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THE KING IS NO BLOOD of man, but the chosen one of the gods. Each king shall find his successor among the great ones and cherish the successor, for that is where the future rests.
—excerpt from Testament of the Augur
* * *
THE NEXT MONTH FOUND Onin at the Chapel of Bonding, dressed in finery, awaiting his bride. The robes adorning him were made of the finest silks, and a velvet cape hung from his shoulders. His father stood beside him, representing Onin’s family, and his friends occupied the foremost stone pew. Onin took comfort in their presence, although the sight of Hangric, Fargin, and Rabbash dressed in formal attire would have made him laugh out loud under normal circumstances. The air remained cool in the vaulted chapel, but Onin sweat nevertheless. He absently wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
"Stop that," his father whispered. "You’ll stain the fabric. You’ll want to make the best possible impression."
"I still wish we could have met before the wedding," said Onin, probably for the hundredth time. "This is an uncomfortable way to meet anyone, let alone your soon-to-be wife."
"Tradition, my boy, tradition," said Zorot sagely. "Common wisdom holds that if the newlyweds never meet before the wedding day, then the marriage truly starts with a clean slate." Onin had heard this many times already, but it did nothing to help him relax.
"What if she hates me?" said Onin. "What if she wants to talk to me? Do I have to talk to her? Is that expected of a husband?" His eyes looked a little wild.
"Yes, conversation is a must," said his father. "But I think you’ll be fine. Remember, she is meeting you for the first time as well."
"That’s what I’m afraid of," said Onin. "She has no idea what she’s getting into."
His friends gestured to get his attention. When Onin looked in their direction, all wore expressions of mock seriousness. Rabbash tugged at his left ear in an exaggerated fashion—the signal they had worked out earlier. If Onin were to tug on his own ear, it would be a sign they were to flee from the chapel and find someplace to hide. It had been a joke they contrived to assuage Onin’s fears, he knew, but he gave the idea serious consideration.
The chapel was filled to capacity for the blessed event. The guests ranged from fellow Guardsmen—old friends of Torreg’s, as well as a few new friends of Onin’s—to representatives of each of the Great Families. Onin understood their presence but didn’t like it. A marriage among their peers was a significant event, and none among the social elite wanted to miss out on something so gossip worthy. Onin wished it were otherwise, but his father explained the necessity of it since he married into one of the Great Families. Still, it disturbed him that so many guests were complete strangers.
"Who is the lady in the hideous purple hat?" whispered Onin. "Is that supposed to be a bird?"
"That’s Atriva Golence, the minister of investitures," came the reply. "I've no idea what the hat is supposed to be."
"What about the bald man with the splotches on his head?"
"Jutnel Holgrim, minister of trade," said his father. "He gave me my appointment as trade ambassador to Sparrowport."
"What about the pock-faced fop? The tall, skinny one? I don’t like how he’s looking at me."
"I don’t know him," said Zorot. "But the young lady sitting next to him is about to be your cousin by marriage. Pock-face is probably her husband."
"She’s awfully pretty," Onin said, hoping the characteristic ran throughout other branches of the family. "How did she get saddled with such a wretch?"
"Through an arranged marriage, in all likelihood," said his father with a chuckle. "It’s the way things are done among the Great Families. Not everyone can be beautiful."
Onin considered the implications of the statement.
When the music began to play, the assembled crowd hushed, and the lilting sound of flutes echoed across the vaulted ceiling. A figure, actually two figures, stood silhouetted by the sunlight in the entrance. They became distinct as they entered the chapel, and Onin recognized Torreg, his soon-to-be father-in-law, escorting a petite, feminine form through the entrance. She looked resplendent in ornate white robes with a jeweled tiara nestled in her raven hair. Her skin was pale and soft, and her beauty took Onin’s breath away.
Her father guided her to the altar, each step full of grace and poise. Her delicate feet seemed to glide along the marble stones of the floor. Onin stared self-consciously, feeling the sweat bead on his brow. He almost wiped with his sleeve again but stopped himself.
She never lifted her eyes as she walked to her waiting groom. Onin doubted shyness on her part; she walked with too much confidence to be nervous. He looked into her face as she grew near. Her features were delicate with thin, dark eyebrows and an alluring blush to her cheeks. Onin could feel his heart pounding in his chest with each step she took until she finally stood at the altar. Only then did she lift her eyes and meet his gaze.
Onin nearly recoiled. There was no love in her eyes, no shyness or uncertainty, just anger and resentment. Her lips were pulled tight in a grimace, and she refused to smile, even as Onin gave his own nervous grin as an offering of good will.
Great, he thought. I haven’t even spoken to her yet, and already I’m in trouble. Married life is going to be easy.
* * *
THE CONCLUSION OF THE ceremony rested on pomp and circumstance. The bride and groom clasped hands with one another, while the attending priestess wrapped a white ribbon around their forearms, tying them together. It was the first touch they exchanged, and Onin would remember it forever. Her hand felt tiny and delicate in his, but warm and inviting. Torreg and Zorot concluded the ceremony, each making a short speech about the promise of the future and budding love, but Onin wasn’t really listening. His attention remained fixed on his new wife.
