“Yes, and worse.” He looked around the table and sighed in dismay. “I’ll look ridiculous if I wear any of these emblems, Aria. If I wear some of them, I risk offending anyone whose symbol I didn’t choose. And if I wear none of them, I will offend everyone. What am I going to do? Is it too late to elope?”
“We did that already, remember? This is just the official ceremony; you and I already did the important one alone.” She smiled at him, hoping to ease his distress. “Here, I’ll take care of it. Let’s sort through these things together, and you can tell me who they’re from and what they represent.”
A month later, on the morning before the wedding rehearsal, she presented him with a velvet-covered box.
“This is for all your patience with the endless fittings of my wedding dress,” she said as he kissed her. “Open it and see if it solves your dilemma.”
In the box was a segmented necklace of state, a chain-like series of uniform hexagonal pieces wrought in red-gold, jointed together to a length that would drape about the neck and shoulders, inlaid with the symbols of each of the groups that had presented him with emblems to wear. Even the hideous war mask of the Nain of the Sardonyx Mountain had been painstakingly rendered in tiny gems and enameled scrolling on one of the small segments; Gwydion had burst out laughing at the thought of the jeweler working long hours to find a colored stone the same hue as the mucus dripping from the miniature war mask’s nostrils.
“As with everything about you, it’s perfect,” he said, drawing her close.
“Oh, good. So does this mean I’m to be spared from those big prongs now?”
“All but one.”
Gwydion lugged the bucket to the door of the hidden room behind the waterfall and heaved the cleaning water outside into the grass. How does she do this? he wondered incredulously as he sank into his comfortable old chair with a groan. He had helped her clean house in Elysian, but somehow that had been a pleasure. Gwydion shook his head and laughed. Being branded with a hot iron might be a pleasure, as long as she was there to hold his hand.
The memory of drowsy summer mornings a year before came back to him, the scent of coffee brewing and spicy aromas floating by, accompanied by the smell of soap and the sweet sound of singing. She had always been up before dawn, tidying Elysian, pressing clothes, tending her gardens, long before normal people had cracked an eyelid; it was the farm girl in her, she had said as he protested, pulling her back into bed if she came close by. These memories of simple domesticity were among his favorite, images of normalcy and sanity in a world run amok. He signed, anticipating the return of those days with glee.
He looked around his room and felt a sense of satisfaction. The messy man-cottage was spotless, the new double bed gleaming under the fresh satin bedspread he had bought for her in Navarne. He had carted all the new furnishings here himself by night to maintain the hidden room’s security, a sort of western Elysian, a place they could be alone when in these provinces.
This place needs a woman’s oversight—or a ma-id, she had said. The first he had provided by duplicating many of the comfortable accessories and ornaments she had used in decorating Elysian; even now the cottage was unrecognizable in its warmth and charm. The second he had assured by spending four hours on the day before his wedding sprucing up the place; it had taken her about half an hour to produce better results that day a year and a half before, but he knew she would appreciate the effort.
Gwydion rose with a creak and made a final inspection. The wine was in the chilling bucket, the crystal goblets on the table, the fire laid with sweet-smelling spices, waiting to be set ablaze. He would need to build a room with a tub if they were to use this place in winter, even though the prospect of Rhapsody’s warmth heating the waterfall’s pool amid the snow was tantalizing. He pulled out the finishing touch, a sackful of pink and white rose petals he had convinced her to work her magic on without telling her why. She had spoken the words to preserve their freshness and given him an odd look; he imagined the expression on her face the next night as he scattered them across the bed and the floor, leading to the threshold.
A romantic dragon; isn’t that a contradiction in terms’?
Yes. Do you love me anyway’?
Always.
When the bed was covered with the petals he took one more look around. Then he left the cabin and locked the door carefully, whistling all the way back to where he had hidden the horse and cart.
The Lirin had decorated the forestlands of Tyrian and Gwynwood in the traditional manner for the wedding, with bells, reed flutes, and windchimes dangling from the trees, through which bright streamers had been laced. Maypoles had been erected in the forest along the way from the Lirin city to the Great Tree, also tied with ribbons that were peppered with thousands of crystals, a gift from the Cymrian Nain. As a result, the forest was bathed in colored light, casting a rainbow glow on the setting and, eventually, the guests.
And, as improbable as it was, the morning of the wedding the grounds and gardens of the House of Remembrance bloomed in a vast scarlet carpet of winterflowers, a gift from a Child that slept, safe now, in the arms of her mother the Earth.
In addition to the traditional decorations, Ashe had sought the aid of some of the palace servants in tying muslin love knots about the bedchamber of the Lady Cymrian and throughout the halls of Stephen’s keep where she was staying. With the excruciating detail born of a dragon’s memory he re-created the scene in which they had met, that simple, beautiful summer night at the foreharvest dance. Rhapsody awoke on the morning of her wedding to a room full of fresh-cut pine and fir boughs and sprays of late-summer flowers, many of which were of the same kinds that had adorned the tables and barrels that night. She sat up in bed and blinked in amazement at the accuracy with which he had duplicated the adornments that the people of her farming village had used in the old land, then laughed aloud. In the night he must have stolen into the room himself; she was covered by his cloak, and her bed was strewn with willow leaves. On top of the cloak rested a thin black velvet ribbon in which was tied a heart-shaped silver button.
Oelendra sat on a chair in the bedchamber of the bride and watched the flurry of preparations in amusement. Rhapsody was sitting on the floor in her undergarments, patiently adjusting the hem of Melisande Navarne’s dress, while the Lirin chambermaids sat on the bed behind her, plaiting pearls into her hair and looking disconcerted every time she moved. Sylvia had positioned herself near the door, as deliveries were arriving every few minutes, all the while swatting at the queen’s Firbolg grandchildren, who were busy leaping from couch to couch and scattering her belongings across the room.
“They’re eating the flowers from the hair wreaths, m’lady,” the chamberlain said.
Rhapsody nodded. “I know. Please try to keep them from getting the ribbons stuck between their teeth.”
When her eldest child attendant was finally turned out properly Rhapsody rose. Her hair had been intricately braided in tiny patterns, pulled back off her face, but hung in a long fall down the back, sectioned intermittently with tiny white flowers and sprigs of rosemary for wisdom. She gave Oelendra a flustered grin, then followed the chattering chambermaids to the place where the wedding gown hung. Miresylle, the dressmaker, helped her into it with a look on her face that matched that of a midwife delivering a royal infant Finally, after many adjustments, the queen stood erect and turned, and the Lirin attendants stepped back in awe. Oelendra’s amused smile grew warmer. She had not believed that anything could make Rhapsody any more beautiful than she already was, but she now saw that she was mistaken. She set her mind to the puzzle of whether the enhancement came from the perfect dress, gleaming white with a hint of blush rose shining through, or from the look of happiness that shone in the bride’s eyes.