Thirty-One

B R I D E

 

Truth be told, Sidon didn’t much like the garment. It chafed at the neck and no matter how many times Iani tried to loosen the threading it still felt too snug around his torso and pressed against his chest, squeezing his midriff. The slavegirl tugged again, yanking at the thick lacing that fastened the back of the vesture. The garment had a stiff prim feel not unlike the tunic he’d worn at his anointing a year ago; the woven goat hair, the polished leather. They were the only fabrics tough enough to hold the multicoloured array of neatly cut amethysts and emeralds stitched into the breastpiece.

“May as well be wearing armour,” Sidon said. “Although that would likely be more comfortable.”

“But not as seemly, Sharíf,” Iani said.

“Seemly be hanged. I’d rather be able to breathe. And walk without sweating, or breaking a rib.”

He grunted as she yanked again, standing behind him, and pulled the lacing fast, tying it to his cincture.

“How’s that?”

Sidon took a breath. “Better… I suppose. How does it look?”

The slavegirl walked around him, tracing her hand around his lower back to his stomach and waist to make sure of the fit. She stood square on and looked him over, then smiled. “You look like what you are, Sharíf. A king of kings.”

He allowed himself a wry smile back and turned to look for his crown, propped on a cushion in the corner by a woodstool. He was moving to collect it when a knock came at the door.

“Come,” Sidon said.

Elias, the chamberlain. He entered and stood by the jamb decked in a long, ornately patterned tunic of scarlet-dyed wool. Fine whorls of white stitching marked the baggy sleeves, curling in extravagant arcs around the forearms like the traced shapes of sea waves. A style familiar to his High Eastern homelands. His rheumy gaze slid from Iani to Sidon. “Majesty. It is time.”

Sidon nodded and followed the chamberlain out, fidgeting with the jewelled breastpiece and the silken robe draped over his shoulder as they walked along the passage. For months this night had been stalking him, the night he would meet his bride, see her face to face, learn her name and then, that same hour, be wed. Elias had said he didn’t need to worry but Sidon couldn’t help it. What would she be like? What would they talk of when they were alone? Sidon had never been with a woman before. And what if the girl didn’t like him?

Childish thoughts, Elias had said when Sidon asked. A sharíf does not trouble himself with the opinions of his lessers. Leaving Sidon to be troubled by the opinion of the chamberlain instead. For that did trouble him. Sidon had noticed a sense of admiration from the other man when he’d witnessed him reproach his mother the night before. He had no wish to see the newfound regard exchanged for disappointment, and so kept his questions to himself.

“Nearly a year ago exact you were anointed sharíf, my king,” Elias said as they moved along the corridor. The chamberlain had drawn near to him, walking shoulder to shoulder, voice lowered, confiding. “But tonight, in taking a wife to be your queen, your mother shall cease to be sharífa and you shall become ruler in truth, the one elder and head of the Sovereignty. All remnants of your father’s throne will be past. From this night your words shall be as law. What you command shall be.”

Sidon weighed the chamberlain’s words as they continued to walk. The torches on the wall were placed too far apart, carving the corridor into blocks of shade, dark to light, dark to light, the pair moving through from one to the other like a rite of passage. “My father used to say a king is a sage with a throne,” Sidon said.

“Your father was wise, Sharíf. Made more so by his willingness to bend his ear to counsel.”

“It is not a habit I will neglect, Elias.”

“Then this truly is the most joyous of days, my king, for wisdom’s voice speaks from your lips as it did his.”

It was kind of the chamberlain to say that, Sidon thought. He allowed his gaze to drift to the dim lit walls and the images of Talagmagon and Markúth that were painted there, forbidden gods from a forgotten time.

Elias saw him looking at them. “Sharíf Kaldan,” he said. “He couldn’t keep from growing fond of some of these stories. There used to be similar paintings on the walls outside before your father removed them.”

One of the images depicted Markúth swimming in the Swift beside a whale, although in the image the god and the fish were the same size. “Why didn’t Father also remove these ones?”

