Wilek

Upon the toll of the midday bells, a company consisting of fifty people assembled for a royal wedding on the foredeck. Some sat on stools, benches, or trunks they’d brought up from their cabins, but most stood. The wedding tent had been dug out from the hold and half erected along the port rail, as there wasn’t room enough to set up the full circle.

Wilek had put aside all other cares for this moment. The search for new land and the rebels plotting to sink the ship would have to wait. Today he would be married.

The ceremony between Sâr-Regent Wilek Hadar and Lady Zeroah Barta began with prayers in ancient Armanian, which were chanted by Father Burl Mathal, the only priest Wilek trusted after the Heir War conspiracies. This was the priest’s second attempt at performing this ceremony, and Wilek had instructed that it should go much swifter than the original had been scheduled to. A small altar stood on the priest’s left; a brazier burned coal on his right. Wilek dared not risk an open fire any larger or it might catch the rigging, so the sacrifice would be small. Wilek hoped that Arman, understanding their predicament, would grant mercy.

When the prayers ended, Father Mathal called Wilek forward with his five witnesses—Rayim, Kal, Janek, Trevn, and Dendrick. Wilek read from a scroll a list of gifts he had offered Lady Zeroah as a bride-price. Rystan, the Duke of Tal, accepted them on his sister’s behalf, as he, despite being only thirteen, was now the head of the Barta family, and Lady Zeroah’s welfare fell to him until she was married.

Wilek’s five men erected a canopy of blue silk and cloth of gold in the small open space between Father Mathal and the assembly. The canopy had five poles, and each man held one.

“Who wishes to marry this day?” Father Mathal asked.

“I wish to marry Lady Zeroah Barta,” Wilek said. “And she has accepted my suit.”

“Come under the holy canopy,” Father Mathal told them both.

Lady Zeroah stood with her five witnesses—Miss Mielle, Wilek’s mother, Hrettah, Rashah, and Inolah, since Rosârah Valena was still too ill. Zeroah’s deep blue and bronze dress had rendered her a most lovely object for the delighted assembly to gaze upon. A thick veil covered her face and fell to her waist.

Miss Mielle and Wilek’s mother each took hold of one of Lady Zeroah’s arms and led her under the canopy. The two sârahs carried the long train. Wilek stepped in through the back of the canopy and positioned himself opposite his bride. The female witnesses formed a line behind Zeroah, while Wilek’s men continued to hold up the canopy.

“Kneel in this holy place,” Father Mathal said.

They knelt, and Wilek, without being asked, took hold of Lady Zeroah’s hands. It was strange not to be able to see her face, as the thick veil hid it from view. He imagined her looking down, shy as always.

Father Mathal began another ancient Armanian prayer. Since they had no doves on board, he sacrificed a bird from the crow’s nest and drained the blood into a consecrated bowl. This he placed on the altar to his left, dipped a feather into it, and sprinkled the blood over Wilek’s and Zeroah’s heads as he chanted a petition of blessing to Arman—as Wilek had requested. When he finished, he butchered the crow, cut out its breast, and set it and the whole bird on the coals. “Arman, accept this fragrant offering.”

As the bird cooked, Wilek prayed thanks to Arman for protecting Lady Zeroah when Charlon might have killed her.

Father Mathal removed the cooked meat and tore it in three. He handed a piece to Wilek and one to Lady Zeroah, keeping the last piece for himself. “With your own hands, wave this breast before Arman, a token of your regard to the God you serve.”

Wilek held the small piece of warm meat with both sets of fingers and lifted his arms above his head, bowing in prayer as he did. Lady Zeroah and Father Mathal did the same.

“Now feast upon this wave offering and rejoice in Arman’s blessings.”

Wilek ate the meat, which had already cooled in the brisk sea air. Lady Zeroah’s hand threaded up under her veil as she too ate.

“In the sight of these witnesses,” Father Mathal said, “we ask the gods to bless this union. Drink now from the cup of life, that you may live long in the land the gods will give you.”

