Chapter Eighteen

Hem adjusted a small mirror in his hand, trying to reflect his torso back at him. He couldn't twist since the stitches were still sensitive. When he finally got the angle he wanted, he could see surprisingly clean lines of stitches crisscrossing his back and reminded himself to thank Saliman for his artful skill. Carefully, he dipped a washcloth in a bowl of warm water and wrung it out over his head, dribbling the water down his back. It was an arduous process, but after almost half an hour, he was confident he had cleaned the stitches. He tied a towel around his waist and walked gingerly from the room.

"Iris!" he yelped, stumbling back against the door frame.

Iris was setting out a meal of steaming broth and bread, and she spun around when Hem called her name. She dropped into a bow, hiding her blushing face. "Maerad asked me to make sure you had something to eat."

Hem clutched his towel around his waist. "Right. Of course." He inched into the room and Iris snatched up a light blanket from the couch, and draped it over his shoulders as he sat. She glimpsed the array of stitches, but they upset her and she moved to the opposite side of the table. Hem gestured to the seat opposite him. "Please, sit. Have some…my sister calls this food?"

"Nutritious food." Iris said, pouring out two bowls of broth before taking a seat.

Hem slurped the broth before remembering his manners and picking up the spoon. "So, how did you come to be in my sister's service?"

"Cadvan's," she corrected him softly. "I met him and Saliman on the journey to Dagra."

"That's something lucky," Hem said. He didn't want to ask how she had come to end up in their company and not her parent's, as he could guess it was a bitter tale. "And now you work in the kitchen here? And you're a Bard?"

Iris's eyes flashed up, but she pressed down her fear. "Yes, but I don't practice magic."

"It can be hard to hide it," Hem said mildly, tearing his bread and dipping it into the broth. "When I was a young boy living in an orphanage in Edinur, I came into my Gift. I didn't have many friends, so I would speak to birds that came to my window. The other boys caught me and threatened to drown me."

"Why were you in an orphanage?" Iris asked.

Hem shrugged. "My parents were dead, and my sister was missing."

Iris chewed a bit of bread, mulling over his words. "I speak to mice that come in the kitchens and the big cat that sleeps by the stove. And even a few birds that circle the tower. I put little bits of bread out to lure them in."

Hem smiled broadly. "I spoke to a cat at the orphanage, but it was starving and angry and threatened to scratch my eyes out."

Iris giggled. "No, Tot is very nice."

"Tot?"

"After potato," Iris said seriously.

"Of course," Hem agreed. The conversation seemed to run dry and Hem swirled his bread in the stew. "You said you speak to birds? That is very strange, I didn't think birds would come near the tower."

"There's not many," Iris admitted. "They don't like the tower, they mostly stay down in the city by the Bards." She paused, a strange expression crossing her face. "They don't like to talk to me much, though. They always want to speak to adults."

Hem became very still. "Adult Bards?"

"I don't know." Iris frowned. "The cook tells me to wait by the window, to call the birds in and come fetch him when they arrive and then he sends me away."

"And have you ever listened in on what they say? I used to ask birds to spy on other boys for me." He smiled roguishly, but his heart had almost stopped. Birds coming from the city to the tower to speak with slaves? It seemed too great a coincidence.

"Never," Iris said softly. "They always send me to a different room."

"Oh." Hem sighed, then laughed easily. Iris relaxed. "I felt that way a lot when I was living with Saliman in Turbansk. He would always send me away when there were important discussions happening. But I was a terrible ward, I'd listen at keyholes."

Iris flashed a broad smile. "When I was at home my sisters and I would listen to my father through a crack in the wall of his study. When our mother caught us she twisted our ears so tight I thought they'd break off."

Hem chuckled. "Well, thank the Light she didn't. Your ears flatter your face."

Iris flushed with pleasure and tucked her long red hair back behind her ears. She watched Hem mop up the last of his stew and thought he looked very handsome, despite being dressed in a towel and blanket. She thought that if they had met in another life, she would have asked him to dance with her at the midsummer festival.

"You should cut your hair, I can't see yours."

He glanced up, smiling sheepishly. "Perhaps I'm due for a little trim. You good with a pair of scissors?"

"I used to help my mother with my father's hair!" She seemed delighted by the prospect of cutting Hem's hair. She reached across the table and twisted a piece of his hair around her finger, studying the texture. "Your hair curls at the ends, it's harder to cut, but I could do it."

He admired her straight red hair. "I suppose hair like yours is easy," Hem mused.

"Your sister has straight hair, why not you?" She pulled her hand away, having exhausted the excuse of measuring his hair.

"I suppose I take after my father." Hem shrugged. "He was Pilanel."

"And your mother?"

"Annarean." The memories of his parents were too painful, and Hem fell silent.

Iris sensed Hem's discomfort. "I don't like to think about my parents," she admitted, looking down at her hands in her lap. "I miss them too much."