“Your father used to say, as Kaldan did, that there was a kind of truth to some of these tales.”

“Truth? About false gods?”

“There are no men without gods, Sharíf. They are always among us, and we are always given to worshipping them, even if we now call them by other names – thrones, riches, wine, women. Your father always understood this, knew how to use it. I think, were he here now, he’d say the old faiths, for men, were merely a kind of childhood, and that it doesn’t matter whether there were once gods or not. He used to say that perhaps there were, acting as guardians, departing only when they saw men had gained the power to guide themselves. You see, to your father, the throne was the greatest symbol of this power. He used to teach that to the people like a doctrine. An ingenious thought if you think about it. Because it makes the sharíf who sits that throne more than a man. In a way, a new kind of god. Just as you shall be. Tonight.”

When they reached the end of the corridor and entered the vestibule the two Shedaím were waiting for them by the main door. The noise of the gathering city was louder here, leaking through the walls. Sidon felt his gut clench and chest constrict, as if the months of nervous anticipation had suddenly gusted in with the noise, adding weight to the tight fit of the vesture he was wearing.

“The sharífa waits in the carriage,” Abda said, stepping forward as they neared the doorway.

“Very good,” Elias said. He turned to Sidon and seemed about to say something more, to offer some counsel or affirmation, but paused.

“What?”

“Your crown, Sharíf.”

Sidon lifted his hand to his head and felt its absence. “By my fathers…” he looked around. “I must have left it in the room…”

He looked at the guards and the chamberlain. Elias’s face was unreadable.

Sidon cleared his throat and straightened, trying to affect calm. “Go on ahead. Mother will want to be sure to reach the square in good time and make certain everything is in order. I will follow in the next carriage.”

The chamberlain seemed to hesitate, but then bowed and went. The din from outside spilled in through the main doors as they opened. Sidon blinked, glimpsing the crowd. People were heading toward the square in droves.

He turned and went back across the lobby, and then into the corridor to make his way to his chambers, walking briskly. It was good they hadn’t got all the way to the carriage where Mother was waiting before they’d noticed. The mood she was in. Nothing but blank stares and brooding silence since last night and what happened outside the banquet room. And with all the fussing she’d done that morning with Elias, seeing to the arrival of the betrothed and her family, ensuring the servants had all the–

He stopped abruptly at the doorway to his chamber.

“Iani? What are you still doing here? You should be in the caravan on the way to the square.”

The slavegirl was standing in the middle of the room with her back half-turned. She seemed to be fiddling with something, looking down at herself, her shoulders slightly hunched as though reading some tiny inscription pressed close to her chest. She grunted frustratedly and turned to face him.

“The hem has parted,” she said, holding a stitching needle. “I thought I’d be able to mend it before the ceremony but now I’m not so sure because… Are you alright, Sharíf?”

“What? Yes… no.” He tugged at his too-tight collar with a finger. “My crown. I left my crown.”

She glanced around, saw it on the cushion in the corner and picked it up. She walked across the room to hand it to him in the doorway. Sidon took it and placed it on his head, then glanced distractedly at the corners of the chamber, tugging again at his collar.

“All will be well, Sharíf.”

“Yes.” He nodded, still looking around vaguely. “Yes. All will go well.” He glanced at the open seam near Iani’s waist. “You can fix that?”

Iani looked down at the parting doubtfully. “I fear not very well, Sharíf.”

“But you will still be there, at the ceremony. You will still come.”

She heard the insistence in his voice and, smiling a little, decided. “Yes, Sharíf. I shall.”

Strange how comforting it was to hear her say that, and how worrisome the fleeting notion that she wouldn’t. He resisted smiling back nonetheless. The sharíf is like a cornerstone, Father always said. It wasn’t a sharíf’s place to appear too–

“Ah, my king. You have found it.”

Sidon’s gaze switched to the corridor to find Yassr approaching with Elias. He stepped back from the doorway. “Uh… yes.” He pointed needlessly to his head. “I did.”

