Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (23 page)

She
didn't need more. She'd a guard. She'd attendants. She'd seen Maila
deal with supplicants now and again, as a Shadow alchemist did.

Back
straight. Shoulders straight. Chin up and proud. Eyes cold, though
she'd never truly manage that, and only the veils allowed her to
pretend.

They
went down a spiral stone staircase so polished that she could've
brewed a potion on it and not worried for bad reactions. And
then . . .

The
attendants paused at the base of the stairs, before a pair of doors.
The guard stepped around them all and pushed on the doors. They
opened outwards, into a sea of color.

The
veils blurred details. Pale hair, pale skin, clothing in all the
colors she could imagine and a few she wouldn't have thought there
were dyes for. Murmurs and hush rippled away of her, leaving only a
cacophony of perfumes.

The
girls walked forward. Remembering the script she'd been given, Kessa
followed them along the green carpet. It was lined with people,
standing just over an arm's length from her.

It
was a long walk, it seemed, from some corner of a courtyard that'd
been built around as the keep became a castle and then a palace. Long
enough that her mind started working again; she tried to hear the
murmurs in her wake.

Barbarian,
said some.
Scandal,
said others.
So thin,
came one
disdainful sniff. Oddly, she caught a
poor girl
and
so
young
in tones of pity.

No
one reached out to grab her, shove her, trip her. No one blocked her
way. She passed more nobility, more wealth, more people of
quality
than she'd ever dreamed of walking by without a curtsey, and held her
gaze straight ahead. By the time she arrived at the cleared circle,
her nerves were wound tighter than ever they'd been when she'd sent
guard dogs to sleep or inched along uncertain rooftops in the night.

The
gray blur in front of her reached out, and parted the topmost veil.
Iathor said, quietly, "I was nearly afraid you'd changed your
mind."

His
words and tone startled a laugh from her, nervous and breathy. "I
should fear you'd change yours, in front of everyone."

He
lifted her hands to his lips, left and right in turn. "Never."

It
cracked the shell of vengeance around her heart, letting in confused
numbness. But she'd no time. Iathor had her hand, leading her further
into the circle. His flimsy, decorative cape waved behind him.

She'd
walked around the workroom with her script, as her potion boiled, but
that was square and much smaller than the circle here. At the four
"corners," calculated by precise astronomy, the elemental
priests waited; in the center was Prince Tegar, taking a judge's
role, and now she curtseyed while Iathor knelt on one knee.

"Rise,"
the city-prince bade them. Once they stood, he lifted his voice. "I
see before me Iathor Kymus, Baron Kymus, Lord Alchemist. I see before
me Kessa Herbsman, herb-witch. Can any say that I see wrongly?"

His
token pause was greeted with silence. He went on, "I hear that
of your own free wills, you will be bound in marriage, each to each,
blood to blood and breath to breath. I hear you are before me without
coercion, that you may be bound body to body, life to life. Can
either of you say I have heard wrongly?"

Silence
would've sufficed, but Iathor said, clearly, "You have not heard
wrongly, your Grace."

Kessa
wanted to clench her fists, both hands empty since they'd needed them
to give obeisance to the city-prince. Instead, she strove to make her
voice level. "I'm here of my own choosing, your Grace."

"Then,
Kessa Herbsman, you shall give your fealty to this man, take his
house and name as yours, honor his vows, and grant to him your fields
and care?"

"I . . ."
She swallowed, barely remembering not to bite off the pigment Laita'd
painted on her lips. "I will."

The
prince turned his head. "And do you, Iathor Kymus, Baron Kymus,
Lord Alchemist, accept this woman's fealty, take her into your home,
grant her your name and honor, and pledge your seed and care?"

"I
will," Iathor said, though a bit tighter than before.

Again,
Prince Tegar lifted his voice to the assembled audience. "Are
there any here with authority over these two to gainsay their oaths
and recant their vows?" The pause was brief again. "Then as
proxy for the Princeps Cymeli, I decree that these two are husband
and wife, bound in marriage till death free them, in the eyes of the
Princeps and the empire Cymelian. Are there any who say that is not
sufficient?"

From
the east, the Sun priest called, "I name it insufficient, your
Grace." In the west, the Rain priest echoed, "And I."
Northern Wind murmured, "Insufficient." Southern Earth's
"There must be more," was a deep female voice.

The
city-prince said, "Then make it acceptable." He stepped
away to the east, past the Sun priest.

The
north priest called out, "By the air he breathes, man is the
wanderer."

"I
shall be as constant as the trade winds." Iathor walked forwards
to Wind, the priest a blur of blue, gray, and white to Kessa's
veil-shrouded gaze.

While
the priest dropped his voice to whatever man's litany that script
dictated, the priest of Rain called, "By the blood of her body,
woman is the nurturer."

That
was Kessa's cue. She pulled her answering words from the motion of
turning to her left, towards the man in green and blue. "I shall
carry the water." She stopped before him, glad her outermost
veil had drifted down enough to let her keep her chin up.

More
quietly, he said, "By blood and rain that bring life, do you vow
you shall nurture the life of your house and hearth?"

"As
I can," she replied.

"Rain
and river, sea and stream, blood and sweat. Spirits of the water aid
you and lift you up."

As
the man poured water into a chalice for her, she heard the Sun priest
behind her, calling, "By the fire within him, man is the
warrior."

Behind
her, Iathor said, "I shall defend."

Her
hands shook as she accepted the chalice. To her left, the Earth
priestess called, "By the soil beneath her feet, woman is the
field."

Kessa
turned and walked carefully, not spilling the water. "I shall
hold the life."

