“But who is there to marry us publicly?” Rhapsody asked Gwydion as they strolled in the garden of Tomingorllo. “You hold the offices of Invoker and Patriarch; there is no one above you in the religious hierarchy.”
Gwydion smiled. “You are not current in your information,” he said, kissing her hand as they walked. “While you were refusing to see me, I had to do something to keep from going insane, so I set about delegating some of those responsibilities.”
Rhapsody laughed. “Pretty certain of yourself, aren’t you? I thought you didn’t know if you would be confirmed as Lord Cymrian or not.”
“I didn’t. I still believed there should be others leading the religious factions directly. Besides, if you had married Anborn or Achmed I would have thrown myself into the sea anyway, so it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“So do you intend to remain the titular head of the order?”
“Yes, but I am nominating leaders of both factions who I think will be able to work together toward reunification. And even if it doesn’t happen, I believe there will still be a harmonious coexistence of both faiths.”
“Excellent. And whom did you choose to take on the office of Invoker?”
Ashe stopped and looked off into the distance. “Gavin. And I believe there is my candidate for Patriarch now, though of course the Scales of Jierna Tal will have to weigh him and find him worthy. He seemed mildly amused at the prospect. I asked him to come to Tyrian after the Cymrian Council so you could meet him; he’s new in the faith, but very wise. Come, let me introduce him to you.”
Rhapsody took his hand and followed him across the garden to where an older man was waiting. His beard was long enough to curl upward at the edges, with streaks of white and silver winning the battle for control within it over the insistent white-blond. Despite being somewhat advanced in years he was tall and broad-shouldered, and had a smile that Rhapsody could swear she had seen before, though from a distance she did not recognize him.
“Was he at the Council?” she asked as Gwydion picked up the pace.
“Yes; he was part of the Diaspora. I met him a few days before the Second Fleet arrived at the Moot. I asked him where he had come from, and all he would say was that it was both near and farther away than anyplace in the known world. We camped out together a few nights, and I was astounded at his wisdom and vision, and his extraordinary powers of healing. While we were there he tended to several people in the throes of great illness or pain, with amazing skill. He radiates great peace; I resolved to offer him the post if I was ever in a position to grant it to him. He seems to know of you; he asked if I knew you, but of course I couldn’t tell him anything except that I did. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Rhapsody stopped still on the forest path, staring at the robed man. His lined face was wreathed in a smile that made her flush hot and cold with memories simultaneously.
“Constantin!”
He held out his hands to her, hands marred by time and the life he had led, and she hurried to him and took both of them in her own, kissing his cheek. Warmth flooded her face, as she thought back to their myriad, and occasionally unpleasant, experiences. His eyes were serene, however, and he looked at her knowingly and just smiled.
“Hello, m’lady,” he said in the deep voice she remembered. “I’m honored that you remember me.”
Rhapsody reached up, as if unable to stop herself, and touched his wrinkled cheek. I was gone behind the Veil of Hoen for seven years, and when I came out the snow had barely covered the hilt of the sword, she thought poignantly. I’ve been back now half a year. Gods, I’m amazed he’s still alive.
“I told you I would never forget you,” she said gently, “and I haven’t.”
Constantin kissed her hand. “Nor I you. Best wishes on your engagement. The Lord Cymrian is a lucky man.”
“Thank you,” Rhapsody and Gwydion said simultaneously. The Lord Cymrian drew her closer to his side.
“Constantin has agreed, if the Scales confirm him, to accept the office of Patriarch on Midsummer’s Night,” Ashe said. “And as such he will be the one to marry us, if you agree, Aria, in a joint ceremony with Gavin.”
Rhapsody smiled. “I certainly do. Thank you, Constantin.” She studied his face intently for a moment. “What made you decide to leave?”
His eyes darkened, and he looked deep into hers. “It was time,” was all he said.
Rhapsody remembered what Anborn had said about the wisdom not to ask more than she really needed to know. She turned to the Lord Cymrian, who was watching their interaction with surprise. “I am delighted in your choice of a Patriarch, darling. He has studied with the best possible instructors and I know for a fact there’s not a drop of evil in him.” Her eyes sparkled wickedly and Constantin laughed. Gwydion looked puzzled.
“Come along, Sam,” Rhapsody said, pulling at her groom’s hand. “Let’s find His Grace somewhere to rest; he’s come from farther away than you think. And we’ll tell you the whole story. You may be surprised to learn how the new Patriarch had a hand in killing the F’dor.”
Gwydion stared at her in amazement before following them up the path. “You know, Rhapsody, you certainly know how to ruin a surprise.”
Urue to her word, Rhapsody had requested a simple dress, as she told Gwydion she would after the royal wedding in Bethany. It had only enough train to brush the ground two or so feet behind her, and left her shoulders open to the sun for the wedding taking place on the first day after the season dedicated to it had passed.
Despite the dress’s seeming simplicity, the seamstresses of Tyrian had worked endlessly on it. Miresylle had found a bolt of Canderian brushed silk, white with a gleaming blush undertone that touched off the sunrise coloring of Rhapsody’s rosy golden skin perfectly. It was trimmed judiciously, sparingly, a sign of true craftsmanship, as Rhapsody had explained to her incredulous groom, who wondered rudely aloud why she was having a seventh fitting for this allegedly simple dress.
“It’s not all covered with beadwork and lace; many seamstresses use that stuff to hide the imperfections in the fabric or the workmanship. Miresylle’s a perfectionist.”
Gwydion had taken his bride into his arms and kissed her. “I’m sure. And I’m sure I’ll like the dress, despite it being responsible for keeping you away from me so much.”
“You’re so time-greedy,” she scowled at him jokingly. “You’d probably prefer I didn’t wear anything at all.”
“How right you are.”
Gwydion himself had been faced with a sartorial dilemma. Though the design for his wedding garment was easy enough to come by, he had been besieged with gifts from the various family factions, fighting units, and political groups to which he had belonged over his lifetime, each an emblem or a symbol of his honored status, conferred on him with the expectation that he would wear each of them at his wedding. Rhapsody had gone into a giggling fit as he indignantly displayed them, spread out on the vast meeting table in the Great Hall of Tyrian. The table was over twenty feet in length, and every inch of it was covered with some sort of item he needed to exhibit somewhere on his person.
“You had better start eating; you’ll need to add to your size ten times over,” she laughed, her eyes taking in the hundreds of hats, daggers, staves, ceremonial swords, crowns, and codpieces littering the table. She picked up one of the twenty-one signet rings in a pile in the middle of the spread. “Now let’s see; one on each finger, one on each toe, and one on your—
“Don’t say it,” he threatened jokingly. “That might be even more uncomfortable for you later that night, my dear. I might choose the one with the biggest prongs.”
“This gift is my very favorite,” Rhapsody said, lifting a hideous Nain war mask. “Do they really wear these things in battle?”