Probably Mother had sent them back to find him and help him look, trying to hurry him along to the caravan. She was probably refusing to leave until he’d made his way back along the corridor and through the lobby’s tall doorway to sit in his seat opposite her. He turned back to the bedchamber. Iani had stepped out of the doorway. He reached for the door to close it on her and keep the chamberlain from seeing. He took the handle and leaned in.

“Wait for us to go,” he whispered. “And then join the caravan outside. You will sit by me at the ceremony.” He shut the door and moved away, walking swiftly to meet Yassr and Elias in the corridor and continue on to the waiting procession.

 

It took an hour for the carriage to move through the din. The streets were thick with people, cheering, jeering, it was hard to tell which. Countless arms stretched out to the royal carriage from behind the rows of armed cityguards. Horsemen flanked the caravan as it pushed toward the square. The sky was darkening. Streaks of orange, red and magenta spread out from the sun’s elliptic as it sank beneath the housetops. Sidon could just make out the shrill blare of the crier’s horn trumping above the clamour to announce his arrival as beneath it all the hammered rhythm of a drumbeat thumped on like the advance of an army. Mother remained ominously still throughout. She’d spoken not a word since Sidon entered the carriage and announced Iani would be seated by him on the platform.

The caravan stopped at the head of the square on the east side by the stage to let Sidon and his mother out. The two Shedaím and several of the cityguard came alongside, surrounding them as they made their way up the shallow steps to the stone platform.

The governors were already seated in a row at the back. Sidon and Chalise took their seats at the centre. The footmen of the cityguard started to light the staves on the wall behind the rostrum and out along the side streets as the crowd continued to gather.

Sidon watched as Iani arrived with the rest of the attendants in the second carriage. She was led up the steps and across the platform as commanded and sat down after being ushered to a seat beside him. Meanwhile, Yassr, having moved to the front of the platform, was already beginning to address the crowd.

“…and our great forefather Karel who gave birth to this Sovereignty nearly three hundred years ago, conquering these lands of Sumeria and founding our crown city. He too was only a boy, as our beloved Sharíf Sidon now is, yet it was he who did away with the priesthoods, ending their wars and preserving our lands. And what of Arvan the Scribe, the great sharíf who himself established the First Laws. Or his son, Theron the Great, who took hold of Calapaar to the north. And then there is Sharíf Kaldan, who built the west wall of Calapaar, and Tsarúth who conquered the High East. And Kosyatin who…”

Sidon let the man drone on, waiting to see his future queen step out from the final carriage, draped in the traditional silk veil that would continue to cover her until they stood to speak the vows. He’d seen the girl once before, two years ago, but it was at a distance. He couldn’t remember what she’d looked like. They’d never spoken. Never met.

“She will be more nervous than you are, Sharíf.”

Sidon had been so lost in thought he almost flinched. He glanced at Iani beside him. “I doubt that.”

Which seemed to amuse her. “Do you?” She smiled, wagged her head. “How long have you been thinking of this day?”

“A year. Maybe longer.”

The slavegirl giggled.

Sidon looked at her. “This is not funny, Iani.”

She gave an apologetic nod but she was still smiling.

Usually it would have made him angry, but something about it all, the crowd, his forgetting his crown, the months of waiting anxiously for what this hour would or wouldn’t be, his mother’s cool silences and now this slavegirl just sitting there beside him and smiling at him like that, like there were no cares in the world at all, it somehow felt like a relief. He found himself smiling back. “You mock your king on his wedding day?”

“Sharíf. A bride, any bride, has thought of her wedding day three times a day since she was a child. And that’s just if she’s not an excitable kind. She will have played with her dolls, pretending she was one and her husband-to-be the other. She will have spoken the vows she is to say on that day a thousand times in her head, or out loud, or even in her sleep. If she is too poor for dolls she will have taken stones, or lumps of clay, or sprigs torn from switchbushes and pretended them to be dolls. One for her, one for her husband-to-be. And those sprigs will have danced together, and walked together in the cool of the day touching as though linked hand in hand, and they will have laughed and cried and perhaps even kissed. And the tall sprig, the husband, will have sung songs of his undying devotion to the shorter sprig, the bride.”

