'Two thousand years ago the shrines of the Old Faith stood on every isle of this archipelago, and the Gatri-Mangol, the White Kings of Mangland, presided over an age of wealth and order. Here where we are gathered rose one of the most beautiful shrines of all, destroyed by the rising sea in the Worldstorm. Twenty-six years ago I sent a letter to a monarch, new to his throne but wise beyond his years, and begged a great favour, and he granted it. We of the Faith bow before thee, Oshiram of Simja, first king of these isles to allow the rebuilding of a Mzithrin house of prayer.'
And with that the Father descended to his knees, placed the sceptre with infinite care before him, and bent his forehead to the ground.
The king fidgeted, cleared his throat. 'You're welcome, Father, very welcome. Now do rise.'
Slowly the Father took his feet.
'This house is young, but its founding-stones were recovered from the old shrine, and they are sacred. Therefore will I take my place beneath the great arch and bar the path to those whom devils claim. They may not enter here. Let them fear the attempt.'
He raised the sceptre high, and the sun gleamed on the crystal at its tip, but the dark heart was not illuminated. Then with a last fierce look he turned and marched into the shadows.
'Oh happy day,' muttered Neeps.
Thasha elbowed him. 'His sceptre,' she whispered. 'There's a drawing of it in the Polylex, or of one just like it. Something blary special, it was. Oh, what was its name?'
Pazel sighed. Thasha owned a copy of the most dangerous book ever written: the forbidden thirteenth edition of The Merchant's Polylex, the mere possession of which was punishable by death. Earlier editions, and later ones, were to be found in every ship's library and seamen's club; they were simply huge (and untrustworthy) one-volume encyclopedias. The thirteenth, however, was crammed with the darkest secrets of the Arquali Empire. But the book was more frustrating than useful, for the author had hidden those secrets in over five thousand pages of rumour and hearsay and outright myth. It was a wonder that Thasha found anything within its pages. The priest's sceptre, nowA terrible thought came to him suddenly. He gripped Thasha's arm.
'What if he's a mage?' he said, looking from one face to another. 'What if he can keep evil from entering the shrine? All evil?'
Neeps and Fiffengurt paled. Even Hercol looked alarmed. Thasha seemed to have trouble catching her breath.
'In that case…' she stammered. 'Well. In that case-'
She was interrupted by a burst of song from the Mzithrini women. It was a frightful sound, nearly a shriek. At the same moment the men raised their glass pipes and began to whirl them overhead by the straps, faster and faster, until they became mere blurs of colour in the sunlight. Astonishingly, although their orbits criss-crossed endlessly, the pipes never collided. And from them came a hundred eerie notes, high otherworldly howls, like wolves in caves of ice. It was the summons to the bride.
Thasha turned and looked back at her father. Isiq raised a trembling hand, but she was too far ahead of him to touch. She looked at each friend in turn, and longest at Pazel, who was fighting an impulse to shout, Don't go in there. Then she left her entourage and walked quickly to the steps.
The men fell back, still whirling their pipes, and so did the chorus of wailing women. And as Thasha climbed the stair a new figure emerged from the shrine. He looked to be in his thirties, nimble and straight, with a martial air about him: indeed he wore a kind of dark dress uniform, with a red sun pendant on his chest.
'Prince Falmurqat the Younger,' said Hercol.
'He's not young enough if you ask me,' growled Fiffengurt.
'A capable officer, according to Chadfallow's informants,' Hercol continued, 'but a reluctant one. Above all things his father desired a soldier-son, but until the Treaty raised the prospect of ending the long war, the son refused to have anything to do with the military. I gather he paints quite beautifully.'
'You're a lucky girl, Thasha,' said Pazel.
'And you're an idiot,' she said.
Behind the man came his parents, Falmurqat the Elder and his grey princess, and with them another Mzithrini holy man. This one was old, but not as old as the Father, and dressed not in black but a deep blood red.
Thasha and the prince met exactly as planned, on the step below the boy with the silver knife. The singing ceased; the men stopped their whirling display. Thasha looked utterly serene, now: she might have just climbed the steps of her own house on Maj Hill in Etherhorde. Without a word she lifted the knife from the boy's knees, turned and raised it to the watching thousands, and replaced it. Then she curtseyed before her prince, and he bowed in turn.
Thasha held out her hand, palm upwards and the prince studied it for a moment, smiling curiously. He spoke a few words in a voice meant for Thasha alone. Then he took up the knife and pricked her thumb.
Instantly the red-robed cleric held out a small clay cup. Thasha let seven drops of blood fall into the milk it contained. The cleric swished it seven times. And laughed — a deep, almost manic laugh. He raised the cup high.
'Mzithrin!' he boomed. 'The Grand Family! Brothers and sisters of Alifros, learn but this one word in our tongue and you learn the essence of the Old Faith. None stand alone! None are worthless, none sacrificed or surrendered, every soul has a destiny and every destiny is a note in the music of the several worlds. Before us stands Thasha Isiq, daughter of Eberzam and Clorisuela. What is to be the destiny of the Treaty Bride? I look into this milk and cannot see the gift of her blood. Has it ceased to exist? Only a simpleton could think so — only a heretic or a fool! So I ask you: can it be the fate of Thasha Isiq to vanish, dissolved in our gigantic land?
'We of the Old Faith do not believe it. The blessed milk in my cup has not destroyed her blood. No, her blood has changed the milk, irreversibly and for ever. The milk we tint red is a bond and a vow. Drinking it, we are changed: a part of this daughter of Arqual enters us, and remains. Blessings on your courage, Thasha Isiq! Blessings on our prince! Blessings on Mighty Arqual and the Holy Mzithrin, and all lands between! Blessings on the Great Peace to come!'
The crowd erupted. All that had been said until this moment left them confused, but they knew what peace was, and their cry was a surging roar of hope and excitement and remembered loss. Beaming, King Oshiram looked at his new ambassador. Smile, Isiq! One would think you were at an execution, you queer old fellow.
'But the time to drink is still a moment off,' shouted the red-robed cleric, over the lasting cheers. 'Enter now, Thasha of Arqual, and be wed.'
4
7 Teala 941
Seven thousand candles lit the shrine's interior: green candles with a sharp camphor scent. The place was smaller than Pazel had imagined. When the king's retinue, the foreign royals and dignitaries and Templar monks were all seated on the little stools brought in for the occasion, and the Mzithrinis (who considered chairs unnecessary, but not unholy) were seated cross-legged on the floor, there was scarcely room for the wedding party itself.
But squeeze in they did. Thasha and the prince stood on a granite dais; their families and closest friends stood below them in a semicircle. All save Pazeclass="underline" as the holder of the Blessing-Band he merited a place on the dais, where he could tie the ribbon to Thasha's arm at the required moment.
One way or another, of course, that moment would never arrive.
The last of the invited guests were still filing in past the Father, who glared like a fury, now and then making threatening bobs with his sceptre. The guests, all cultured and important people, were not so awed by the man as the great throng outside. Some hurried past him with a shudder. A few rolled their eyes.