Hem felt his throat tighten. She reminded him vaguely of Zelika, another girl orphaned by the forces of the Dark, but there was something quiet about her. Tragedy had instilled a certain madness in Zelika, the same madness that drove her to attack Saliman in his own house, attempt to sneak into the Turbanskian army, chase her brothers right to the swords of Hulls. But heartbreak had simply silenced Iris. She mourned in silence, lived in silence, she was like a marble statue: lovely, delicate but quiet.

"There is a certain peace to forgetting," Hem conceded. "It makes things easier."

"Is that why you're so calm?" Iris asked starkly. When Hem frowned she shrugged. "You seem very great when you're faced with the Nameless One. Everyone else screams and begs, not you."

Hem snorted. "I wouldn't say great." He unconsciously scratched his shoulder, fingering the edge of a belt lash. "When you don't have a choice these things…simply happen. But it's not greatness." Hem saw a flash of awe in her eyes and waved his hands before him. "There are other ways to be great, you know."

Iris bit her lip and Hem had a sense that she wanted to say something. "Does it scare you?"

"Always," Hem said earnestly.

"But it's worth it?"

"Of course." Iris placed her hands flat on the table and Hem reached out to brush her fingers. "But you need to be careful."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I try to be."

"Iris," Hem said urgently, holding her hand tightly. "Iris, if you're doing something dangerous you need to tell me. It's not safe in this tower, there are-"

Before Hem could finish the doors to the room swung forward and Hekibel entered looking harried. "Hem, good I see you're washed. There is a great celebration tonight and we must all be in attendance."

Iris snapped her hands back and Hem straightened. "What type of celebration?"

Hekibel rolled her eyes, heading for her room. "The Ernani has married."

Hem balked. "He's gone and fallen in love so quickly?"

"Love isn't the word I'm thinking of," Hekibel said tightly. "But he's gone and married and we are expected. So, smarten yourself up."

Hema nervously toyed with the small gold circlet she wore until her mother caught her eye with a warning look. She lowered her hand into her lap, properly chastised, and turned her attention to the men and women crowding the room as if they were fascinating. Truthfully, while they might not have been fascinating, they were different. Hema was accustomed to the warm, earthy tones of the people of Den Raven: tanned, dark skin, rich brown eyes, and thick, smooth hair. But some of the guests in the hall were disconcertingly bright. There was dark hair, yellow hair, even burnished red. Eyes like bright, hard jewels that reminded her of snakes she'd seen in markets. Skin, a sickly pale white.

Her eyes landed on a woman with red hair and she couldn't help but stare. The woman was standing in a small huddle of pale skinned men and women, talking with her head bowed. She was gripping the arm of a blond-haired man, and Hema scrunched her nose at his state: his hair was long and the ends unkempt, and a pale blond beard budded on his chin and cheeks. His eyes were bright blue and moved erratically around the room like a gazelle looking for a lion. Beside him, two dark haired people, a man and woman, were engaged in stiff conversation. Suddenly, like she sensed the eyes on her, the dark-haired woman turned to face Hema.

Having been caught staring in the first place, Hema had the good grace not to look away, and instead smiled politely. The woman didn't smile though. Her face was striking and her blue eyes glittered like diamonds, but she remained stern and her lips pursed together in a frown. She maintained eye contact, though, and Hema shivered as a shadow of the girl's power passed through her.

Witch, she thought, grabbing her glass of wine and sipping it.

Her mother had warned her that there would be many witches at her wedding feast tonight, but none of them would hurt her. They had been defeated by the Nameless One and were beholden to him now. They were not dangerous anymore, the Nameless One had divested them of their weapons and powers, they were just entertainment, like animals in a zoo to be gawked at. But that didn't mean their keen gazes didn't unnerve her.

"Smile, girl." Hema jumped at the sound of her mother's voice. "This is your wedding night, you should be happy."

"I am happy," Hema said softly. She glanced at her husband, indifferent to the entire room. Indifferent to her. "Most happy."

Cadvan and Maerad weaved in and out of the wedding guests, painfully aware of the looks they were receiving. Aside from their outlandish, northern features, there was a certain predatory nature to their eyes. The men and women from Den Raven had been warned that witches were mixed among them, but that they were beholden to the power of the Nameless One's throne. Tame witches. That knowledge did very little to ease their nerves when they saw the hard, angry looks on the Bards' faces.

They managed to sequester themselves in a corner near a window. It wasn't long before they were joined by Nelac, being helped along by Vaclal. "I see you two took the prime spot," Vaclal said dryly.

"Absolutely no view of the Ernani," Cadvan returned with equal verve. He took Nelac's arm and helped him closer to the window, embracing him in the process. "How are you, Nelac?"

"Well as can be expected," he said gruffly. He raised his hands for them all to see. "A few of the bones are properly set. I can hold a pencil again."

Maerad clasped his hands in hers. "It's good to hear you're recovering."

"Your brother is an excellent healer," Nelac returned. "I was fortunate to have him attend me."

Maerad smiled wanly, glancing around for her brother. He was near Saliman and Hekibel, studying the Nameless One curiously over the rim of his glass. "Cadvan, perhaps you could find Nelac a chair?" she suggested.

