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“Serenity,” said Csevet calmly, as he sorted through Maia’s correspondence. “The Archduchess Vedero has requested an audience.”
She had not responded to his brief missive, sent by his own hand; while on some level he had not expected her to, its absence contrasted with the torrent of unsolicited advice from the Witnesses and other aristocrats at court. “Is it about the matter of her marriage? Or lack thereof?”
“We do not know, Serenity.”
Maia sighed. “We will be pleased to discourse with our sister at a convenient hour.”
That turned out to be the following morning—it helped that Csevet organized most of Maia’s calendar. Vedero was still dressed in mourning, and Maia feared that the excuse he’d given to her suitors had made her think it necessary to go about in black longer than she might have chosen. But then, her somber demeanor during the initial ceremonies had seemed genuine. Did she truly miss him, the father who had endeavored to trade her like a horse?
“Serenity,” she said. “We thank you for your judgment in the matter of our marriage. We know you wish us only candor and goodwill.”
“If you are here to inform us that we are a naive hobgoblin, you will be neither the first nor last to do so,” he said. Judging by Dazhis and Telimezh’s twinges, that was probably the wrong answer.
Vedero gave a very brief curtsy—was she hiding a smile? “We have considered the matter, and wish to present a counterproposal that may prove mutually advantageous. But we do not presume—that is...We will certainly be discreet and share nothing that is entrusted to us in confidence. We are curious if you have given any thought to the matter of your marriage.”
“We intend to marry,” Maia snapped, again a moment too quickly. He could not be as generous with his own fate as with Vedero’s. Being male had let him inherit the throne while his sister was overlooked; it was only right he accepted the responsibilities that came with the Dachen Mura. Or so he told himself. “And we suppose that our empress ought to be a healthy elvish adult of childbearing age who is not close kin, and whose selection is relatively unlikely to lead to sore tempers at court. We confess that we are too ignorant of Untheileneise politics to know if such a maiden even exists.”
“The situation is not so dismal as you fear,” Vedero said. “Your hopes are quite reasonable, and should you dismiss our ideas as fanciful, there are several women who would prove wholly fitting empresses. But we trust that in the matter of your marriage, as with our own, you seek to forge alliances with noble houses that will prove loyal friends to the Drazhada?”
“Just so.”
“Have you given any consideration to whether the Nethenada might be suitable allies in this regard?”
From their brief conversations, Maia knew Vedero had no desire to embarrass him, but he found himself burning with shame anyway. “We lament the present state of our ignorance, but the virtues and fortunes of the Nethenada lie beyond our meager grasp at present.”
Thankfully, Csevet stepped in. “The Nethenada are a noble house of Thu-Tetar, the longstanding custodians of the Nethen Ford. Their financial status is quite modest beside that of the Tethimada or Duchenada, but their loyalty is commendable.” He hesitated. “While they would undoubtedly be honored to provide the next Empress, Ermezho Nethenin is merely six years of age, and we understand that your Serenity might consider this a less than desirable proposition.”
Before Maia could figure out how to mount an appropriately delicate response to that, Vedero laughed spontaneously. “It was certainly not our intention to encourage your marriage to Ermezho Nethenin, Serenity.”
Maia smiled. “We understand that you desire our—goodwill and honesty, as well.”
Vedero curtsied again. It seemed absurd—she was ten years his senior—but maybe that was her way of girding herself up to speak. “We know we have been bold in our presumptions, so do not fear to tell us if our musings are absurd. But we wonder, Serenity, whether you might be amenable to a marriage of the sedoretu stricture.”
Not for the first time, Maia found himself rapidly searching his memories of Setheris’ lectures for any hint of what this might refer to. He glanced over to the desk; even Csevet did not seem to recognize it. “We have not given the matter much consideration,” he concluded lamely.
“It seems to us,” said Vedero, “that Dach’osmin Csethiro Ceredin would be an entirely suitable empress. She is twenty-two years of age. The Ceredada suffered a setback when Arbelan Drazharan was relegated, and a new empress from that house might be considered a fitting restoration of honor.”
Maia nodded. “We do not know Arbelan well, but we believe she was treated poorly by our father, and we wish her comfort and tranquility. We have no cause for ill-will toward the Ceredada.”