He handed the goblet to Wilek, who drank and passed it to Lady Zeroah. She lifted the cup under her veil to drink, then handed it back to Wilek, who passed it to the priest.

“I charge you now to consummate this marriage in the wedding tent and return with the bridal cloth as evidence of the bride’s purity,” Father Mathal said.

Wilek’s men removed the canopy and set it aside, then formed a line that stretched between the bridal tent and where Wilek and Lady Zeroah knelt. The female witnesses lined up facing the men, together forming a path for Wilek and Zeroah to walk through.

Wilek, suddenly nervous, stood and helped Lady Zeroah to her feet. He offered his arm, she took hold, and they walked down the makeshift aisle toward the tent, where Hinckdan and Oli stood holding open the door flap.

It was but ten steps at the most, but with so many eyes upon them, and considering their destination and objective, the journey seemed an eternity. Somehow they made it without cursing, crying, or fainting dead away. They passed inside and the curtain fell closed, shrouding them in what at first appeared to be darkness. Wilek’s eyes adjusted. They stood alone in the blue tent, which glowed orange overhead from the sun’s rays. There was nothing inside but a bed made up of a neatly dressed feather mattress with a white linen cloth spread across the center, a small table holding an amphora of wine, a lit lantern, and two bronze goblets.

Outside, the crowd cheered, then someone started a wedding song—Hinckdan, by the sound of the voice. The majority of the assembly joined in.

“Together they walked into the wedding tent

To close on the vow of this blessed event.

Outside did come, a sweetly sung song

Intoned of witnesses from the throng.

‘Most lovely maid,’ said the noble bridegroom,

‘Be not thou afraid, instead presume

My troth shall endure, long as life in me lasts,

Rest you secure, long after youth is past . . .’”

Wilek and Zeroah were alone for the first time all day, though the singing outside did not offer the peace he had hoped for.

“The singing is quite distracting,” Lady Zeroah said softly.

“Agreed.” Wilek took hold of the hem of Lady Zeroah’s veil and lifted it over her head. He briefly met her golden eyes until the veil tangled with a comb in her hair. Distracted, he set about extricating the fabric from the tongs of the comb and accidentally pulled the comb out completely. Zeroah’s coil of hair unwound, falling in large twists down around her shoulders. Studying her, he rather liked the outcome of his clumsiness.

“You are very pretty, Zeroah,” he said.

He caught sight of a small smile before she lowered her gaze to her hands, which were fidgeting before her. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Wilek,” he said. “I am Wilek to you now.”

“Very well, Wilek.”

Outside, the song ended. Someone shook the tent supports and trilled like a skylark, which brought a wave of laughter.

Zeroah clasped both hands over her mouth, holding back laughter of her own. Thankfully another song began—a slower song, which suited much better.

Wilek took Zeroah’s hands from her mouth and held them captive. He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. “It’s a lovely day outside, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’m glad it didn’t rain.”

She nodded. “That would have been a shame.”

Wilek leaned in to kiss her again. This time their lips touched, and then—

“Will you take a second wife?”

He released a silent breath, understanding she must be nervous, and wanting to be patient. “I do not plan to. Sometimes a king must, for political reasons. Alliances and such. But as Arman forbids it, if ever I find myself needing to make alliances, I will strive to find another way.”

This made her smile, and he managed to kiss her and keep her silent.

Wilek and Zeroah took their time helping each other re-dress, and when they were ready, they exited the tent to much exultation. Wilek handed the bridal cloth to Kal, who took it to Father Mathal to be verified. Wilek watched as the priest passed the cloth to Rystan, who fairly blushed to be the keeper of proof of his sister’s virginity.