After the initial brief, but hostile, glance, she refused to look at him further. Onin wondered what bothered her. Had he somehow managed to offend her, or did she just hate him on sight? The soft skin of her hand made him want to brave that withering look once again.
Once the ritual had concluded, and the ceremonial knot untied, the newlyweds were bundled into a luxurious carriage drawn by two magnificent white horses. The interior was cramped but richly decorated, with two cushioned seats situated opposite one another. His wife climbed aboard, aided by the attending footman, who gave Onin a smile and a wink. Onin climbed into the seat opposite his wife, her icy glare unchanged. He looked pleadingly at the footman as the carriage door shut, leaving them alone for the first time.
They stared at each other for a long moment. She gave no indication she intended to speak, so Onin decided to take the initiative. He opened his mouth, but his dry throat released only a croak at first. Onin swallowed hard to recover himself.
"I’m Onin . . . I’m your . . . um, husband," he muttered lamely, not knowing what else to say.
She rolled her eyes to the heavens in response. "I’m Yolan."
At least he had learned her name.
Onin decided their first conversation qualified as a success and left it at that. The rest of the carriage ride passed in silence, even as the calls of well-wishers reached their ears through the carriage windows. Yolan ignored them and merely stared out the window without changing her expression.
After what seemed like hours, they arrived outside of an elegant manor located on one of the highest tiers of the Heights. The grand exterior, finely carved from the stone of the mountain, had sculptures and water fixtures incorporated into the building. Fountains tinkled merrily, and the courtyard was spacious enough for a battalion of soldiers to stand in formation. Many servants in the finest livery scurried about. No sooner had the carriage come to a rest than the door opened and a footman extended his hand for Yolan. She climbed from the carriage with the same smooth grace she had displayed in the chapel. Onin could watch her move all day and never tire of it.
Torreg and Zorot were already present. Onin hadn’t seen them leave the chapel and absently wondered how they managed to arrive before the newlyweds. Both men looked absolutely cheery and showed wine had already been imbibed that day. Onin was grateful to see a friendly face, and his father clapped both hands on his shoulders warmly.
Meanwhile, Torreg extended his arms to embrace his daughter, but Yolan walked past, ignoring him. Torreg watched her stride away with defiance and opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to think better of it.
"I really thought she’d have come around by now," said the captain after she had crossed the threshold of the manor.
"She needs more time," said Zorot. While he spoke to Torreg, he looked directly into Onin’s eyes. Onin knew the words were meant for him more than Torreg. "It is a difficult adjustment for everyone."
Torreg seemed lost in thought for a moment, staring after his daughter, then shook himself. "Well, no use standing out here. The feast awaits!" he exclaimed. Torreg led Onin and his father inside the manor. The entryway was ornate to the point of opulence. Magnificent marble staircases led up and away to another level, and numerous elaborate doors dotted the walls at regular intervals. Torreg led them to the only open door.
Beyond it waited the grandest feast hall Onin had ever seen. Stout wooden tables and stools were arranged throughout the room, and a head table lay at the opposite end. Yolan was already there, her sullen look in place. High stone walls blocked most of the sunlight, save what entered through narrow windows set directly into the roof. It was the walls that commanded attention, however.
The walls were a celebration of color, covered with paintings from floor to ceiling. Numerous scenes, both historical and mythical, were depicted in a rolling, continuous piece of work wrapping the entire hall. Onin recognized the Heights itself depicted in the work, and the primary theme seemed to be dragons. Verdants of all types and colors adorned the art: flying, nesting, fighting, and one image showed two dragons with necks and tails entwined. He was fairly sure he knew what that one depicted.
Torreg took notice of Onin’s incredulous look as he gaped all around the room.
"Well, what do you think, lad?" he exclaimed. "Or should I say, ‘my son’?"
"This is amazing," said Onin with sincerity. "What is this place?"
"You don’t know?" said Zorot. He turned to address Torreg. "You don’t tell this boy anything."
Torreg only spread his arms wide and shrugged before speaking to Onin again. "This is Manespike Manor," Torreg proclaimed proudly. "This is your new home. Unless, of course, you have arranged for better accommodations elsewhere."
Onin wondered how many times he would be rendered utterly speechless by this man.
"My father’s right," he said. "You don’t tell me anything. This is your home? I had no idea. I imagined only the king would live in a place like this."
"The years have been kind to my family, for certain," said Torreg. "Like I said, it’s now your home too." His smile faded to concern as he looked around at the murals. He seemed to forget the others were present in his preoccupation. He gave a slight start when Zorot directed a question at him.
"These murals are depictions of the family business, aren’t they?" he asked, indicating the art-covered walls.
Torreg smiled again. "Yes, most of these are generations old," said Torreg. "But they tell the stories of some of our earliest successes."
