The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [92]
Korweil nods again. “I leave that to you and your bride. If this marriage is to take place, I need to find Shiffurth and several scribes. If you will excuse me . . .” He stands, bows, and turns.
Creslin looks at Megaera as Korweil leaves the study. “You and your regency,” she says. The flames in her eyes have not died as she speaks.
“Do you have a better idea? I like the idea as little as you. Less perhaps.”
“After those thoughts of yours? After you dragged me through the sewer of your mind? Deep inside, you’re like every other man, protesting while hoping to get a woman into bed. This union is in name only, and for survival. I suggest that you do not forget it.”
“How could I?” How indeed, thinks Creslin as he stares at the air currents that play around the lamp on the Duke’s vacant desk. “How could I?”
LV
THE DUKE’S TEMPLE is little more than a long, narrow room under the Great Hall, although the walls are of light-paneled red oak and the floor of polished gray granite. Less than a score of men and women stand in a half-circle roughly ten steps back from the black wood of the Table. They stand, for there are no benches in the Temple of Order, just as there are no images.
Outside the open double door, Creslin shifts from one foot to the other, wondering if his stubbornness in insisting on wearing the green leathers were wise.
Megaera is nowhere to be seen, although Aldonya has assured him that she will be arriving shortly. The serving girl’s eyes had not met Creslin’s, and an aura of sadness surrounds her as she repairs to the rear of the Temple.
“Nervous?” asks the Duke.
“In more ways than one.” Creslin envies the serving girl. Megaera is at least kind to someone. He shifts from one booted foot to the other again.
“I offer you congratulations and condolences, Ser Storm Wizard. My cousin is a far greater storm than any you have called.”
“I’ve begun to realize that.”
“Realize what?” asks another voice throaty and feminine.
Creslin turns. “Oh . . .”
In blue and gold, Megaera stands there. The silver-haired man swallows once, twice, then nods.
“Thank you . . . best-betrothed.” She smiles faintly but warmly. The smile is like sun after a storm, but it fades as Creslin watches.
“Do you have the documents?” Her voice is matter-of-fact.
“They’re on the table, ready except for my signature and seal,” affirms Korweil. “I will be more than happy to sign them before or after the ceremony.”
“After will be soon enough,” she tells him.
Creslin’s lips tighten at the chill in her voice. How could he ever have considered this? He thinks again. What alternatives do they have? His eyes stray back to her, taking in the creamy, if lightly freckled, skin, the green eyes that can sparkle or storm, the strong, clean nose, the slender frame.
“Stop it . . . not a prize ewe . . .” Her voice is inaudible except to Creslin, and the words are as cold as ice. He turns his eyes to the open double doors and to the black Table.
“Shall we begin?” asks the Duke.
Creslin turns to Megaera, who has stepped up beside him. “Best to get it over with,” she says.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I do if I want to survive.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “Go on, cousin dear,” she continues in a louder tone.
The Duke squares his shoulders and steps toward the black Table.
Megaera touches Creslin’s arm. He extends his arm, but she does not take it as they move forward, past the men and women who have stood aside for them.
The Duke turns as he reaches the Table. Creslin and Megaera stop a pace or so before the Duke.
“In the name of order and under that ever-present chaos, which can only be postponed but never denied, we are gathered together to witness two souls who wish to strive to place a greater order on their unity.” The Duke reads from the parchment easily, his voice deeper than when he talks privately with Megaera and Creslin.
“. . . and will you strive to place understanding and order within your heart?”
“I will,” answers Creslin.
“As I can,” answers Megaera.