He opened his eyes, looked up as she slipped her hand into his. Still biting her swollen lip, she gently tugged. He rose, followed her to her bedroom. • • •
Drums echoed through Ravenkrak's shadowed halls. Trumpets proclaimed the occasion. Bright silk banners flew from every tower. The garrison was out in full dress. The Storm Kings had clothed themselves richly, in contrast to their usual spartan dress. Saltimbanco, no longer of remarkable girth, wore formal clothing borrowed from Brock: a black cape edged with silver, scarlet tunic and hose, and the polished weapons of a Lord. Bathed and combed and dressed, he seemed not at all the clown.
Following Turran's directions-the Storm King was as magnificent as any southern King-Saltimbanco positioned himself beside a dais a-head the Great Hall. The folk of Ravenkrak sat on benches athwart the hall, an ocean of restless white and brown and black faces. Suddenly he was terrified. As it was for Nepanthe, this was no day he had ever desired. Yet he needed her, had to be tied to her.
The drums took a new cadence. The trumpets sounded their final call. The bride had abandoned her tower. She would return alone nevermore.
Turran mounted the dais. His was the task of binding. Orange and gold, scarlet and purple, motionless, he loomed like a fire demon.
From the Bell Tower, proceeding along a dark, cleared aisle between banks of snow, though the continuing blizzard, the bride's party started toward the hall. Six women, clad in dark green embroidered with thread-of-gold, carried Nepanthe's train. Liveried pikemen marched at either hand. All moved with a slow, measured step despite the cold. Ravenkrak's weddings were performed with regal pomp and deliberation.
The bride's party reached the Great Hall. Valther and Jerrad drew their swords and assumed Nepanthe's guardianship. They advanced on the dais slowly.
Saltimbanco experienced eternity during that approach. He stared, marveling anew at Nepanthe's beauty, her dark eyes and hair, her soft skin and delicate features. She seemed beatific this evening, unworldly, under some ecstatic enchantment. Her brothers, too, were under the spell. Briefly, he forgot his fears, hoped this would amply distract them. For the moment they might have thought Ridyeh still living.
Nepanthe reached the dais. The drums fell silent. The ceremony began...
As if bounced through time, Saltimbanco realized it was over, done. Was it true? Yes. The people were leaving for the parties. Where had time gone?
Nepanthe finally looked into his eyes. He took her hand, squeezing gently. At that moment, in that place, she showed neither fear nor doubt.
It was too late for either. She had become committed. She would fight for the commitment as bitterly as she had resisted it.
TWELVE: They Drink the Wine of Violence
Saltimbanco yawned and stretched, reaching the last leg of a long and lazy approach to wakefulness. He stretched again. He was as relaxed as a cat. His extended left arm came down on something soft and warm and swathed in a mass of silken hair. He yawned again, rolled so he could look into the smiling face of his new wife. He reached slowly, stalking a wisp of dark hair peeping from fold of coverlet, caught it between thumb and forefinger, curled and twirled it while watching her sleep. Then he drew a fingertip lightly over one soft, rosy cheek, following the line of her jaw, ended by tickling the dimple on her chin. The caress excited something at the corner of her mouth, a something seldom seen before last evening, a happy, demonic something that had spent years in hiding, a something now out and winking merrily. Her smile so lightly grew, drawing with its warmth. Those ruby cushions for his kiss parted slightly, permitting the flight of a sigh. She extended a small, delicate hand to cover his own, pressed it to her cheek. Slowly, so as not to disturb her slumber, he leaned and kissed that taunting quirk at the corner of her mouth.
"Uhm," she sighed, eyes still closed.
"Self, have something to confess."
She opened one sleepy eye.
"Self, am not Saltimbanco. Am not simple, wandering fool..."
"Shhh. I know."
"Hai! How? Am still breathing."
"Deduction. Valther's lists. You were the only one who could've gotten to them and have communicated with bin Yousif. In Iwa Skolovda."
Fear smote deeply. "Ridyeh?" he gasped, unable to articulate his question.
"I hated you then. But it wasn't your fault, really. I... uh... Why talk about it? It's over. Don't make me remember. I don't want to. Kiss me. Touch me. Love me. Don't talk. Just make me forget."
"No hate? Ravenkrak will die, and self, in one guise, am prime killer."
"Ravenkrak's dead. Only Ravenkrak hasn't heard."
"You change so."
They were interrupted by a knock. Neither moved. It grew insistent. "You'd better go," Nepanthe said. "Probably one of my brothers."
It was. Valther eyed the gown of Nepanthe's Saltimbanco had donned, chuckled, said, "Turran wants Nepanthe in the Lower Armories. Luxos just got home. We got him through the gates three steps ahead of bin Yousif's men."
"Self, am dismayed by lack of respect..."
"My own thought exactly," Valther replied, cutting him short. "But Turran wants her, and what he wants, he gets. Got to run." He chucked Mocker under the chin. "The robe becomes you." Laughing, he ducked a spiritless punch and hurried away.
Mocker found Nepanthe dressing when he returned. Her face clouded. She was still afraid.
"Was Valther. Meeting in Lower Armories. Luxos came back."
"I heard. Will you help me?" She quavered when he touched her. A moment later, in a tremulous whisper, she asked, "What do your friends call you?"
"Many names. Hai! Not good for lady's ears, most. But mostly Mocker."
"Mocker, we have to leave."
"Why?"
"My brothers might find out. We should get out first."
"To where? How to live? Moneys from speechifying in Iwa Skolovda repose in secret place in Tower of Moon-lost forever!" This was a wail.
"I don't care where. And I've got lots of valuable things."
"How to escape?"
"There're ways. But you know bin Yousif, don't you?" There was no accusation in her voice.
"Long time."
"You're friends?"
"When gold is right."
"Anyone else?" She smiled, easing his tension. He understood.
"Red beard."
"What?" She was startled.
"Rendel Grimnason. True name is Bragi Ragnarson."
"And Astrid?"
"Name is Elana. And Blackfang, Kildragon, Rolf, also. And guess where loyalty of troops lies."
"Oh! Poor Turran. Surrounded by enemies. Even his sister, now. When's it supposed to end?"
Mocker shook his head. "Employer, closed-lip man of first class, tells nothing. Not even name. But we find out. Is magical Machiavelli."
"A magician?"
"Yes. Question still is, why so interested in Raven-krak?"
"What's his name?"
"Is Varthlokkur..."
"Varthlokkur!" She dropped to the bed. "I told Turran, but he wouldn't listen."
Her reaction startled Mocker. "What is trouble?"
"You know what he wants from Ravenkrak? Me! For years he's been after me to marry him. Probably for my power. Not the Werewind, but the power within. Storm King blood is strong with it. Our ancestors were nobles of Ilkazar. Matched, little could resist us. Controlling weather would be child's play. Which is why I always turned him down." She flushed. He knew that wasn't her primary reason. "I was afraid Ravenkrak would be first to feel his new strength. I guess he'll destroy us anyway. Sooner or later, destruction overtakes all the children of the Empire. Be ready to leave when I get back. See if your friends will go with us."
She settled her dress more comfortably, gave him a small kiss. "I love you." She struggled with words, but they came. "I'll be back soon."