Cadvan blinked, confused, but the hard, bright smile on Maerad's face told him enough. He bowed a little. "Of course. How foolish of me not to offer." He withdrew, gesturing vaguely to Vaclal. "Perhaps you'll join me?"

Vaclal raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "I could use a wine," he offered blandly.

Maerad waited until they were out of earshot before turning back to Nelac. "Nelac, I need your advice," she said without preamble.

Nelac glanced sharply at Maerad. "Advice Cadvan cannot give you?"

Maerad bit her lip. "His mind is open to the Nameless One and should he scour Cadvan's thoughts, I don't want him coming across this conversation. Only you, me and Hem are protected from him."

"Troubling," Nelac admitted, looking across the room. "All the Bards here are revealed to him. None of them are safe."

"No," Maerad said a little sadly. "And Bards like Cadvan and Saliman, who spend so much time in his company are worst of all. It would be too easy for Sharma to read their minds."

Nelac bowed his head. "I had not thought of this. Sharma does his work well, erecting barriers between us so easily."

"Cadvan understands," Maerad said firmly. "But it doesn't make him happy."

"I imagine not," Nelac said slowly. He glanced up once at the Nameless One who was speaking in a low voice to the Ernani. "Well, we appear to have privacy. What did you want to know?"

"My brother had a dream about the Song. I think it might be a clue to stopping Sharma." Nelac's eyes widened as she described the dream to him. "I wonder what was meant by, It is lost. I refuse to accept the cause is lost, perhaps the Song itself is?"

Nelac frowned. "Perhaps lost in the practical sense. As in, it is lost, cannot find the right way or place. Misplaced?"

Maerad started. "Elidhu are creatures of place, the Song belongs to them."

"What place I wonder," Nelac said slowly. "If the Song is alive, as you've described it, then perhaps it too is an Elidhu?"

"Or like one…" Maerad frowned. "The Song was not made anywhere, it has always been."

"The runes then?" Nelac asked next. "The runes were made by Nelsor at Afinil."

Maerad gasped. The dream, the forest of silver trees in the snow. "I saw it. At least, I think I saw the place. A forest of silver trees in the dead of winter, under a moonless night."

Nelac studied her gravely. "Do you recognize the place?"

"No," Maerad said slowly.

Nelac sighed. "I think if there is any hope of fixing this, Maerad, you must find that place. I think you are right, the Song needed the place to be whole."

Maerad laughed hollowly. "And how will I find it? I am trapped in this tower. I cannot simply ask Sharma to let me go on a little trip."

"I don't know," Nelac admitted. "I sometimes think a change has come over Sharma. Don't misunderstand me, he was always cruel and hateful, but now he seems almost…" Nelac searched for the words. "Alive? His malice is still there, but it seems to manifest in the strangest ways. In all honesty, I thought he would simply kill us all once he had the Song, but instead, he sees fit to keep us alive to watch in the horrors he makes. It is vanity, yes?"

Maerad nodded, Nelac's thoughts mirroring her own suspicions. "Ardina told me the Song was alive in him. Perhaps it is a consequence of that?"

Nelac shrugged. "I think one thing is clear: vanity is a slave to error. For now, Sharma holds you prisoner in his tower, but I do not think that will always be so. Perhaps there will come a time when it amuses him to release you, and that may be your opportunity."

Maerad looked back at Sharma, now speaking to a Hull disguised as a gentlemen. His smile was like a razor that flashed at her. "I somehow doubt he will make that mistake soon. Besides, as soon as I run, he'll turn on the rest of you."

Nelac frowned. "Perhaps, but if the choice is between us and the Song, it isn't really a choice, is it?"

Cadvan and Vaclal were ambling over, now joined by Silvia and Malgorn. They had been dressed in a lovely green robes, but their skin was sallow and their faces lean from lack of food, and the finery couldn't disguise their discomfort. When Silvia saw Maerad, though, her face softened. She rushed forward, taking Maerad in a warm embrace.

"You are lovelier every time I see you." She kissed each cheek.

Maerad flushed. She was well aware that she was not looking lovelier, perhaps wanton, but not lovely. "I am glad you are doing well," she said softly. Her eyes moved to Malgorn, who tried to smile, but couldn't. Maerad stepped carefully around Silvia and took Malgorn's face in her hands. She kissed his brow and he felt a surprising spark of warmth run down his spine. "I think about you often."

Malgorn sighed and smiled for the first time. "It is good to see you, despite these circumstances."

"That seems to be a common greeting nowadays," Maerad said. "Despite it all, I am happy to see you."

Silvia frowned impressively. "Am I to understand there is a wedding today?"

"A wedding feast," Cadvan corrected in a low voice. "The marriage was a small, private affair between the bride's family, the Nameless One, and the Ernani."

"And who is the bride?" Silvia asked. "I confess, I am not well versed in the politics of the south."

Maerad felt eyes on the back of her head and looked up to find the bride herself staring at her. She smiled wolfishly, hoping the girl would look away and leave them to their gossip. She blanched, her gaze racing off, and Maerad laughed. "She isn't from Turbansk. She's a Grin's daughter."

