“This has gone on long enough,” Bin Dar exclaimed, standing. Lord Gaul stood with him, and slowly the other lords rose as well.
“I agree.” The king’s voice rang out from the back of the church. “Let’s proceed, shall we?”
A collective cry went up, Tiras’s name on every tongue. The lords grew white and quiet, their eyes scurrying, their jaws slack, and I braced myself against the temptation to turn and verify the king’s presence. But I knelt with my back stiff, eyes forward, waiting for him to come to the altar as Jeruvian custom demanded.
I counted his steps as they echoed through the hushed cathedral, slow and steady, my heart beating double time to their rhythm. Then Tiras was kneeling across from me, his eyes burning, his palms upon the altar, his posture submissive but his expression that of the conqueror.
I wanted to demand answers, to berate him, to send sharp words between us, but mostly, I was so overwhelmed to see him that I stayed still, my eyes clinging to his.
“You are still here, Lady Lark,” Tiras murmured, his lips hardly moving as his eyes gleamed.
And you are still an ass, I answered, finding my voice, my relief making me weak, even as I fought to remain strong just a bit longer.
“Prior, please proceed,” the king commanded.
“Where have you been, Majesty?” the prior stuttered, and the king’s jaw clenched at his audacity.
“There are those who seek my life, Prior. Those who don’t want me to take a queen or continue my rule over Jeru. Are you one of them?”
“No Majesty. Of course not. Thank the Gods you are here,” he mumbled, performing the sign of the Creator in the air, as if seeking divine assistance. His gaze swung between the apoplectic lords and the kneeling king who waited impatiently for him to begin the ceremony. With another sign of the Creator, he squared his shoulders and began. He did not look at the lords again, nor did I.
My head was an ocean of words, my chest a storm of sensation, and I heard little of what transpired in the following moments. The prior spoke a blessing on the king, touching his eyelids, his temples, the lifelines on his hands, his wrists, and then performed the same blessing on me. I placed my hands over Tiras’s when directed, the brush and slide of my palms against his making my bare toes curl and my breath grow shorter.
When the Prior asked me if I would give my life to Tiras of Degn, if I would honor him by taking his name as mine and taking his body into mine, I could only nod, though I gave the words to Tiras.
I will.
When the prior asked Tiras if he would give me his name and give me his seed, he too nodded, but his voice rang through the cathedral, loud and bold, and my toes curled again.
“I will.”
The prior laid the Book of Jeru upon the altar, opening the pages to the list of kings, and handed me the quill.
I found the line next to Tiras’s, an empty space I was expected to fill, and with a firm hand, signed my name. I heard my father sputter and protest.
“She cannot read or write,” he argued. “She cannot even give her consent.”
“She can,” Tiras said, his gaze rising from my name and falling on my father. “And she has.”
“What have you done?” my father moaned, echoing the question I had posed to him, even as the prior pricked our fingers and pressed our bleeding hands together, a symbol of the merging of lives and bloodlines.
“So it is written, so it is done on the first day of Priapus, the month of fertility. May the God of Words and Creation seal this union for the good of Jeru,” the prior said, repeating the words of the crier when he read the bans. The prior placed a crown of Jeruvian ore on my head, a crown so heavy I could barely lift my chin.
“You may rise, Lark of Degn,” the prior prodded.
I rose on legs I couldn’t feel, willing the clothes on my body and the air around me to keep me upright.
“King of Jeru, behold your queen,” the prior commanded, his voice rising with his relief that the ceremony was completed. For what felt like a small eternity, Tiras gazed up at me from where he still knelt beside the altar. Then he rose, his eyes still on mine, and took my hand. Turning, he presented me to the people assembled and to the lords who looked at me with green eyes and yellow hearts, their bitter thoughts tinging the air around them.
“People of Jeru, Council of Lords, behold your queen,” the king proclaimed. The congregation dropped collectively to their knees, their eyes remaining lifted, as their king had instructed.
And it was done.
My head hurt and my back burned from holding my spine straight and my crown from falling, and when the wedding feast ended and the women retired, I walked up the winding staircase, a maid trailing behind me, my train gathered in her arms. It was not Pia this time, but a girl I didn’t know, a girl with gentle fingers and a shy smile who carefully removed my crown and the jewels from my hair and brushed it with smooth strokes as my neck bowed in weary relief.
She washed my body, though I longed for my bed. I fell asleep with my head against the edge of the iron tub, but awoke as she urged me to step out, drying my body as I swayed and tottered like Boojohni when he’d had too much to drink. She rubbed oil into my skin, the scent not unlike the oil from the earlier anointing, reminding me of the old woman’s counsel outside the cathedral.
Wait for him.
The words invoked an ache deep in my belly, an ache that felt like pleasure but lingered like pain. I wanted to wait for Tiras. I wanted to see if he would come to me again, if he would come without my beckoning, on two legs instead of red-tipped wings. He’d kept me close through the festivities, his hand on my elbow, his length at my side. I’d had so many questions and fears, but no chance to ask them.