Father Mathal announced the couple properly wed, and a general shout of joy rose up. The festivities continued while the fifty witnesses came forward to sign the marriage contract. Once everything was legal, Wilek and Zeroah started a procession from foredeck to stern, accompanied by a piper playing a jovial tune as they greeted the long line of well-wishers. Wilek’s stomach twisted each time he clasped hands with one of the traitors Hinckdan had identified. Fonu Edekk, Canbek Faluk, Lady Zenobia, Sir Jayron, and all the others. How could these people smile and wish him well when they were plotting ways to kill him? He would have arrested them all by now but had been waiting until they formed an actual plan, hopefully involving Janek, so that Wilek could wipe out the whole nest of vipers at once.

Zeroah, sârah of Armania, would not hear of a feast given only to the fifty official witnesses. Not when the ship would fill with the smell of food, taunting hungry commoners. So all were invited to celebrate—despite Trevn’s concern that they should start rationing food more strictly. Wilek understood but knew that the people were restless, worried, and grieved. He felt a celebration would do them all some good.

Tables had been set up for the wedding guests on the stern deck, but on the main deck, a row of tables filled with food lined each outer rail. This way people could pass down the line, filling their hands, their own dishes or baskets, and even in some cases their shirts held out like sacks. They took their meal back to their places on the middle deck and feasted in small groups.

Between the two galleys’ cooks, their staff, and an additional twenty assigned to help, the team had prepared four large hogs, three goats, six massive whitefish, and dozens of pinkfish. There were garnishes of pepper sauce, a cinnamon wine gravy, a pear compote, thirty bowls of barley pudding, three platters of honey-glazed turnips, twenty loaves of nettle bread, and—for dessert—raisin twists, scones with spiced jelly, baked apples, currant custard tarts, and fig fritters.

Nobility alone received wine, but Wilek did order two casks of ale be opened on the main deck for the rest and heard no complaints.

As a precaution, Wilek ordered Rystan and Dendrick to fill a tray for the head table to be certain the food had not been tampered with. Wilek sat on his father’s right during the feast, and the man, who was in his right mind at the moment, bestowed his congratulations.

“A fine ceremony, my son. I only wish you would have thought to sacrifice to Thalassa.”

“Arman is important to Sârah Zeroah,” he said, smiling at his bride.

“Yes, yes, but you are the sâr and the future king of Armania. Give your wives too much and they will expect it always.”

“Yes, Father. I shall take care,” he said. Zeroah looked away, which inspired Wilek to risk a little more for his newfound faith. “I have finished reading Trevn’s Book of Arman. Father, it seems we have greatly offended He Who Made the World. You should consider reading Arman’s laws and instituting them.”

“Who is Arman that I should obey him? Rôb gives us plenty of gods to worship. I dare not force my people to follow only one. And who is to say that Trevn even transcribed the tome correctly? No, the Rôb text has never steered us wrong.”

“Except that it led us to our near destruction.”

“Superstitious nonsense, my son. Armanites would have us counting the hairs on our heads to please their One God. Life should not be so difficult. We have always been a nation of plenty. We should not apologize for that.”

“If you would but read the book—”

“Look at me, my son. I am old and sick. I will not waste what little time I have left poring over the erroneous ramblings of the ancients. I want to enjoy my final days. Take Arman in your five if you must, but leave my choice to me.”

“Yes, Father.” Wilek examined the platter of meat before him, thinking he was a poor messenger to carry Arman’s book to a man such as his father. He glanced at Zeroah, found her watching him. She smiled and kissed his cheek.

“I should have married again,” the king said, staring wistfully at them. “To have only four wives must displease the gods. No wonder we wander the sea, lost. I should send word to the other ships in search of a suitable mate.”

“Why not marry one of your concubines?” Wilek asked.

“Perhaps I could,” Father murmured, contemplating. “A fine idea, my son. I will think on it.” He took a shaky gulp of wine, which left a drop trickling down his chin. “I would have liked to bestow gifts upon you this day.”

The showering of gifts had been postponed until they reached land and could build a new castle to keep such things. His father’s offer provided the perfect opportunity for Wilek to help Trevn. “There is a favor I would like, though it is a bit unconventional.”