"A Grin?" Malgorn asked sharply. "The Ernani makes a strange choice."

"Not his choice," Cadvan said in a low voice. "And if I don't miss my guess, her family's presence in his council is not either."

Malgorn switched his gaze back to the girl dressed all in white, smiling blithely at her audience, and frowned. "A pity. I would bet on my life that the girl doesn't even realize what she is a part of."

Maerad was less generous. "Then she should not be here."

Silvia nodded gravely. "Maybe. But I do not think it was her choice either."

Maerad sighed, looking around with a bored expression. "I shall get us wine, yes? If we're forced to be a part of this farce, we might as well drink our fill."

Maerad wandered away slowly, feeling a prickling at the back of her neck. When she looked up again, she found Sharma's eyes on her, staring hungrily. She shivered a little, despite her best efforts. He always looked ready to lunge at her. Something cold pressed against her mind, and she suspected that the Nameless One was trying to push into her thoughts, but she threw up a wall of surprising strength. At once, he recoiled, and Maerad gleamed at him, laughter in her eyes.

Clever, but if I had the mind for it, I could say a single word and break you, the Nameless One warned her, sitting back on his throne and looking out across the room.

Say it then, she returned, and had the pleasure of seeing his frown deepen.

I am bound by my oath to your lover, he said simply.

Maerad turned away, wondering if he spoke the truth. The Nameless One was the most powerful creature in all the Edil-Aramandha, but she sensed a tension in him when he dealt with her or her brother. They shared the power of the Song, they were bound to each other through it. Perhaps he spoke the truth, and only his oath to Cadvan protected her, or maybe…maybe this was deeper magic than either of them understood.

It should have been mine. It wanted me. Maerad was so distracted by Ardina's warning, that she almost didn't notice the young queen stand and speak to a servant.

"Maerad?" the Nameless One's voice rang out. She spun about, looking blankly at the rest of the room that was turning to face her.

Give us a show, his low, laughing voice said and she shivered.

"We have a treat tonight!" His voice boomed over the audience. "Our lady, our new queen consort, Hemalatha, has asked to dance for us." Polite clapping followed this announcement and the people parted to reveal the dance floor. The Nameless One waved over a young man. Maerad recognized him as the Ernani, Ir-Ytan. He sat stiffly in a chair, looking out over the crowd.

"We will need music," the Nameless One said in a low voice, his eyes moving across the room, searching for Maerad's face in the crowd. "Lucky us, we are in a room full of Bards. Maerad, Cadvan! You will play."

Maerad paused, mouth agape, as she had no desire to make music, but Cadvan's hand suddenly brushed the inside of her elbow and he moved her forward into the center of the room. They both bowed ironically to the Nameless One, and Cadvan pinched the inside of her arm to get her to speak. "It would be our pleasure to accompany our new queen consort." Maerad turned to Hema, and her smile was feral. "What would you like, my lady?"

Hema hesitated then asked in a soft voice for some tune, and Maerad had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She and Cadvan mounted the stage in the corner, averting their gaze from the chains still hanging on the wall, and accepted their lyres when presented. After a quick discussion about timing in which they both took the opportunity to clear their throats and tune their neglected instruments, they faced the crowd and struct the first cords. Maerad began to sing, choosing to look out blandly over the audience and not give any hull or Grin or even the Nameless One her attention, but as the song progressed she studied Hema while she danced alone. She was pretty and delicate, draped in white satin, and she had an inherent grace that Maerad envied. She was also painfully shy. Throughout the night, Maerad had observed her, and noticed that she spoke very little, ate almost nothing, and mixed her wine with liberal amounts of water. She was barely a person of substance, just a pretty little girl, and by making her marriage, ruining an entire country.

Idiot, Maerad thought as she played. As her side, Cadvan shifted, caught her eye, and smiled sardonically like he knew what she was thinking.

Hema spun, enjoying the feeling of the dress as it flared out around her. She sensed the eyes of the people in the room on her and reveled in their attention. She was determined to show everyone how perfect she was. Determined to show her husband that she deserved to be his queen. When the music ended, she looked up boldly at the Ernani, daring him to deny she wasn't lovely.

Ir-Ytan's dark eyes were on her, and he was smiling politely, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. He might have been admiring a painting or a statue, but he wasn't seeing her as a person. She felt all the pleasure from the dance wash out of her and her smile became rather fixed.

"Very pretty," Ir-Ytan said mildly, clapping while she took a bow. The Nameless One shot a dark look at the Ernani and he smiled broadly. "I've never seen such a perfect dancer. You will have to dance for me again sometime, perhaps in private where I can properly admire it." For some reason, this last comment was met with a spattering a laughter and Hema sensed she was the butt of some joke. Her cheeks grew very hot.

"If it would please you," she said with firm smile.

"Immensely," Ir-Ytan said warmly. He stood and lifted his glass to her, but swept the gesture wide so it became a salute to Maerad and Cadvan. "You are master musicians, Mistress Maerad, Lord Cadvan. Perhaps you can come visit my court one day and play for us again?"

