The Wedding Night


Ortiz stood stiffly as his manservant Abelino fussed over him, adjusting the set of a collar here, the fall of his robe there. The young Hajin was a particular as a cat when it came to his master's attire and Ortiz frequently just let him choose his clothes. It was easier than putting up with his servant's silent sighs and reproachful looks when he wore an outfit that didn't meet with Abelino's high standards. Tonight was no different.

Bowman waited quietly in the far corner of the room. His arms hung uselessly at his side and for once, he didn't look at the young Commander. He just stared at the rich, carpeted floor, tracing the red-gold swirls and spirals with his eyes.

Finally, Ortiz waved the servant off with a tired, "You can go now, Abelino."

"But Master, the sleeve…"

Ortiz rubbed his eyes, longing to snap but forcing himself to remain civil. "Just leave, Abelino."

The wiry brunette opened his mouth again, ready to continue his protests about the impropriety of his Lord meeting his bride with a badly set sleeve. But then he caught a glimpse of something in the other man's face that made him hesitate and close his mouth. With a low bow, he crept out of the room, past the great bed with its curtains and draperies of dark red velvet, and through the far door.

"Bowman?"

"Yes?"

"Do you…Why aren't you looking at me?" The dark-haired Manth lifted his head at the question, a frown marring his forehead. There had been a note in the older man's voice that had spoken of… of loneliness, of sadness, almost. It surprised him that this warmongering Commander could feel like that. Even more that he had enough courage to show it.

Ortiz didn't feel brave. Tugging at the collar of his dressing gown, he flicked up it until it stood stiffly, like a shield around the back of his neck. It was an instinctive gesture, one he'd used since childhood whenever he felt uncomfortable or upset. He glanced back at his truth-teller and turned. Tanned hands, callused from the sword, spread out like a magician flaunting his successful trick. Bowman raised his eyebrows. "My Lord?"

"So you see me, Bowman. I'm a married man. Married!" Ortiz shook his head. Convulsively, his hands went to the upright collar once more. The dark, blood red piece of starched silk was tugged firmly. "I never thought I'd be married." He admitted quietly.

The dark-eyed young man hesitated. Unbidden, another memory stole into his mind. A beautiful young woman…what was her name again? Sisi? That was it. Sisi. She'd been a servant with the Johdila, like Kess. And so absurd, like Kess could never be. A small smile touched his lips before he could call it back. She'd been so confident of those ridiculous beliefs of hers. That he would… He blinked and blushed. He could feel heat blistering his cheeks once more and was glad that Ortiz was too preoccupied with his own problems to notice.

But what was it she'd said? "I don't want to be alone."

Bowman lifted his head. "No one gets what they want."

"What?"

"I said, nobody ever gets what they want."

"This marriage is what the Master wants." The young heir to the Mastery was testing his truth teller now. Anything to keep his mind off what he would be obliged to do in very few minutes time. "Are you saying that he will never achieve what he desires? A man with his vision?"

Bowman replied with the fearlessness of not being taking seriously and knowing it. "You didn't have to go through with it."

Ortiz shook his head, a little sadly. "You still don't understand, do you?" He asked, mild surprise colouring his words. "About the Master's love."

"What about it?" What love? Bowman was tempted to ask, but didn't.

"You have parents, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I never knew my parents." The tawny-haired lord mused, his curiosity caught for a moment. "The Master has been mother and father to me throughout my entire life. Do you ever find, Bowman, that…" He paused, pondering his next words. "That… one would do many… a great many things for ones parents because by doing so it pleases them?"

"And that is how you are?" Bowman's own curiosity flared into life at the momentary insight into his master.

Hazel eyes turned back to him. The sheet of tightly inscribed parchment dropped from Ortiz's fingers as he thought about his truth-teller's question. "Is that me? Yes… I would like to think that. I would like to believe that that person was me."

"Then you will never be happy."

"Ah." A small smile touched Ortiz's lips. Again, he turned his back on Bowman, bending over the cedar-wood desk that stood beside the large, open windows. "But you said that no man ever gets what he wants."

"But every man should have a chance to try."

"And what-"

A soft rap sounded against the connecting door between the two bedrooms. It was a gentle knock, with a faintly apologetic air around it, like an excusing cough. But it reverberated around the room, like the thud of a war-drum.