“Likewise, the current Count Nethenel and ourself have mutual friends, and we are agreed on the value of a pragmatic marriage to both our houses. If the Nethenada’s pecuniary straits do not dissuade you, we believe you would find them earnest friends.”
“Our guardian did not wish to see us go soft with the trappings of excessive wealth,” Maia said, proud of keeping his voice level. “We see no reason to hold Count Nethenel’s finances against him, if you think him appropriate.”
“Then it seems to us that such a marriage would serve House Drazhada well, collectively and individually.”
There was something he was missing, and it felt too late to admit how much he did not understand. Carefully, he ventured, “What advantages do you see in the sedoretu, that could not be provided by a double wedding such as you have alluded to?”
Vedero’s cheeks went a very bright red, contrasting starkly with the white skin that was so different from his own. “Because Dach’osmin Ceredin is the elf we would wed, were we entirely free to wed as we desired.”
Maia’s brain seemed to stutter. Then, finally, recognition. “By a ‘sedoretu,’ do you mean a celestial marriage?”
“We are not familiar with that terminology,” said Vedero. “We understand it is more common in Barizhan…”
“Like out of the wonder-tales,” Maia rushed on. “At the birth of time, Salezheio and Anmura wed Cstheio and Ulis. From Salezheio came forth the children of the day, and from Cstheio the children of the night.”
“And did Anmura and Ulis, and Cstheio and Salezheio, also know each other as husbands and wives?”
“Of course. But between Anmura and Salezheio, and Cstheio and Ulis, it was unfit to share the passions of the flesh, for the heavens cannot bear the tumult of two gods contesting the day or the night.”
Vedero smiled. “We are your sister; we would no sooner bear your heir than blaspheme against the gods. But we dare to suppose that the Ethuverazhid Zhas—and perhaps the Zhasan—are no less worthy of such a rite than the avars of old.”
Maia nodded. “We will think on it.”
As Maia had feared, the Witnesses were not warm towards the prospect of a half-goblin emperor marrying in a ceremony that, in modern times, was indeed more prevalent in Barizhan. Yet no one could find fault with the prospect of Csethiro Ceredin as empress, not even Maia himself. She had the advantage of not being Paru Tethimin or Loran Duchenin, both of whom he had met under awkward circumstances and not taken likings to.
And Vedero loved her.
There were those at court, like Setheris, who were cruel towards marnei, and made them the butt of jokes even when the conversation had nothing to do with who loved whom. But there were others who took it in stride. Varenechibel, it transpired, had been of the belief that if the Archduchess were to carry on with one of her “intellectual” friends, it was much better to have a partner who could not impregnate her. It made not a whit of difference to the facts, as Varenechibel saw them, which were that he would marry her off to Eshevis Tethimar or someone else whom he considered advantageous. Vedero’s desires had nothing to do with it. Maia began to understand, in a strange way, why she had mourned him so sincerely—and had been so startled by Maia’s letter that she had dared hope for more.
And she was right. One, if not both, of them would have to make a tactical marriage for the sake of stability. They might as well do it in such a way that someone got to be happy.
Dinner with Ambassador Gormened provided the opportunity to meet many other goblins, several of whom were in sedoretus themselves. Esret, one of the page boys who escorted Maia to dinner, was the child of such a marriage. “But the Great Avar has had children by evening and morning women,” he declared, sounding half-horrified and half-amazed at his monarch’s audacity.
Mer Zhidelka, the silk merchant-cum-raconteur whose stories commanded much of the evening, had an evening husband and an evening wife, both of whom turned a blind eye to the questionable legality of his seafaring exploits. He also, however, had a morning wife, who was just as zealous about her commitment to maritime justice as she was about respecting the taboo of “moiety.” “If it had just been one of the others, I could have—”
Osmerrem Gormened cleared her throat with a not in front of His Serenity expression.
“—they’d have overcome their objections,” said Zhidelka, anticlimactically.
There were advantages to being betrothed to multiple elves. Maia could visit Vedero’s circles, which included scholars of poetry and linguistics as well as astronomy. And on the occasions when he was required to mingle in more formal settings, one or another of his spouses-to-be would join him. Vedero tired of attending parties with the likes of Nurevis Chavar—for which Maia could not blame her—but if it was only once a week, then it was tolerable.