Maerad raised an eyebrow. "We would be honored."

Ir-Ytan stepped down from his seat and approached Hema slowly. She drew a deep breath and pressed down any urge to run. He was a handsome enough man, and his smile was pleasant, but there was an underlying tension in him. An anger. In that moment, it didn't matter how beautiful she was, she realized that he would never love her. He took her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

"You would like that, yes, Hemalatha?" Ir-Ytan asked pleasantly.

She swallowed. "I enjoy music."

Ir-Ytan stared at her, wondering how someone could be so completely dull. "Well, we will have to ask for Bards to visit us, won't we?" He looked around the room and found Saliman's face in the crowd.

The Nameless One watched the exchange, eyebrows twitching together. "That might be arranged, but in the meantime, Maerad, Cadvan, play on."

Cadvan looked courteously at the Nameless One. "What would you like us to play?"

"Something for dancing," the Nameless One said carelessly, waving them away.

Hema turned to Ir-Ytan, expecting him to ask her to dance, but he was looking into the audience. "You'll have to excuse me, Hemalatha, but I believe I see an old friend of my mother's and I must speak to him."

Hema pushed down her annoyance. "Of course, my lord."

Ir-Ytan wandered off and Hema watched him go, unable to think of a thing to say that would call him back. She heard the tinkle of laughter and turned to see a beautiful woman leaning against a table, sipping a glass of bright red wine. She had long blond hair, tied back with a simple leather cord, but wore a dress of fine, pink silk. She winked.

"Looking forlorn won't bring him back to you," the woman said slyly.

Hema didn't know what to say, so she smiled and left the dance floor to join the woman. "I'm sorry, but I don't think we've been introduced." She inclined her head a little.

"No, I don't think we have." She sank into a deep, elegant bow. "I am Hekibel."

"You're not from here," Hema said starkly, studying her pale skin and bright hazel eyes. She was lovely, in a watered-down way.

"No," agreed Hekibel, "but that doesn't mean I don't recognize a handsome young man when I see one. Or," she said, pausing significantly, "a smitten young woman."

Hema lifted her chin. This wasn't talk a common woman should be having with a queen. "I wouldn't know what you're speaking of. It's entirely inappropriate."

She waited for the other woman to agree and acknowledge her, but Hekibel merely shrugged. "Maybe. But a married woman has a duty to her husband, yes? And I see a look in your eye. The same look I have when I look on my own husband."

"You're married?" Hema was surprised such a woman, if married, was suddenly unaccompanied by her husband.

"We are, for use of a better word." Hema said nothing to this so Hekibel continued. "Handsome men make fools of good women."

"The Ernani is beyond reproach."

"By the Light, he is," Hekibel agreed energetically. "But I think, if you're looking to get his attention, you may want to do more than dance for him." She smiled sharply. "He may be enticed by other means."

Hema bit her lip. She had such little education when it came to men, she was curious what this woman had to say. However, propriety won out. "A queen consort doesn't entice her husband."

"No, but you're not just a queen consort. You're a young woman." Hekibel smiled at the crowd of men and women arrayed before them. Her voice took on a strange tone, soft and almost sad. "You're allowed to have desires, you know."

Hema balked, uncertain as to what the woman was describing. "You said you have a husband. Who is it?" she asked, glancing around the room.

"The First Bard of Turbansk."

Hema's eyes moved to the dark-haired man who was in conversation with a young man. "Are you a witch?" she asked, forgetting her manners.

Hekibel laughed luxuriously. "A witch? By the Light, no. A Bard? Certainly not. Just a player from the North who had the misfortune of loving an unlucky man."

This seemed to resonate with Hema. "It is hard, being his wife?"

"No," Hekibel said slowly. "He is easy to love. It is hard being his wife here. In another time and place, you would not have found a happier woman than me."

"Then why don't you just leave?" Hema pushed.

"You don't really understand anything, do you?" Hekibel asked sympathetically.

"I understand plenty," she said, her eyebrows twitching together with annoyance.

Hekibel studied her a moment, finished her glass of wine, and turned to leave. "You're a bit young to be such an important player in all of this. But then, most of them are." She looked away, and Hema had the feeling that Hekibel was seeing something quite different in her mind's eye. "It won't be easy, you know."

"My mother said something similar."

"Well, at least you have her wit to guide you," Hekibel finally said. Her eyes glittered ironically. "A very good night to you, queen consort. May your marriage bring you to a happier place than mind did." She made a pert, little bow and swished off. Hema noticed how smooth her gate was, how seductive her walk, and the heads of men that turned to follow her. She wondered if she could learn that in time.

When she returned to her seat, her mother was watching her closely. "You should not speak to those…people." She sniffed, sipping her wine.

Hema looked up, questioningly. "What do you mean?"

"The northern folk. They are soulless, it's why their skin is pale and their eyes hard. They are traitors to our lord's rule." She jerked her head sharply at them. "That's why they are slaves now."