Ortiz straightened up like an old man. Slowly. Painfully. Hazel eyes looked unseeingly at the wooden panelling above his desk, as the parchment dropped once more onto the surface of the table. For a moment, he seemed turned to stone.

Then, slowly, he came back to life. First he blinked. His hard fists relaxed into open palms, peaceful and reassuring. His shoulders straightened, then, muscle by muscle they relaxed into un-threatening slants. His clenched eyebrows loosened until his forehead was free of the deep lines that had crossed it. The commander caught sight of his servant staring at him in astonishment and tried to summon up a smile. Bowman tried not to wince. Ortiz looked more tired than ever.

"Why…?"

"Why?" Again the wearied look in Ortiz's eyes. "The Johdila is probably a virgin." Bowman couldn't stop the second blush that attacked him. Ortiz didn't seem to notice the Manth man's sensitivity. "Her wedding night should be remembered well. Not because her husband wore a frown the whole time."

"Wearing a smile doesn't make it any easier for her."

Or for me. Ortiz waved his hand abruptly, as if trying to banish the disloyal thoughts from his mind. "There's a room prepared for you, if you wish it. Abelino will show you to it…"

"No." The word blurted out before Bowman could stop himself. He backtracked hastily when the young Commander threw him a curious look. "No… sir. Thank you."

"You want to be with your family." Ortiz nodded. "Of course. I'm - … Well, never mind."

Bowman nodded and turned away towards the far door, the one that Abelino had exited through only a few minutes before. He lifted a hand to turn the door latch and stopped. His fingers froze, suspended in the air. With stiff, unschooled movements, he turned and bowed. It was not a low bow, full of courtliness and false sincerity. It was no servile bob of the head either but a sharp inclination of the shoulders, giving Ortiz what he had never received from his truth-teller. Respect. Respect and understanding. For that split second of movement and action, they weren't master and servant, conqueror and truth-teller, but just two men, faced with a harsh world. For that tiny fraction of time, the size of a grain of sand, they were equals.

Bowman almost dared to smile.

The door was open. Golden light was spilling into room from the lamps outside. Another knock came from the inner door, louder now and more insistent.

The Johdila was ready to meet her husband.

Bowman slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click.


The Johdila Sirharasi of Gang stood on the threshold of her new life and stared.

The room was so dark. Dark, cherry-wood panelling lined the walls, offset by the mixture of hardwood floors and deep-red rugs and carpets. There were no paintings along the walls: only dark red walls. The only thing that could come even close to a wall decoration was a large square tapestry hanging along the far wall. Made up of a medley of multicoloured strands, it showed a simple scene of a mother and son, sitting together in a green garden. The mother was sitting back; something bright wrapped around her left hand. The other hand was tugging gently at something… But the threads were dark with age and Sisi couldn't make out the elusive object in the dim light of the room.

The boy – he must be her son – was kneeling before the woman, his head tilted up adoringly so he could see her face. With a shock, like a bucket of cold water being thrown at her, the Johdila realised that the child had tawny hair, curling with childhood. Just like her husband.

Her husband. Gracious, how alien it sounded.

And this was his bedroom.

It was such a contrast to her own room of light, frothy fabrics. Lemons, light pinks, golden floors and white, white pillows. She assumed his pillows were white too but right now they were covered in a dark red blanket, edged in red silk. The curtains were the same shade as the edging, hanging sombrely straight from their rail above the windows.

He was beside the window, bending over the large desk of cedar-wood. With a gentle tilt of her lovely head, the Johdila watched him. Looking at him can't hurt.

He rested on one closed fist; his head bent low over a piece of parchment clutched in his other hand. The rich red robe covered his shoulders, falling down to the middle of his calves. Below it, he wore dark, loose trousers. His feet were bare. They drew Sisi's attention immediately. She'd never seen a man without his boots. Lunki had always tried to hustle her away from the areas where the Johjan guards trained when they were at home in Obagang. Even during the caravan, when the men trained on the side of the road, they wore tight, black boots to protect their feet from the sharp stones and thorns of the ground. His feet were broader than hers were. The heel was scuffed, with the vague up and down texture to it that suggested fading blister scars. The skin was tanned and his toes dug spasmodically into the deep carpet pile with every sentence that passed under his eyes.

