Chapter Text
It was no real kindness for General Erevar to marry her and implied no interest in her mind or body, Liralia knew. Marrying the spouse of the conquered king was a time-honored tradition, and Uncle Hervandi had left no widow: her body, once owned by the new monarch, would grant Erevar legitimacy, and make the barons follow her. Eventually, the previous dynasty would be forgotten, Liralia retreating to the background as Erevar ascended to power. It was a dull, depressing thought.
But even more depressing was the thought of being imprisoned in a drafty castle far from the capital, never even being visited by the court on progress, on the pretext of “retirement,” or worse, being executed or killed quietly with a subtle poison to prevent her being a threat to the throne. Those options were still a possibility even if she were the king’s wife or, as Erevar promised, queen – but there was at least a slender thread of hope that her physical presence had some value.
Erevar’s coronation was held five days after what would probably come to be called the Battle of the Grisong River, which was as soon as the priests would allow it. The ceremony began with a night’s vigil, alone in the temple (though it was guarded at every door and window outside); the priests and noble witnesses entered as the sun rose, the pale light streaming through the glass and faintly illuminating the white-clad figure kneeling in front of the sacred pool. As the highest-ranking of the remaining Devranese nobility, Liralia followed directly behind the priests in the procession but had little to do besides witness the proceedings.
The high priest stepped down into the pool, his own white linen gown swirling around his knees, and dipped a silver chalice into the water; standing before the tranquil woman, he poured the benediction over her head, then placed his hands on her sodden hair and intoned a prayer. Liralia shivered, in part from the chill of the early morning air, but mostly from the otherworldly feeling created by the combination of the soft white light, the rippling pool, the chanting, and the intense but calm expression of the king-to-be. It was as though they had all been transported to some ancient age by the gods, who were themselves looking on from somewhere very distant yet very close.
After the prayer, an under-priest at either side assisted Erevar in standing, and then blotted at the excess water from the priest’s blessing. Over her simple white shirt, they dressed her in a long gown of crimson velvet, and then a surcoat of cloth of gold, embroidered with concentric circles of knotwork around the neckline in crimson silk. The same under-priests assisted her in kneeling again, and the high priest, still standing in the pool, was handed a shallow bowl with the consecrated oil; dipping his fingers in it, he drew two parallel lines on her forehead followed by two horizontal ones on her collarbone, and then he leaned forward to leave a pair of dots on the back of her neck. Two more priests held out the ceremonial staffs of office, one oak and one teak, both banded and capped with silver, and the high priest placed one in each of Erevar’s hands. The last piece of regalia was the crown – a heavy gold circle studded with rubies, and topped with five blunted points – which was placed on her head before the under-priests raised her again, and the high priest left the pool.
The procession set off again, circling the interior of the temple twice. Liralia could scarcely see Erevar over the shoulders of the priests, but she kept her eyes fixed on the crown as they walked. It still did not quite feel real to her, that there should be a new king so suddenly. Then it occurred to her that she ought to feel confused instead that she was not being crowned herself, but somehow that felt even more unlikely. Probably she would never become used to this situation – probably she would always be looking about for her uncle’s looming presence.
As the procession left the temple, they assembled into two groups on the steps before it on either side of the new king: the priests to the left and the nobility, still led by Liralia, to the right. There was a small crowd in the street – not what there might have been for the coronation of a legitimate successor, but still it was larger than she had expected.
“By the grace of the gods, I present your new ruler,” declared the high priest in a hoarse bellow: “King Baida!”
A cheer rang out, more from duty than excitement, but when she peered out of the corner of her eye, Liralia saw that Erevar had raised her head higher under the weight of the crown, relaxed her ears, and flushed slightly.
There were only a few days between the coronation and the wedding, which made perfect sense to Liralia. Of course, the new King Baida must move quickly to secure her throne: it would be more difficult to depose a king and then crown her queen. The king did not give her the impression of being eager on a personal level for their union. (Liralia wondered if there had been a lover or betrothed that she left behind in the empire.) They met once a day ever since Liralia’s first audience, and Erevar – Baida – always looked at and spoke to her with the same arrogant, commanding air. The princess was her property, to be disposed of on the conqueror’s schedule. If it weren’t for the fact that this was still better than she had expected for some time, she would have despaired.
“I shall simply wear these robes again for the wedding,” King Baida told her after the coronation. “All of the tailors and embroiderers are at work on your gown, which has to be as splendid as possible. I can’t have anyone say that I’m stinting on your wardrobe, of course.”
Of course. Because she was a reflection of the king’s generosity and power, and a card to play against potentially rebellious lords.
She had to admit that her gown was splendid, though. Made of red samite, it was covered with medallions embroidered in gold and silver, depicting religious scenes and episodes from the early history of Devran; it had the wide neckline that was becoming fashionable, and while it wasn’t as form-fitting as she had heard gowns were worn in the Peshnali Empire, it skimmed over her body in a way that she was sure would result in a heated sermon about vanity and lust from the high priest very shortly. When her handmaidens dressed her, they gasped every time the silk moved over their hands, and she found herself rubbing at it and marveling at its smoothness herself. But it was weighty, heavier even than the wools she wore in the winter, and she allowed herself a moment to fear that it would overwhelm her.
After the gown was placed on her, the handmaidens braided her hair with ribbons of red silk and gold, then twisted the plaits up behind her head in a complicated arrangement she could never have managed alone. Over it all, they draped a veil of plain white samite: a square several yards in each direction, which was placed diagonally and off-center enough to drag on the ground behind her. While she had carefully held her ears back in order to keep them from being pulled down by the silk, there was nothing comfortable in being fully covered. She raised her arms, draping the samite, and the handmaidens drew a silk sash loosely around her waist over the veil, binding her in her concealment while still giving her a way to be guided by a maid at each hand.
The marriage ceremony was held privately and separately, in the most formal way. Being fully swathed in white samite, Liralia could not see any of the proceedings, but she was aware that her handmaidens had left her, and a priest and the wife of Baron Desional were with her. The priest spoke the ritual lines of tying knots, of obedience, and of the Goddess as Her husband’s helpmeet, and Liralia was glad at last of having her face completely hidden – for once in her life, she could give way to her emotions when someone else was watching her, and her lips trembled. She pulled herself together in time to give her ritual responses, and then Lady Desional confirmed that she had heard the princess’s free and clear consent. What did the king’s part consist of, she allowed herself to wonder briefly, before her handmaidens returned to lead her, still bound, to the main audience chamber.
Finally, there were hands on the sash, working at the complex bridal knot; then the samite was carefully drawn back and dropped to the floor behind her, and she flinched against the sudden light. Erevar was standing in front of her, a bulk that she unexpectedly found reassuring; her hands were still held out from having unveiled her bride, and her eyes were wide and – astonished? Liralia had no time to think about what exactly her new spouse’s expression meant, as Erevar took her hand and turned her to the assembled Devranese nobles and Peshnali military officers as the new wife of the new king.