Negotiating the marriage contract took almost a month. Pazhis Nethenel fretted that this was because of his house’s finances, but Csethiro scoffed. “My father is a fearful man, and he needs to be assured he is not being played for a fool.” She used first-familiar with Vedero, and perhaps Vedero had vouched for Maia’s character, because she was willing to do the same with Maia and Pazhis as well.
“Does he—think ill of Vedero?” Maia asked cautiously.
“It has nought to do with her,” said Csethiro, “and everything to do with the sedoretu being ‘goblin nonsense.’ Which is patently untrue—Edretanthiar I and II being just a few of the more recent examples—but he is not interested in hearing about them.”
Maia had his own doubts about whether the Edretanthiar cognomen qualified as “recent” history, but he kept them to himself.
The wedding itself was scheduled for late summer. That, too, was a slightly more protracted delay than typical; Csethiro said it was because organizing the logistics for a marriage of four was six times harder, not twice, that of a two-person union, and did not seem to speak entirely in jest.
The oath ring ceremony, likewise, involved more complexity than a typical Ethuverazhid betrothal. Maia placed an iron ring on Vedero’s left thumb, and another on Csethiro’s right, then Pazhis’ right. All the others had to do the same, keeping track of whose thumbs went where. But then it was done, and he bore all three rings with pride.
Still, even with Berenar’s lessons and Arbelan Drazharan’s dinners, he was acutely conscious that there were many who would prefer Idra Drazhar to sit on the throne instead. That raised another question. “If thou and Pazhis have a son,” he asked Vedero, “where would he sit in the line of succession?”
“Behind thy sons, but ahead of Idra,” Vedero said.
“Will that cause difficulties?” At her confused look, he went on, “I do not think Idra begrudges me my duties, but he could not very well tell me if he did. And he has plenty of supporters who might think ill of the child of a ‘goblin marriage’ superseding him.”
“Idra is only supported because he is still a child. By the time he is old enough to rule in his own right, any child either of us have would be a more convenient puppet. Besides,” Vedero continued, “Pazhis is in no more haste to consummate our marriage than I am.”
“To consummate thine axis of the marriage,” Maia amended. “Will he desire to know me as a husband?”
Vedero blinked. “Thou’rt Emperor.”
“I was aware,” Maia said drily.
“Pazhis knows that thou’rt marrying for duty, not pleasure. He will not presume to lie with thee against thy will.”
“I asked not what he presumeth,” said Maia, “but what he desireth.”
“I could venture a hypothesis, but meseemeth it would serve thee well to speak unto thy betrothed of this matter.”
Maia sighed. “And Csethiro?”
“What of her?”
“Is she of similar mind? That begetting an heir would be only a duty, not a joy?”
From her expression, Vedero definitely knew what Csethiro thought. But again, she refused to enlighten him. “Speak with her.”
“You are all well-versed in the ways of the Untheileneise,” Maia protested, in second-plural. “Have pity on a rustic hobgoblin.”
“Thou’rt Emperor,” Vedero repeated. “Consider it practice for meeting the Great Avar.”
When Thara Celehar attended Maia next, it was not with news of the investigation, but rather because of Csoru Zhasanai’s angry missive. Patiently, Maia took first-familiar with him, encouraging him to explain why he had left the prelacy.
“We will speak to the widow empress,” Maia pledged, “and assure her that you serve us diligently, and whatever sorrows you left behind in Aveio are of no importance to us.”
Celehar bowed low. “That is far too kind, Serenity. But we suspect...she does not respect you either.”
“If she respects us not, why does she burden us with so much trivial correspondence?”
“We fear our esteemed kinswoman has made that her modus operandi for so long, she has no other strategem for expressing her displeasure,” said Celehar, straight-faced.
Csoru was not much older than Maia himself; it seemed unlikely for someone to have become so set in their ways, even if that someone was married to Varenechibel. She had been unpleasant at first, but now seemed content to ignore him more often than not. What could have changed? “Is it the matter of our marriage?”
“There are those,” Celehar said, “who do not take kindly to change of any sort.”
“But we are bringing back old ways. Surely someone like your hierophant in Aveio would approve of that?”
“It is difficult to say. Evru and Oseian were both from morning families, and no one deemed their marriage a sin. But, Serenity—there are many among the common people who give little thought to moiety, and yet will give thanks that one such as yourself is committing to the sedoretu. If their emperor can have a husband and a wife, surely the path ahead for marnei will be easier in years to come.”