"They don't look like slaves." Hema was studying the dark-haired girl, Maerad, again. She was dressed elegantly, her hair neatly arranged to fall around her face. She sang and played with enough skill to make Hema envious.

"They are," her mother said knowingly.

Hema took a seat again and glanced down at her hands, her mind plagued with thoughts of Hekibel. "Mother, tonight, when I am with my husband, what should I do?"

Sonja looked briefly shocked her daughter was asking something so indelicate. "You will do as he instructs. The Ernani will know what needs to be done to get you with child." She glanced at Ir-Ytan briefly, and a small frown creased her face. "You lay with him. It might hurt, if it does…"

"Yes?" Hema asked, her eyes going wide.

"Make no comment of it."

Ir-Ytan had left Hema gratefully and cut through the crowd toward Saliman. The Bard seemed to be having an involved conversation with another northerner who Ir-Ytan didn't recognize.

"Ir-Ytan," he said when the Ernani approached, excusing himself from the conversation.

"Saliman, it's good to see you again."

Saliman held out his hand and smiled ruefully. "Congratulations."

Ir-Ytan chose not to look at his bride. "I am a lucky man."

Saliman shook his head. "This is a travesty, I agree, but there is little recourse. It is best to make the most of this you can."

"And what is the most I can make?"

"You can protect your people," Saliman said firmly. "You can direct the course of this new rule as smoothly as possible."

"The Grin family will. The father and brothers will be on my counsel, they'll have the power to pass laws. I can't outwardly oppose them." Ir-Ytan smiled bitterly. "I shall simply start a dynasty of wardens that will rule under the service of the Nameless One."

Saliman was looking down at his cup of wine and tried to smile. "Well, that should at least be enjoyable."

Ir-Ytan balked, a strange look coming over his face. He glanced toward Hema then back and Saliman was surprised to see he looked nervous. "Tonight," he said slowly, "I'll have to…consummate the marriage."

Saliman raised an eyebrow. "Yes, if you want your brother back."

Ir-Ytan bit his lip and a look came over his face. "Saliman, I've never been with a woman.

"Ever?" he asked sharply, before he thought better about it. "I mean, you've courted women, kissed women, yes?"

"Yes," Ir-Ytan said, "but that's not the same. I've never lain with a woman."

"Right," Saliman said slowly, lowering his voice. "Well, you have to-"

"I know how I just don't know how to…do everything else." He looked contrite. "All the things leading up to it."

"Oh," Saliman breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, well, that's rather straight forward. It's a lot of talking, kissing, the things you already know. Then you get in bed and-" he gestured wide with his hands. Suddenly, he looked around, caught Cadvan's eye and waved him over. Cadvan murmured something to Maerad as one song came to a close and she nodded him off.

"Ir-Ytan, congratulations."

Ir-Ytan eyed the northern Bard with interest. "I'm afraid I don't know you."

"This is Cadvan of Lirigon, a very good friend of mine."

"You played well," Ir-Ytan said kindly.

"Only the best for our esteemed lord," Cadvan said ironically, winking at the young man.

"Cadvan, we have a conundrum on our hands," Saliman said after a moment. Ir-Ytan flushed a little, but Saliman waved a casual hand. "Ir-Ytan will have to consummate his marriage tonight. For the first time."

"I suspect most consummations are a first," he said dryly.

Saliman frowned. "It is his first."

Cadvan smiled faintly. "I remember that particular event as being enjoyable, if not a little confusing."

"Well, I think Ir-Ytan would like it to be a little more enjoyable and a little less confusing," Saliman said softly.

Cadvan blinked. "For you, or her?"

It was a strange question, because Ir-Ytan had a natural dislike of the girl. He surprised himself when he said, "For both, I suppose."

"That's rather noble, given the circumstances," Cadvan said gently, "but as it should be. And Saliman could not advise you in this?" He smiled is rascally fashion at the other Bard.

"I could, but I wanted your advice tossed in," Saliman said, mock hurt.

Cadvan chuckled, and unconsciously looked across the room to Maerad, seated on the dais, playing softly. "Every time you take a new partner is a first, and you have to learn over time what they like. It's just important to listen, be gentle, be giving."

Ir-Ytan considered this. "I'm not going to hurt her," he said firmly. "I may not love her, I may not even like her, but I'm not going to hurt some innocent girl out of anger at her circumstance."

Saliman nodded, wondering what to tell him, but at that moment, Malgorn wandered over. He raised a wine glass to the boy in a mock toast. "What are you whispering about?"

"Ah, now here is an expert," Cadvan said with a laugh. "The only one of us actually married."

"Is that jealously I hear in your voice?" Malgorn asked.

"You know me so well," Cadvan said, smiling at Ir-Ytan. "Malgorn, Ir-Ytan would like to please his new wife tonight, and it appears Saliman and I are utterly incapable of explaining how."

"That's not shocking," Malgorn said in a low voice, "these two are hopeless. I pity their poor women."

Ir-Ytan smiled faintly. "Perhaps you could offer some advice to an aspiring novice."

