Kushiel’s Dart

At the wedding-feast Thelesis de Mornay would debut her epic verses, in praise of bride and groom alike. But at the ceremony itself, she recited one of Delaunay’s poems.

I daresay the whole world knows it now; it was a rage of fashion for months afterward in the City, for lovers to quote the verse of Anafiel Delaunay to one another. Then, no one had heard it, and I wept at the final words.

I,and thou; our hands meet and a world engendered.

It was fitting, for the two of them, truly rulers of two worlds, conjoined into one. The ceremony was held in the Palace gardens, with gay pavilions erected on the lawn and a fragrant bower under which they stood. Elua’s temple is everywhere in Terre d’Ange where earth meets sky. It was an old priestess who performed the ritual, silver-haired, her face lined and lovely with age.

Ysandre looked as beautiful as a summer’s day, in a gown of periwinkle silk, her pale hair done up in a crown, laced with gold filigree, in which blue forget-me-nots were twined. I had counseled her well, if I had so advised her. As for Drustan, he was truly a vision to D’Angeline eyes, all his Pictish barbarism recreated in our luxuriant textiles, the red cloak of the Cruarch hanging in velvet folds from his blue-whorled shoulders, gold torque against his bare brown throat.

This, too, set quite a fashion.

As King and Queen, they had greeted each other, but when the words were spoken and they shared a kiss to seal it, it was as man and woman, husband and wife. I saw Ysandre’s eyes sparkle as they parted, and Drustan’s white smile, and I cheered them, with a whole heart. I knew, better than anyone, at what cost this union came.

We dined, then, on the greensward, and there were many tables laid, shining with white linen and settings of silver and gold; and I was seated, with Joscelin, at their own table, albeit far from the center where they reigned. For each of us, a nuptial goblet, silver chased in gold, depicting the siege of Troyes-le-Mont and the victorious alliance that followed. I have mine still, and it is among the chiefest of my treasures.

Suckling pigs were roasted whole, and pheasants, and oysters rushed packed in ice from the Eisandine coast, mutton and venison and tender rabbit, cheeses and apples soaked in brandy, pears and a spicy currant sauce; there were crisp green sallets with shredded violet-petals and comfits and glaces. And through it all washed a river of wine, soft oaken whites, crisp rose and hearty red, while musicians strolled and servants bustled.

When the sun sank low, the torches were kindled, a thousand candles set in glass globes about the garden, a beacon summoning to moths. Then did Thelesis de Mornay recite her fledgling verse, that would grow one day into the Ysandrine Cycle. Strange, to hear one’s name spoken in passing poem; although the focus of these verses was Ysandre and Drustan, my tale was woven in it. Not a little drunk, I leaned my head in my hand and listened.

After that, came the toasts, which I will not recount. I had to rise when Grainne, resplendent in the crimson-and-gold gown of Ysandre’s choosing, gave hers in a thick Eiran accent. It was something to do with the Fhalair Ban and the honor of the Dalriada, and a wish for fruitful joy; I cannot remember, now. I must have rendered it well enough, for everyone cheered. When I had done, Grainne gave me thanks and named me her sister, with an embrace and a deep glimmer of amusement that was not entirely sisterly.

I’d not told Ysandre that, either; only that the Lords of the Dalriada had been persuaded. Later I learned that Quintilius Rousse had related the tale of how I had brought the Twins into accord, and Ysandre laughed until she wept.

It was her fault, for making me her ambassador. Still I grieved that never again would Eamonn balance his sister.

Drustan made a toast, then, and to my great pride, he gave it first in Cruithne, then in near-flawless D’Angeline. His dark eyes shone with wine, and the flickering light of a thousand candles turned the intricate blue whorls of woad into a subtle, shifting pattern on his skin.

"We have won this day’s joy at great price," he said solemnly. "Let us treasure it all the more, and pledge, together, that as Ysandre and I have joined our lives, so will our nations be joined, in strength and harmony, that we may never be any less than what we are today."

It was well-said, and they cheered him wildly; he gave a courtier’s bow and sat down.

Then Ysandre stood. So young, to have borne what she had, but there was steel in Ysandre de la Courcel, forged between the bitter triangle of Rolande, Isabel and Delaunay, hammered on the anvil of her grandfather’s rule, mettle tested in the dreadful siege of Troyes-le-Mont. Tempered, by love.