An emperor, Maia knew, did not apologize. But what could an emperor do when he was misunderstood? “If we may ease the burdens on our people, it pleases us. But we do not wish anyone to seek a false likeness, for in that we must disappoint. We are not, ourself, marnis.”
Celehar seemed puzzled by this. “It is not our place to question you, Serenity. But there are those who will assume, for good or ill.”
“Let them assume what they like,” Maia snapped. “We wish our sister a marriage that gladdens her. That should be reason enough.”
Celehar considered this for a moment, then bowed. “If that is the case, Serenity, then there are some who will respect you all the more.”
A week later, Maia found himself at dinner with some of the elves who had jumped to conclusions, at a party hosted by Marquess Lanthevel, the Presider of the House of Blood. His wine was strong, and after much conversation about everything from the wall hangings to the wars on the Evressai Steppes, Lanthevel asked, “So you really intend to marry your own sister?”
“They’re not intimate,” said Pashavar. “Don’t be indecent.”
“Is that why the negotiations with the Tethimada fell through?” Lanthevel pressed. “They couldn’t find a fourth?”
“We do not know,” Maia said. This was true only in the most technical sense. Vedero had never said she was not planning such an endeavor, but he would have been extremely surprised to learn she had spoken about a sedoretu to Eshevis Tethemar.
“Duke Tethimel would never have permitted his son to engage in such a frivolous venture,” said Osmerrem Pashavaran.
“Ignore her,” said Lanthevel, “she’s just envious this wasn’t the fashion a generation earlier. She could have gotten a better deal than the Witness.”
“You dare!” Osmerrem Pashavaran began, but Lanthenel’s niece quickly changed the subject back to the Evressai Wars.
After the debacle of Sheveän and Chavar’s coup attempt, Maia was once again rushed from place to place. First to the Alcethmeret’s nursery to console Idra and his nieces, and assure them that he knew they were innocent. Interviewing Nurevis Chavar, who had tried in his own oblivious way to introduce Maia to his friends at court, until he could be sure he was not part of the conspiracy. Scheduling the trials. Brusquely informing Eshevis Tethimar that he had no need of his “hospitality.” Assuaging the mayor’s concerns about the security threat. The Mazan’theileian, at sundown, for Dazhis’ revethvoran.
Even then, it only took a day before the Archprelate provided him with a candidate nohecharis to serve in Dazhis’ place. “We dared to hope,” Kiru Athmaza had said. Maia was doing many things that Varenechibel would never have countenanced. And she was a cleric of Csaivo. Had that, too, been her true desire, or just a workaround to help the other mazei habituate to her?
It was not his job to answer that. If she truly sought to serve, then he would accept her with gratitude. Cala and Beshelar needed sleep, and an emperor could never be alone.
But he could not be with his family, either. Not until two days later was Maia able to eat a brief breakfast with Vedero, who passed along Csethiro’s outrage, and her disappointment that it was not appropriate to duel Sheveän on Maia’s behalf.
“It seems absurd,” he pointed out, “that my days are scheduled in such precision, and yet I have not had a moment to gain sympathy from my betrotheds. Will it be so formal even after the wedding?”
“Perhaps not quite so formal,” said Vedero. “Yet wert thou to relegate any of us—” she spoke in first-plural—“it would be no strange thing, by the standards of the Ethuveraz.”
“I would never!” Maia blurted.
“I know,” said Vedero gently.
Maia rushed through his breakfast, involuntarily thinking of all the meetings he had to sit through. Lord Berenar was doing an admirable job as the new Lord Chancellor, but even without a new Witness for the Prelacy, the Corazhas were more than capable of wearing him down. “Thou wert raised at court,” he finally noted, offhand.
“Yes,” said Vedero, “and I know well that an emperor’s time is not his own.”
“Knewest thou Sheveän well?”
“We did not travel in the same circles. Nemolis always seemed happy with her. Proud of her, but a bit awed, like he might regard the falcon on his wrist.”
“Wilt thou miss her?”
“Serenity. She is a traitor.”
“I know that,” said Maia impatiently. “I like her not, and the matter of our kinship will not win her clemency. But she is thy family, too, and I would know if thou grievest.”
“It surpriseth thou, that I mourned our father. Even though I could spend but little time with him.”
“It is no strange thing.”
