freight wagon rumbled dangerously close. He let himself drift to the side of the street, not in such a hurry as the mercantile traffic. He had some time left before the ceremony, and he was still reluctant. If he had not promised Sara...
A column caught his eye, familiar after his long absence. Luca glanced at the small building of white stone set behind the column. He’d passed this temple each time he came to Abbar. It was meant to be a respite from life, but today it was a respite from traffic. He turned into the tiny semicircular courtyard and lowered himself onto the white steps, warm in the winter sun.
The traffic continued, separated from the yard by the column. Luca watched and sighed. Was this the wisest choice, attending his sister’s wedding? What would Stefan and his guests think of Sara’s once-enslaved brother? She had done well to make such a match after their financial disaster; would he spoil her chance at a happy marriage and respectable social standing?
There were letters carved into the column, wrapping around the base. Luca couldn’t remember ever actually reading them as he had navigated traffic. He let the patterns distract him from his unpleasant thoughts, absently running his eyes over the words faded by salty sea wind. A tingling shock raced suddenly through him—while you breathe, his mind had registered.
His stomach tightened with long bitterness. It’s so simple to lie.
But he could not stop himself from trying to work out the rest of it. It was difficult to make out the weathered letters, and he leaned to one side trying to follow them around the column.
“You are his poem,” said a voice behind him. He jumped and glanced over his shoulder at the priest standing above him on the white steps. “You know the passage?”
Luca shook his head, wary and vaguely embarrassed.
The priest descended the steps, and Luca caught himself shifting his weight. The Gehrn had patterned their robes on the Wakari temples’ designs, and while Luca knew they weren’t the same, his reactions did not.
The priest sat on Luca’s step, but at a comfortable distance. “For you are his poem, and despair has no hold for those who do not wrestle with the artisan. Know that while you breathe, he is yet elaborating his careful craftsmanship in you, and so you may hope.” He glanced at Luca. “You look as if you take some issue with that.”
Luca wondered when his face had begun to betray him so regularly. “No, not exactly. ‘While you yet breathe, there is hope.’ Someone told me that once.”
The priest nodded. “A proverbial form, unfortunately common.”
“He lied. He used that to justify—and it was a lie.” Luca was startled by his own voice, by how quickly his anger had swollen into view. What business of this man’s was it?
But the priest merely nodded again. “I’m sorry you were hurt. Would it help to talk?”
“No.” Not here, not after that reunion, not to a stranger, not to someone in those robes.
The priest did not seem offended. He rested his elbow on his knee and watched the traffic flow by, wagons and carts and baskets and bundles all streaming to market or home or docks or caravans. The noise filled the silence between them.
“He lied to both of us.” Luca wanted to justify his protest, but spoken aloud his words were part anger, part discovery. “He used those words to excuse what he did, and he lied to each of us.”
The priest flicked a finger to indicate across the street. “You see that man accosting passers-by? Beside the fountain? He’ll tell you, if you wander near enough, he is collecting money to relieve the suffering of Ivat’s orphans. He’s not, of course. He’s worked that corner for years, and he lives well enough and drinks the surplus. He dresses in the colors of a temple priest, and many are taken by his words. But compassion itself is no less worthwhile for his lies. Compassion may be tarnished in his hands, but underneath it is still pure silver.”
Luca shifted uncomfortably. “My sister is waiting... It is her wedding today.”
“Then don’t let me delay you.” The priest gestured and offered a friendly smile. “Be well.”
Luca escaped into the traffic. His father had lied—had lied!—to excuse the sale of his own son. No protesting priest could argue that. Luca could not shed his resentment so easily.
The Drawne home was not much farther. Luca entered by the open gate and passed through the garden, avoiding a few chatting groups which must be Stefan’s family and slipping into a side room where servants were assembling serving trays. One glanced at him, but Luca shook his head hurriedly and looked away. He wanted only to hide from the guests.
Long minutes passed, and the servants seemed to decide he was an unpopular cousin avoiding the family quarrels and they left him alone. Luca fidgeted. He should not have come, he should never have come...
And then a woman came into the room and spoke to the serving slaves. “Have any of you—” She noted Luca. “Pardon me, my lord, but could you be Luca Roald?”
He nodded, surprised.
She gestured with a dull flash of wrist cuff. “Come, my lord! My lady has been asking and asking for you. Please, this way.”
Luca went with her numbly into the garden, which now seemed filled with people. Luca’s stomach clenched. She never said so many!
“Luca!” Sara caught his arm, startling him. She was gorgeous, dressed in bright blue and green and radiant with excitement. “I’ve been looking for you!” She embraced him.
He gave her a tight smile. “I’m here now.”
“My lady?” A steward prompted.
Sara gave him a quick nod and glanced back at Luca. “Come on, now we’re ready to start.” Then she turned and went into the center of the garden.
Stefan Drawne had matured since Luca had seen him last. He didn’t recognize the young man dressed in matching green and blue until he moved forward to take Sara’s hands. As they faced one another, the onlookers gathered in a circle about them. Luca glanced self-consciously from side to side, and when he saw the witnesses joining hands he shrank back to stand in the shadow of a vine-wrapped pillar.
A justice in the red robe of his office place one hand over Stefan’s and Sara’s and raised the other. “Stefan Drawne, Sara Roald, do you both swear to be one in the eyes of law and of justice?”
“We do.”
“Do you swear to be one in flesh and to belong one to another, until you breathe your last?”
“We do.”
“Do you pledge to lead one another to the best of you?”
“We do.”
“I hear your solemn vows and I witness that you are husband and wife in deed and law. Seal your pledges with a holy kiss.”
To judge from Sara’s embarrassed giggle, Stefan’s kiss was a little more than holy. The circle closed in a torrent of good wishes and blessings, and Luca caught a glimpse of Jarrick, looking uncertainly pleased as his little sister joined another house.
Jarrick might have felt his eyes, for he glanced toward Luca. He disengaged himself from the circle and came to stand beside the pillar. “You came after all. We’d thought you’d given it up.”
Luca shook his head. “I didn’t think anyone would be honored by my mingling.”
Jarrick cast him a reproving look. “You know Sara is glad you’re here. And no one is thinking on anything but the happy couple.”
People were moving past them now, disappearing into the house for food and wine and dancing and rejoicing. They flowed past Jarrick and Luca, laughing and embracing, a cheerful rushing stream.
And then Stefan and Sara were beside them, clasping hands and smiling. “Jarrick,” Stefan greeted, extending a free hand. “My new brother.”
Jarrick grinned and took the offered arm. “My best wishes to you.”
Sara opened her mouth, but before she could speak Stefan turned to Luca. “And—Luca?”
Luca nodded, his mouth dry.
Stefan extended his hand. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was soft but sincere, and his eyes were warm with both happiness and sensitivity. “You are family in our home.”
Luca hesitated, stunned by the earnest greeting, and then he grasped the bridegroom’s wrist firmly. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I appreciate it.”
“Will you come inside with us?” Sara asked. “There are more than I thought— Stefan’s family couldn’t not come—but you’re more than welcome...”
Luca licked his lips. As welcoming as Stefan was, he could not be certain that the rest of their guests would be pleased. And even if they did not resent Luca’s intrusion, the discovery of the lost Roald brother would draw attention from the wedding couple, and that was hardly fair. “Not today. But—thank you.”
Sara leaned forward and kissed him. “I understand,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”
Stefan and Sara moved inside to join the guests. Jarrick turned to Luca. “Where will you go?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Jarrick nodded. “But, write.” He clasped Luca’s shoulder. “I’ll go; we should have someone to represent our family.” He moved forward to embrace his brother. “Take care, Luca.”