She
couldn't see much of the woman: gray hair, dark brown robes, nearly
as tall and broad shouldered as any man. "By the earth that
cradles the seed, do you vow you shall cradle the life of your house
and hearth?"

"If–
as I can," Kessa said.

The
priestess put her hands on the chalice, her fingers over Kessa's. In
an older ritual, she would've given the empty cup to Kessa, and sent
her to Water to fill it. "Earth and stone, clay and metal, body
and bone. Spirits of the earth aid you and hold you up."

Behind
her, the Rain priest called, "By the water he drinks, man is the
sower," and Iathor called back, "I shall keep my fields."

Close
after, the Wind priest said, "By the air she breathes, woman is
fickle."

Kessa
turned entirely around, pausing only long enough to avoid undignified
collisions, and answered, "I shall be constant as breath
itself."

The
man seemed younger than the other priests – or perhaps it was
something in the nature of those the spirits called to travel. "By
the air and wind, do you vow to be the life to his flame?"

"You
don't ask much," she whispered. "As I can."

His
flash of grin was visible through the veils. "That's the tricky
element for you. By air and wind, draft and dream, breath and words,
may the spirits of air pass around you and their mischief pass you
by."

Kessa
turned and walked back to the circle's center. Iathor got there
first, holding a bowl. Within, a smaller one floated, holding a
smoldering coal. She stopped before him and held up the chalice.
"Drink?" she said, with more question than the script
called for.

He
shifted his bowl to one hand and offered it in return. "Be
warm."

She
freed a hand for it, remembering the script.
First, carefully
release the chalice to his hand. Then take the fire-bowl in both of
mine.
She would've held it against her chest had she not feared
the veil might ignite. Iathor sipped the water, then used one hand to
fold back her outer veil and lift the inner one.

Kessa
half-lidded her eyes and lowered the fire-bowl, so it was safely in
the middle – his tunic's gray sleeves had long banners of
fabric that could catch, too. As careful as she'd been, he held the
chalice to her lips for the traditional sip.

Coming
towards them, Prince Tegar boomed, "Is
that
sufficient
binding between a husband and his wife?"

"I
am satisfied, your Grace," the Sun priest called.

"They'll
do," sang the Wind's disciple.

"Rain
bless them," came from the west, and the southern priestess
said, "Earth keep them."

"Then
let there be a symbol of their bond," Prince Tegar said.

At
the outer edge, near the Earth priestess, Master Iste called, "We
have the symbols." Kessa, who knew the alternative speakers the
script offered, was glad it wasn't Iasen.

"Then
get them over here, man," the city-prince said, reaching out to
take the fire-bowl and chalice from them. "There'll be a ball
after this."

A
ripple of laughter passed through the crowd as Master Iste –
for once
not
wearing shabby brown boots with his alchemist
grays – led a jeweler and his two assistants over.

For
her part, Kessa did
not
choke at seeing one of the assistants
was Jontho, her brother and roof-top thief, still with his hair dyed
chestnut brown. After all, her crèche-brother enjoyed dressing up as
all manner of craftsmen or workmen, and with Laita safe, he might
even choose to pursue one of those beyond the costume. The other
assistant was a stranger: a tow-headed young boy, carrying a pair of
stools.

There
was a brief consultation between Jontho and the jeweler, blocked by
Master Iste presenting Iathor and Kessa each with a white ribbon that
bore a gold earring. While the younger assistant arranged the stools,
Iathor and Kessa faced each other. He put his hands under her veil
first, knotting the ribbon behind her neck. Then she had to do the
same for him, hands strangely clumsy even beyond the gloves she wore.

Anticipation,
she told herself as Iathor helped settle her onto her stool before he
took his own, a short distance away. The wedding ring, on its ribbon
around her neck, seemed far too light for what it symbolized.

As
she'd expected, Jontho stood before her with a wire-strung needle and
some kind of pincher device. She flicked a look up at him, and
thought he seemed paler, or greener, than usual. She murmured, "Been
doing this long?"

"Long
enough," he replied, just as softly, brushing her veil further
back on one side. "Might even stick with it past spring."

"What,
enjoy poking holes in women's . . ." She gasped
as metal touched her left earlobe. ". . . ears,
you sadist?"

"Man's
got a duty to his kinfolk," Jontho muttered, shifting the
pincher around her ear. "Going to need something to bite?"

Several
irreverent suggestions sprang to mind, but she discarded them. "I'll
live. Get it over with."

He
apparently had a thimble to push with, for the pain was sharp and
sudden, dragging through her ear for longer than she wanted to
endure. She whined through gritted teeth, digging her gloved fingers
into her palms and squeezing her eyes shut. Jontho did several
somethings: releasing the pincher around her ear, pulling on the wire
again, and then there was a snipping noise and her ear was a source
of burning ache instead of pulling, twinging pain. "All done,"
Jontho said. "Move the wire back and forth at least once a day
till the flesh scars enough to put the wedding ring in."

She
blinked her watering eyes. "Thanks."

Jontho
almost patted her on the shoulder, but that was a little too familiar
for his role, and he hesitated in time. Instead, he packed away the
tools in a small case the younger assistant held, took it and held it
in his turn for the master jeweler to pack
his
tools, and
closed it up.

She
stopped watching her brother as Iathor stood and offered a hand to
help her to her feet. She looked up just long enough to see him
twitch, before remembering her veils were pushed back. She dropped
her gaze. The wedding ring glimmered on his chest, as it would till
his ear healed enough to use it instead of the piercing wire. His
tabard was a soft, velvet gray, embroidered with interlinking
alchemical forms. It went far past his paler gray tunic, nearly to
his knees. The almost-black boots, on the other hand, went up above
his knees, halfway to his hip and just below where his fluttering
cape stopped.