Despite himself, Malgorn found the conversation oddly nostalgic, and was reminded of his fumbling lovemaking on his wedding night. "Kiss her, on the lips at first, then move down, her neck and shoulders, her wrists. You can touch her as well, gently between her legs. It's important, because men, well…we're a little more easily excited. Women take time."

Ir-Ytan looked acutely interested. "But for how long?"

"She'll be mildly damp between her legs."

Ir-Ytan nodded slowly. "Why?"

"It means she's aroused," Cadvan said simply.

"No, it doesn't," Malgorn said quickly. "I mean, yes it does, but, more importantly, it means you won't hurt her during the act." He smiled apologetically. "And, honestly, that's probably the best you can hope for on your first night."

Ir-Ytan was surprised. "That's it? Just kiss her and touch her."

"Well, there's more, but you should really focus on making sure she's comfortable. I imagine that girl will be nervous tonight. I imagine you're both a little nervous tonight."

Ir-Ytan glanced between the three men and smiled sheepishly. "I keep thinking that I want to make this right, but then I remember that her family is usurping my throne and giving it to the Nameless One. I want to like her, but I cannot see her and forget what she is."

"Perhaps it is best to remember that tonight, at least, she was more an innocent young woman than a Grin's daughter," Saliman said gently, watching Hema sip her watered wine. "And, remember this, Ir-Ytan, you think she is bound to the will of her family, but you can bind her to you."

"With a child?" he suggested morosely.

Saliman's eyes widened in shock. "No, with your love. I imagine she is not well treated by her family, or I imagine that she is probably treated more a pawn to be played, not a person. If you love her right, she might come to choose you over her family."

The idea intrigued Ir-Ytan and he studied the girl closely. "She's afraid of me."

"Give her reason not to be," Saliman advised simply. "Start tonight. You don't only have to bed her. This is an opportunity to be alone, to speak privately without her parents or the Nameless One listening. You should get to know her."

Ir-Ytan nodded, wondering what there actually might be to know of the girl, but before he could push more, the Nameless One was nodding him over to speak.

The Bards hung back. "What a hopeless situation," Cadvan finally said. "I mean, for both of them. Ir-Ytan should not have to marry a Grin's daughter, and she seems utterly terrified at the prospect."

"This will be a hard adjustment for him," Saliman agreed. "He will have to share the rule of his kingdom with those petty men."

For a moment they were silent, then Malgorn cleared his throat. "I worry, too, about the boy's safety. For now, they need him, but there could come a time when Ir-Ytan's value may be diminished."

"No," Saliman said, shaking his head, "they need an Ernani to rule the Suderain."

"Of course," Malgorn agreed. "An Ernani, not necessarily him."

Saliman's brows twitched together at that. "There is time yet," was all he said.

Ir-Ytan approached the Nameless One hesitantly. "You asked for me?"

The Nameless One's dark eyes glittered with excitement as the young Ernani drew closer, he could smell the boy's fear. "I would like to congratulate you on your wedding. I have a gift for you."

Ir-Ytan stared. "You are very gracious."

"It is a joyous day, my young king!" He waved Hema over, and she walked with her eyes downcast. "You two are the future of the Suderain, and we salute you." He lifted his glass in a toast to the young man and woman before him. "But let us not forget the past! Everyone, take your seats, I have commissioned a play for this merry day!"

The Nameless One waited until the guests had taken their seats and clapped his hands. "I give you, the Battle of the Lion and the Viper!"

The doors to the hall opened and out streamed a collection men dressed gaily in either bright red or dark, luminous blue. Their faces were painted and their hair tied up and hidden under soft, felt hats artfully shaped to look like helmets. One their number was clearly meant to be a woman, but the actors had done so comically, using sandbags to form her breasts, hips and buttocks. The man wore a wooden mask on his head, shaped into the face of a women with a long, tangled, dirty wig and a paper crown. He carried a scepter with red jewel and on his chest was painted a sloppy sun.

A spasm of pain passed over Ir-Ytan's face. In the crowd, Saliman covered his eyes a moment, not caring who saw the look of anguish.

Hekibel touched his wrist gently. "Who is it?"

"Har-Ytan. The previous Ernani." He looked up again, watching as the characters took their places in two opposing lines. The man playing Har-Ytan tripped idiotically over the comically long dress he wore and the crowd laughed. "I knew her a long time, and loved her dearly."

"She was Ir-Ytan's mother?"

"She died in the last defense of Turbansk. I still remember watching her leave the palace." Saliman looked away from the unfolding scene: the two armies, Turbansk in red and the Nameless One in blue, were charging at each other.

Hekibel watched the men hit each other with wood pikes and scrunched her nose. "It is rather tasteless at Ir-Ytan's wedding."

"It is not tasteless, it is cruel," Saliman said thickly, watching the play resentfully.