Sidon was looking at her dubiously, still smiling. “Perhaps not all girls are as given to imagination as you are, Iani.”

“Perhaps when it comes to this they are, Sharíf.”

“I can tell you now, my mother has never entertained these fictions. Neither when she was a child nor since.”

Iani seemed to think about it. “No,” she said. “I think you are wrong. I think even the sharífa will have thought on these things too.”

“And what about you? Do you think on them?”

She looked at him then. A timid half-smile hovered around her lips.

Sidon found himself smiling back as he watched her; the bashful dip of her head, her shy and simple gaze, the tidy way she cupped her hands together as she rested them in her lap. He glanced at those hands and thought of the doting way she’d fussed over his garments as she helped him dress, her palms smoothing across his shoulders and back, pressing the creases out.

“I used to, Sharíf,” she said eventually. “As a child I would think on such things often.”

“But not anymore?”

“My mother would say that kind of thing is for idle minds, Sharíf… Perhaps that’s why you had no time to think on weddings as a boy. Perhaps you were too busy thinking on other things.”

“My father, when he was well, would tell me to think on my brother’s ways. See how well Joram writes, he’d say. Or, look, see how Joram sits a horse, or how he holds a bow, or how he stands… My brother was always very able, you see. I’d try to think of how I could be as he was…” Sidon blinked. His gaze returned to her. “I’ve never told anyone that before,” he said.

Iani just looked back at him, that same attentive and uncomplicated gaze.

Sidon noticed he liked the shape of her eyes, the open set to her face, the careful way she listened. And then, suddenly, he found his thoughts straying to other things, imagining her as other than herself, no more a slavegirl, a princess perhaps, or a wealthy merchant’s daughter, draped in other clothes and with more jewels, and then imagining the ease he’d feel were she his betrothed in place of the veiled royal stranger who was to soon emerge from the carriage.

“Iani, I…”

But her smile had faded fractionally. She was looking away, staring out to the crowd.

“Iani?”

Her jaw danced as though to speak, but didn’t, as if she’d forgotten what to say, as though her thoughts had suddenly locked or lost themselves as she continued to gaze out to the growing multitude.

“Iani?”

But she didn’t move. Her eyes grew still. Then blinked. Staring.

Sidon frowned. “What is it, Iani?” He followed her gaze out to the square. “What are you looking at?”

 

Neythan didn’t move. He just stared. Even from this distance he could tell. The way she sat, the way she tipped her head as she spoke.

“Neythan, what is it? What’s the matter?”

Caleb’s words bounced off him, seemed far away. And then Neythan was moving, striding forward, pushing through the gaggles of others on the street as they filed into the square.

 

She rose from her seat, drifting slowly to her feet as though called. She could see him coming now, swatting, shoving and sidling through the crowd. She watched him toss aside his mantle as he started into the press. She was sure now. His gait, the way he moved.

 

He could see her standing – ornately dressed, dainty and jewelled. Bracelets around her arms. Bangles of gold in plaited hair beneath a scarf. And she was looking at him. Just standing there watching him come.

 

“By my fathers, Iani, what’s wrong?”

But she wasn’t listening. Just staring. She walked forward, moving to the platform’s edge, ignoring the cityguards telling her to step back, ignoring everything, transfixed by his approach.

 

And now he was certain, he could see her face, those eyes, her gaze, the flicker of recognition, the subtle shift in her stance, all of it so familiar. He could hear his chest hammering, Caleb’s voice calling from behind, then everything dissolving away, the crowds, the surroundings, the questions, why she was here, why she was so dressed, all of it shrinking to the still, small fact of her presence, here, now, real, before him. There was no Caleb, no sharíf, no past or future or dimming evening sky. There was only this. Only her. Removing her scarf, taking off her bracelets, waiting, just her. Here. Finally. Arianna.