"What business is that?" asked Onin. He felt foolish—he’d married into one of the most prominent families of the Heights, and he didn’t even know about the family business, let alone its exact nature.
"Dragon breeding!" said Torreg. The same troubled look passed across Torreg’s features, but only for an instant. The young man thought no more of it, as the nature of the family business sank in.
"Dragon breeding?" Onin repeated to no one in particular. He took a long, slow look around the hall at the murals, and this time the images made much more sense to him. He realized the mural, when viewed end to end, provided a pictorial history of the Manespike family.
"Indeed," continued Torreg. "Our family has produced some of the finest stock ever to grace the skies."
"That was true at one time," came a voice from a short distance away. The voice belonged to a tall, almost statuesque woman. Her face was thin and pointed, her features birdlike, and her finery marked her as a member of a Great Family. "The Manespikes haven’t produced a viable clutch in several years."
The captain’s face became dark as a storm cloud. Torreg smiled at her, but no hint of warmth or friendship was conveyed in the expression.
"The problem isn’t isolated to us, Lady Vestrimol," he countered. "If memory serves, your own stock has seen some trouble these past few seasons."
"The Vestrimols produce good dragons each and every season," said the lady haughtily, her nostrils flaring. "The dragon riders give us a ringing endorsement every year, which is more than some can claim." She spun and stalked away stiffly. Onin wondered if the dress she wore caused her to walk that way or if it was natural.
"A competitor?" Zorot asked after she had gone.
"A pretender, more like," said Torreg in disgust. "Her fledglings are little more than runts, the lot of them. Imagine the nerve, casting aspersions like that . . . on my daughter’s wedding day, no less."
"So there’s no truth to what she said?" Onin inquired.
Torreg looked worried once again. "Well, I cannot dispute it, in truth," said Torreg. But then his expression brightened. "This is no day for such talk. Let us celebrate the union of our families." Onin found the sudden joviality dubious but made no protests as they took seats at the head table.
Once again Onin found himself unable to take his eyes from Yolan, and she seemed unwilling to even look at him. A plate of food and a full goblet sat before her, but she hardly touched either, her delicate hands primly folded in her lap. Onin wanted to hold her hand again, to feel its softness and warmth against his own skin. He wanted to speak to her, but no words came to mind. Her full lips made the most adorable pout, and Onin found himself pondering what it would feel like to kiss them. He had to resist the urge to wipe his forehead with his sleeve again; he could feel the sweat starting to bead and wished it were cooler in the feast hall.
Onin’s attention was pulled away when his friends arrived at the feast. A sense of relief followed the sight of familiar faces, and he immediately rose to meet them. They each vigorously clasped hands with him, offering up congratulations, except for Hangric, who lifted Onin from the floor in a bearlike embrace.
"Oh, but she’s a beauty!" exclaimed Fargin. "What a catch!"
"What is she like?" asked Rabbash, his eyes twinkling.
"I don’t know, really," said Onin, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. "She’s . . . intense, I guess."
"What did you talk about in the carriage ride? Or was there no time for talking?" asked Fargin while throwing him a naughty wink.
"Nothing. She wouldn’t talk to me," said Onin with a slight blush. "There was certainly none of that going on either," he said to Fargin pointedly. All three friends laughed at his discomfort.
"I’m glad you’re all so amused," he said sarcastically. He turned back to look at his young wife. Already, she presented a complete enigma to him. He wondered what the next few months would be like. Despite his reservations, the thought of waking up next to Yolan every morning was inviting.
"Take heart, my friend," said Rabbash. "It’s not long before we all succumb to the wiles of matrimony. There will be plenty of time to poke fun at us later."
"No doubt," said Hangric, his expression somber. "My betrothed has a face like a horse."
All three laughed at that.
* * *
THE DAYS FOLLOWING the wedding passed, and Onin soon found himself engaged in another formal but important function. His induction into the Guard had come, and he, along with his friends, assumed a place of honor within the elite order.
Each arrived in full ceremonial dress, with brightly polished breastplates; shining helmets; and rich, red capes draped over the shoulders. The graduates of each academy attended, and it felt odd to be shoulder to shoulder with the same young men he had battled in the tournament not so long ago.
The young men were arranged in formation within the Grand Hall. This same hall had been used countless times before, not only for inducting new Guards, but for any formal function the order engaged in.
The induction was performed by none other than the Guardmaster, the head of the order. Guardmaster Strull was an old man, balding, but stood tall and strong, unbent by his advanced years. His resonant voice carried through the hall with ease.
"On this day you leave your old lives behind," Guardmaster Strull said officiously. "This is the day you put aside the name of your family to enter the service of the kingdom. Since the inception of this order, all Guardsmen have put aside their familial obligations to serve our true purpose—the protection of the king . . . and the successor.
"The king is more than a man, but the personification of the Heights. As he lives, so do the Heights live, and each king finds his successor to continue the chain of rulership and ensure the ascendancy of our kingdom.
"I welcome you into this order and task you all with preserving the honor, integrity, and lives of the king and successor."