What did one called an arranged husband? The Johdila wondered briefly. She had now been in this room over a minute and the heir of the Mastery hadn't even noticed she was in here with him. Sixty seconds was long time when you can't think of what to say or what to think. Eventually, growing sick of the protracted silence, she cleared her throat.

With reluctance, like a dying man letting go of the threads of his life, her husband straightened up. His head turned first, twisting around slowly to see who had interrupted his silence. Then his shoulders, turning in line with the rest of his body. The silk robe flared out with the movement, swinging out and falling back. When he was facing her completely, he blinked then bowed. "My lady."

Sisi stared. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Through the red cloth, she could see the caramel-brown of his skin, the hard, slim lines of his waist, his bunched muscles. There was a thin smattering of hair wiring across his upper torso and going down, in a small v into the rise of his waistband. Her stomach lurched slightly. The tanned skin had brought Zohon to mind: his arrogant, shallow smile, his unreasoning cruelty. She remembered when she had been twelve years old, in Obagang. She'd come into cellar, playing hide-and-seek with herself, and Zohon had been there, knife in hand, calmly beheading every rat that squealed in fear in the wire cage opposite him.

She had been sick then. She felt the familiar surge of nausea now, confronted with her husband. Quickly, she averted her gaze.

Ortiz could feel his cheek heat up at the Johdila's show of shyness. Glancing down, he saw that his robe was wide open, exposing his chest to view. The heat building every second, he wrapped the red cloth around himself and tied the knot tightly. "I… uh…" He cleared his throat. "I apologise for my disarray, my lady." He stated formally.

Sisi bowed her head politely in return. How else could she answer him? What would be the best thing to say… under the circumstances? To apologise equally? To make light of it, joking that they'd see a lot more of each other before the night was done? She winced at the last thought. She didn't even want to think about what they would be doing in this room tonight. She didn't even want to think about being married.

In the end she said nothing.

Ortiz rubbed his neck uncomfortably. "So…" He began hesitantly. "We're married."

For what was the first time, he looked – really looked – at the woman bound to him for all eternity. Or at least for the rest of his life.

Soft brown curls, the colour of scorched and polished ash, were pined back loosely into a simple, bridal style. A few curls had been let loose in the front to frame the lovely face of the Johdila of Gang, falling down by the soft but firm curve of her jaw-line. She wore no cap or veil. Instead the soft candlelight glowed onto the crown of her head, picking out strands of molten gold and black in equal profusion. Typical in Gang brides, she was dressed in white: a virginal, pure white, so clear that it seemed almost transparent but thick enough to give the Johdila security in modesty. The neckline clung rigidly to the first curves of her neck, not leaving a scrap of her shoulders or collarbone uncovered.

Sisi flinched in surprise as she felt two warm fingers touch the base of her chin. Instinctively, she glanced up through her eyelashes, ready to step back if he came too close. Bright hazel eyes looked down at her, curiosity waking up into their tired depths. Instantly, the fingers pressed into her skin, urging her to lift her head.

Ortiz drew in a breath of admiration. It was an automatic reaction. Since a child he had been surrounded with beauty on all sides – the beautiful women of the High Domain, the exquisite paintings that hung in his home, the glory of magnificent architecture and masonry. But this woman… His wife…

Gently, he pulled one brown curl out of its net and rubbed it between his fingers. It felt like silks and satins, soft and shimmeringly smooth. Too smooth, a voice whispered somewhere. But he ignored it. Shoved it down, like all the other doubts that had ever surfaced at inopportune moments.

"Lovely." He said softly, watching the gold wind around his thumb. "You are very lovely, my lady."

Sisi never hated her own beauty so much as at that moment.

There must have been something in her eyes, some emotion she hadn't managed to hide beneath the doll like exterior because he moved away, retreating to the tiny table set up in the corner of the room, by the connecting door. Over the delicate lace table cover, a hand-blown jug of fine glass was filled with wine, ready to be poured into the waiting glasses. The jug was stylised, like many utensils in the High Domain. The swans inspired this particular example. The glass body was feathered and etched intricately to represent the plumage o the white birds. The handle arched gracefully upwards, flowing into the beak-shaped spout like a swan's long neck. The symbolism was clear. The swan, the sign of devotion, of ever lasting love. The sight of it depressed Ortiz even more. But still, he forced the courtier's smile onto his face. His bride would not see him frown. Not tonight.

