Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [234]
“So!” my lady Amrita said brightly to me. “The day is here at last. Are you ready to wed your bad boy, my dear one?”
With guilt, regret, and a surety of purpose, I put my dream of Jehanne aside. It was real and not-real at the same time. It was a promise of things to come; but they were things that had not happened yet.
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
EIGHTY-TWO
It was a glorious day.
The Rani’s attendants helped me bathe and prepare, rubbing fragrant oils into my skin, brushing my hair until it gleamed, painting my eyelids with kohl. They helped me don the gorgeous crimson and gold sari, pinning the folds in place. Amrita insisted on adorning me with jewelry herself, sliding gold bangles onto my wrists, fastening tinkling anklets in place, pinning a gold filigree headpiece to my hair.
When she had finished, she clapped her hands together in delight. “You are the perfect bride, Moirin!”
I had a fleeting memory of my dream and smiled ruefully. “Not quite, I fear, but surely you have done your best, my lady.”
She fussed with the filigree pendant hanging on my brow. “You are perfectly yourself, dear one, and that is all that matters. And you look very, very lovely.”
I hugged her, holding her close. “Thank you, Amrita.”
She returned my embrace, then released me. “You’re very welcome. Now, do not muss your sari.”
For some reason, her fussing and mothering made me laugh aloud. Amrita gave me an inquiring glance, and I shook my head, unable to explain. All I could do was gaze at her with a heart filled with a complicated mixture of affection, remembering all the many kindnesses she had shown me.
“Bad girl.” She tapped my lips lovingly with one finger. “Do not look at me so. You are getting married today, remember?”
I smiled at her. “Oh, I do.”
Once the preparations were finished, we adjourned to one of the palace’s towers to watch the bridegroom’s procession approach. The sun was high overhead, the sky was a bright, cloudless blue, and the spring air was warm and balmy.
I was getting married today.
It was an exhilarating thought—and a frightening one, too. But my heart beat surely and steadily and my diadh-anam called to Bao’s, measuring his progress toward me. I felt him long before I saw him, resplendent in a crimson tunic and breeches, riding astride a white horse garlanded with flowers, his head held high, a crimson turban atop his unruly hair, gold hoops gleaming in his ears, his irrepressible grin in place. Hasan Dar and a handful of guards surrounded him, Sudhakar and Ravindra among them, cheering and singing love songs. The sight made my heart swell inside my chest.
My magpie, my peasant-boy, my Tatar prince.
Gods, I did love him very much.
How had that happened?
Bao glanced up at me as I leaned out of the turret, his grin widening, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling.
I had to tell him about Jehanne and my dream.
Later, I thought; later.
Amrita tugged at my arm. “Come, come, Moirin! You’re meant to be in the garden before the bridegroom.”
“Yes, my lady,” I said obediently, following her.
It was spring in the charmed valley of Bhaktipur and the garden was in full bloom, filled with towering rhododendrons sporting a wealth of enormous purple blossoms, snaking lianna vines, delicate frangipani perfuming the air with fragrance, and marigolds I had coaxed to bloom early. Beneath the trees, an immense, elaborate canopy of colorful sequined fabric had been erected, sparkling in the sunlight, held up by gilded poles. There was a brazier of sacred fire, tended to by a lean priest whose kind smile belied his ascetic figure.
All the women and children of the harem were there, faces glowing on this happy day; and then the groom’s party entered the garden on foot, laughing and singing, and my heart grew even fuller.
With much fanfare, Bao and I were seated opposite one another beneath the canopy, smiling at one another.
The priest beamed at all of us. “Today among friends