The actors clearly understood that they were not there to display the relative valor of the combatants, but to make a joke of Turbansk. The forces from Turbansk fell over each other, cowered from the pikes of the Nameless One's forces, and frantically pushed each other forward like sacrificial lambs. But even all that would have been bearable if not for the finale when the man playing Har-Ytan came chagrining forward, waving his sword haphazardly. The force of the swing sent him spinning around and one of the sandbags that served as his left breast came loose and flew across the room. The crowd burst into fits of laughter as the man looked about cluelessly for his missing breast. He spotted it at the edge of a table of Grin and ran to collect it, but as he bowed to pick it up, waggling his inflated rear, the other breast fell out as well.

"Playing it close to the chest, are we, my lady?" one his companions bellowed to renewed laughter from the crowd.

"Trying!" the man replied. He gave up his attempt to reinsert the sandbags and instead threw them at his challengers. One flew too wide and hit the stage where Maerad and Cadvan were playing.

"Is this completely necessary?" Maerad asked in a sharp whisper. Her eyes were on Ir-Ytan, who was biting his lip. "This must be torment for him."

"I think that is the point," said Cadvan stiltedly, gripping his lyre so tight his knuckles were white.

Before Maerad could respond, the man playing Har-Ytan removed a great goat horn from his billowy robes and gave a blow. Whether it was due to the shape of the horn, or some artifice of the players, the sound of a wet raspberry sounded out. The Turbansk forces gathered around him and formed a swaying crescent. Across the room, the Nameless One's forces did the same, and a large, built man with a rearing snake painted on his chest plate came forward to face them.

"The desert viper! It is my family sigil!" Hema told Ir-Ytan excitedly, completely enticed by the play.

Ir-Ytan didn't even bother to acknowledge her words, he knew what came next.

The viper lunged forward at Har-Ytan, swinging a great wooden axe. Har-Ytan dodged the blow, swept his own sword, and managed to land an impressive strike on the ground. The force of the blow was so powerful, however, that the wooden sword splintered. Seeing an opening, the viper leapt forward and slashed the axe through the air, taking off the mask, wig and crown. The fake head flew across the room to great applause and the man playing Har-Ytan fell to the floor, the top of his head painted into a bright red stump.

The man playing the victorious viper picked up the head and waved it around the room, howling with laughter. Ir-Ytan stared at the man playing the corpse of his mother, his eyes bright with pain. Beside him, Hema burst into wild applause.

"Bravo!" she called, exultant at her kinsman. "Wonderful!"

The man playing the viper caught her eye and bowed low, waving his fellows forward. They handed him something, which he reveled with a grand flourish: a lion pelt.

"For you, your majesty, the coat of a lion. May you wear it with pride." The man sank to his knee as Hema stood and accepted the pelt with a sharp sigh.

"It's beautiful," she said.

The Nameless One stood. "Now, now, this is a wedding! There are two lucky lovers here tonight. You, Har-Ytan, give me your scepter." The man playing Har-Ytan came forward and offered the brass scepter to the Nameless One. He gave it a firm pound on the floor and the ruby in the top came loose. He offered it graciously to Ir-Ytan.

"I want you to have this."

Ir-Ytan was shocked when the Nameless One revealed the Flame of the Throne, a ruby worn by the Ernani. His mother had worn it into her final battle. The Nameless One must have taken it from Har-Ytan after her death, and now, nestled in his large, dark hands, it looked like a dying candle.

Ir-Ytan could say nothing, he just stared at the jewel. "Where did you get it?" Ir-Ytan asked.

"I believe a loyal servant of mine plucked it off the battlefield." His eyes moved around the room and landed on Rikesh, who smiled pompously. "I suppose we should be thanking your family, Lady Hemalatha."

Hema obligingly dipped a low curtsey. "Yes, my lord. A gift from my family to demonstrate our infallible loyalty to your reign." She came up, a bright smile on her face, but when she saw the look of black of anger on Ir-Ytan's face she faltered. "And we thank you for your continued trust in us."

"You will make an excellent ruler," the Nameless One said. His eyes moved frantically between Ir-Ytan and Hema, enjoying his silent indignation. "Here, Ir-Ytan, I give you this jewel as a sign of my faith in your just and loyal rule." He held out the ruby suspended on a gold chain. "My warden in the south."

Ir-Ytan swallowed back his anger, but moved to take the jewel. Just before Ir-Ytan could touch the ruby, the Nameless One dropped it like a bit of trash and Ir-Ytan had to scrabble to catch it. He clutched it tight in his hand.

"You are welcome," the Nameless One said when Ir-Ytan didn't speak.

Hema stared at her husband, aghast that he had not thanked their king. "We both thank you."

The Nameless One offered Hema a small nod of the head. "Well, let us all toast the new bride and groom before we send them off to their evening, yes?"

Ir-Ytan was staring at the ruby, thinking of his mother who had died wearing it. The Nameless One said his men had cut off her head and brought it back to him. It had not occurred to him until then that Hema's family had done the cutting. His grip on the stone was so tight it cut his hand.

"We wish you all the best as the two of you embark on this journey. May you forever be satisfied in each other." He held up a glass of bright red wine to toast them. Around the room, the Grin and their ilk as well as the Hulls, called out their ironic cheers. The Bards, scattered in the crowd, barely lifted their glasses.

"Best wishes!" cried the Nameless One