He turned back to Sisi, unaware that she had already seen the angry, helpless expression cross his face that night. Unaware that his deception was useless. His hand dropped down over the handgrip. "Some wine?"

Sisi nodded. One pale, pampered hand stretched out expectantly. Ever a princess… Ortiz thought, a flash of amused disbelief crossing his mind. She still expected people to wait on her hand and foot. He wondered if she had ever poured even so much as a glass of water for herself in all her life.

Courteously, he pressed the filled glass into her hand. Taking his own, he made as if to throw it back his throat in his usual habit but abruptly, he stopped. Wide, almond-shaped grey eyes were gazing at him in expectation. The Johdila – no, that wasn't right. Lady Ortiz (he winced briefly at how strange it sounded) was waiting for him. But waiting for what? He lifted his glass higher, silently urging her on to drink. When she didn't, he stared at her, perplexed. Was there something wrong with the wine? Surely Abelino wouldn't have served him corked wine?

"My lady?"

"My lord."

"Is something wrong?"

Sisi met his gaze calmly, inwardly marvelling at how cool she felt. "The toast, my lord." She replied clearly.

Ortiz resisted the urge to blink like a complete fool. "The toast." He repeated cautiously.

Sisi forced herself to give the winning smile that had so often confused her father's courtiers. "In Gang, we always give a toast to celebrate the new marriage." She supplied helpfully. "It is a common custom." She didn't know why she added in the last piece. Perhaps it was sheer vindictiveness against the man who had helped trap her in this unenviable situation.

Ortiz swallowed. "Ah. Of course. The toast." He lifted his glass. "To our marriage." He drank. The wine was sour in his mouth.

"To our marriage." Sisi echoed softly, copying his action.

The tawny haired commander rested the empty glass between his hands, avoiding his wife's eyes. The toast had forced his reasons for being with her tonight forcibly on him, his duties and responsibilities. He wondered if her mother had prepared her for this. He supposed she must have: Didn't all mothers do this for their daughters, as fathers did for their sons? "My lady…" No, that didn't sound right. But what was her name? He didn't know. Something ridiculous, he remembered dimly. Si… Sihan… "Siharasi." Sisi looked up at him in shock. Mentally, Ortiz cursed his attempt at informality. "My lady…" He repeated, retreating once more into the security of formal politeness. "About our… married life."

The Princess's eyes widened and a deep blush rushed to her cheeks. Ortiz rubbed his thumb along his palm, even more unsettled now at this display of maidenly modesty. But he still forged ahead, determined to get this over with. "Of course we will be expected to… uh… produce children." Produce. Like a baker with his bread. Great, just great. "But I will try… I hope… I mean…" He stuttered slightly, delving more and more into discomfort at the shocked modesty. "I'll try not to inconvenience you too much, my lady." He muttered finally. Like a schoolboy with his hand stuck in the sweet jar and caught red handed. He hoped to the stars that she had enough brains to understand what he meant. The Gang royalty had never been truly famed for great intelligence.

"I understand, my lord." Her voice was low and Ortiz felt a spurt of relief. She wasn't stupid. Perhaps he might even gain an easier marriage than he had envisioned. "Thank you for… for your…" The words trailed off into silence.

The husband and wife stood together and nothing linked them. They were like two one-man islands, always drifting away from each other.

Ortiz glanced back over his shoulder, longing to return to the proposals he was preparing for the Master's Foreign Council. Because of his marriage, their entire foreign policy could change. They could do so much. Expand into Gerat to the north-east. The great water-cities of Nims, Poines and Haran would fall under the Master's sword. His sword.

Once he got through tonight.

Hazel eyes returned to his bride. Awkwardly, his hand lifted to her, as if leading her out into the dance. It was battle-scarred, she saw. Tiny white scars rimmed the square edges of his palm. Along the inside of his thumb, she caught the glimpse of a burn scar. She wondered if he had received it in destroying Kess's city.

"My lady?"

She lifted her eyes to his. He raised his hand higher. His gaze was steady now. He had made up his mind and would carry through with his duty. And he would smile.

"Shall we?"

Doll-like, the Johdila Sirharasi – not Sisi – placed her hand in her husband's broad palm. It rested there like the hand of statue.

Together, they walked towards the bed.