“What is your request, my heir? Even up to half the realm, it will be given to you.”

Wilek fought back a smile, pleased that his father had walked so eagerly into his trap. “I would like you to grant permission for Trevn to court Miss Mielle Allard.”

It was a request not only from Wilek but from Kal as well, who’d recently caught Trevn and Mielle alone, kissing, and forced Wilek to promise to do something lest Kal hurt the young sâr in his attempt to protect Mielle’s honor. Wilek knew the king’s likely response and was not surprised.

“Outrageous!” Father said. “A prince cannot wed a commoner.”

“The Five Realms are gone,” Wilek said. “Once noble and wealthy women are now no richer than the commoners who cover our decks, nor are there any more scores of princesses for him to consider.”

“He need not have scores. Only one. To start. If he wants to wed commoners after that, I might allow it. But his first wife must be chosen carefully. She cannot be just anyone.”

“Is there even one worthy candidate, Father?” Wilek asked, knowing full well there were several. “He must marry someone. The people adore Miss Mielle. She is their champion. Just you see how they would rejoice to see her made a sârah of Armania.”

Father growled. “The ages are wrong. It will upset the gods.”

Wilek felt the door closing and switched to another path. “Should they actually marry, it very well could. But . . . things might never get that far. Trevn has always enjoyed flouting authority. If you refuse his request to court Miss Mielle, I fear he might do something rash. But if he were granted permission to court her . . .” He turned to Zeroah and gave her a quick wink. “He will likely grow bored.”

Father smiled slowly. “You mean to trick him.”

It might happen the way Wilek suggested, though he knew enough of his youngest brother to doubt it. Trevn had a disposition much more like his own than Janek’s. While they were all of them spoiled, Trevn’s upbringing in Sarikar had done for him what Chadek’s sacrificial death had done for Wilek. They both had seen the corruption in Armania and disdained it, rather than embraced it.

“If that’s what it takes,” Wilek said.

Father chuckled, delighted by the deception he thought he understood. “Very well. If that is the wedding gift you wish for yourself, give them my permission to court. But if you sense he is not tiring of the girl, let me know at once and we will come up with a plan to separate them.”

Wilek kept his expression plain. “Thank you, Father. You are very wise.”

The king gave a sad smile in return. “I am dying, Wilek. You know that, don’t you?”

Wilek stared at the king. His father. It was the first time he’d heard the man admit weakness. “The physician fears as much.”

“It is my dying wish that Rogedoth be thwarted in his attempt to rule anywhere. I mean to write a will passing over Janek as my second.”

“Are you certain, Father?”

“I was wrong to doubt Janek’s loyalty, but I cannot risk Rogedoth using his grandson against us if he gets the chance. We must never give him that chance.”

“I fear Magonia more than Rogedoth,” Wilek said, surprising himself. Rarely did he share so honestly with his father. Still, he did not say he feared never finding land most of all.

“Don’t. Those women are trouble, make no mistake, but Rogedoth has invested his life in taking the Armanian throne. He may have claimed Sarikar for now, but it’s Armania he wants. He will make his move. You must be ready.”

“I will be, Father.”

“I know there’s little that can be done while we live on water, but . . .” A wildness filled the king’s eyes, driving out the steady somberness of the moments before. His hands began to tremble. He leaned close to Wilek and whispered, “We must keep a close eye on my mother. She and Brelenah have been plotting against me. If you see them together, inform me at once.”

Wilek tried to keep his expression plain. He dared not remind his father that Gran had died in the Five Woes. “I promise to do so.”

“Good,” Father said, wheezing. “Now I must rest. Enjoy your new bride, my son.”

“Thank you, Father.”

As the king’s attendants wheeled him away, Zeroah took hold of Wilek’s hand and squeezed. He smiled at his bride and wondered how much longer the king would live and how Janek would take his being written out of the succession. Now that Wilek had married, he felt more vulnerable to attack. But as long as Janek had no access to evenroot, Wilek could handle him.