On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [81]
He lifted the veil, seeing Shali’s face for the first time, and had no reaction. She was not pretty, but neither was she plain; not fat, but not slim. She was in every way ordinary, but Jashemi knew that even had his bride possessed the sort of beauty that inspired ballads, he would not have desired her.
The men of the Clan, and his father as well, followed him to the prepared bedchamber. For the first time, Jashemi felt real emotion penetrate his dulled senses.
Of course. This was part of the tradition, that the high-ranking men of both clans would demand to see this union consummated. There were many solid reasons for this: proof that the woman was a virgin, proof that the man had claimed his rights and could not later deny it.
Jashemi had never felt less like lying with a woman than at this moment. He stared at Shali, feeling the mask of pleasantness melt from his face, and her own face fell.
She put her arms around his neck and whispered, “I have a small wineskin prepared for this, my husband. I am a true virgin, but my handmaidens tell me that sometimes women do not bleed sufficiently to impress the onlookers.”
Overcome with gratitude, he buried his face in her neck and whispered, “Thank you.”
They stood while servants stripped them, and Jashemi’s face burned as the men saw his limpness. There was much joking, but the girl’s father, Terku, who had drunk too much wine, was insulted.
“He does not find my precious jewel of a daughter attractive!” the khashim of the Sa’abah Clan bellowed.
“You plied him with much wine, my friend,” Tahmu said smoothly. “Give the boy a moment. Touch often rouses what sight does not.”
As quickly as possible, Jashemi and his naked bride went to the bed and pulled the covers around them. Again, Shali spoke into his ear, “The skin is under the pillows.”
“Get it ready,” Jashemi whispered back, hoarse from embarrassment. He maneuvered so that he was on top of Shali and pretended to thrust. She cried out in seeming pain and her arms reached under the pillow. Jashemi remained unaroused, even as his kurjah brushed against her sulim and thigh, but continued his movements. Around him, he heard laughter and cries of approval. He felt the rough leather of the wineskin press into his hand, maneuvered its stopper, and was rewarded by dampness. He smeared the fluid on himself and between her thighs, then uttered a long, low groan and collapsed on Shali. He barely had time to hide the evidence before Shali’s father had whipped off the bedclothes to reveal a small amount of blood on the sheets and on the loins of the new husband and wife.
“Well done!” exclaimed Terku, and Jashemi was unsure if he was referring to his daughter or Jashemi. “Let us leave them alone to recover…and beget a child tonight, Dragon willing!”
They left in a wave of raucous laughter, and the door slammed shut after them.
Jashemi rolled away from his new wife. Shame, anger, and regret flooded him. They lay for a while, neither speaking. At last, Jashemi said, “I’m sorry, Shali. You did not deserve this.”
“Deserve what?” she said, rising and walking to the small basin of water on the table. She wet a cloth and began to wash.
“A man who could not truly make you a wife on your wedding night.”
“I would rather have that than be taken by force, as many brides are,” she said, rinsing the bloody cloth, wringing it out, and resuming her task. “There is time enough for consummation.” She turned to look at him. “Unless you prefer men to women?”
He laughed bitterly. “This would be easier to understand if that were so,” he replied. The blood drying on his thighs and kurjah was sticky and uncomfortable. When Shali had finished, he rose and cleaned himself, not enjoying being the object of her scrutiny but seeing no other option. She propped herself up on one elbow on the bed and regarded him.
“You are a beautiful man, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu,” she said softly. “And