Vedero sighed. “There is a stubbornness that comes with being Drazhadeise. It takes different forms in an emperor than in an archduchess. Varenechibel admired it in me, as I admired it in him. Sheveän possesses it not. All she knows, all she sees, is how to be the Princess of the Untheileneise Court. She twisted herself so thoroughly into filling that role, I know not if anything remains of who she was before.”
“She resents thee,” Maia speculated. “For being stubborn enough to choose—to demand—thine own way?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps she merely thought, ‘if that fool of an archduchess can wed her scholar friend, I am certainly entitled to have my son on the throne.’”
Maia shook his head. “Give Csethiro my thanks. And Pazhis, if you see him. Tell them I hope we shall at least share conversation after we are married.”
“They understand,” said Vedero. But she said she’d pass the message along.
The Council of Prelates had yet to appoint a replacement for the Witness for the Prelacy, so Archprelate Tethimar attended the Corazhas sessions in his place. After another tiresome meeting, he approached Maia. “Serenity. May we have a moment?”
Maia resisted the urge to glance over at Csevet to answer, because it very much felt like moments were not Maia’s own to distribute as he might. But he squared his jaw and said, “Certainly.” He would stare down objections if he had to; that was his job.
“We hope this will not be an unpleasant topic,” said the Archprelate. “Your marriage is not for several months, and ordinarily there would be no rush to confirm ritual matters. However, with the Great Avar visiting soon, we thought you might wish to ensure that there were no disagreements with your grandfather’s dynasty.”
“Disagreements?”
“We wonder, Serenity, whether you have given any thought to which moiety you and your spouses will assume.”
“We have not.”
“That is to be expected. As you are emperor, you will of course have priority in deconflicting claims. We only wished to remind you, so it does not slip your mind in meeting with the Barizheise.”
Maia tensed. Still, Csevet was in no rush to hurry him along to the next meeting, and Cala and Beshelar would not object. Berenar would not wish to see him languish in ignorance. And Maia did not know the Archprelate well; it would be less awkward to ask this of him than of Vedero, after months. “Archprelate, we are not well-educated in courtly matters, and we fear we are often at a disadvantage in such conversations. Would you explain, in your own words, what you mean by deconflicting claims?”
The Archprelate did not look offended. “Moiety is less significant now than it was before the unification; the Varenechibel cognomens put little stock in such things. Traditionally, moiety was inherited matrilineally. Whatever moiety a mother belonged to, so would her children.”
“By moiety, you mean whether one is a ‘morning’ or an ‘evening’ spouse?”
“Exactly so,” said the Archprelate, without judgment. “To those who regard this as a sacred distinction, it is profane to engage in intercourse with a member of one’s own moiety. A morning elf would regard another morning elf as something akin to a brother or sister. So, suppose a woman is of the morning and her child, perforce, is also. One would therefore conclude that the child’s father belonged to the evening.”
“But he wouldn’t have to,” Maia said. “She might have had a tryst, or been violated.” He had little knowledge of the details of such matters, but he knew enough to be sure the world was an unjust place.
The Archprelate cleared his throat awkwardly. “It is somewhat of a polite fiction, to be sure.”
“We do not mean to interrupt. Please continue.”
“The ceremony of the oath rings signified that you will belong to the same moiety as Archduchess Vedero, and the opposite moiety to Count Nethenel and Dach’osmin Ceredin. Did you discuss, at that time, which of you would be the morning and which the evening spouses?”
“No,” Maia admitted. “It may be—we do not know our betrotheds well, and perhaps the Archduchess assumed we knew more of Barizheise tradition than, in sooth, we do.”
“If Varenechibel had been observant of moiety taboos, then we would know—or agree to pretend—that the Empresses Chenelo and Pazhiro had both belonged to the opposite moiety as him, hence the same as each other. Hence you and Vedero would indeed belong to the same moiety, as is meet. However, in that case, Arbelan Drazharan would belong to that same moiety, as would her brother, and his paternal grandchildren, thus rendering the conjugal relationship between you and Dach’osmin Ceredin illicit. Do you follow?”
“Not exactly,” Maia admitted.
“Perhaps the details are not relevant. In the present day, at least among lowborn elves, spouses entering into a sedoretu will usually decide for themselves which moieties to bind themselves to. In some cases, they research the genealogy until they find an ancestor who publicly claimed a moiety, then assign the other spouses’ moieties to match. Since you are the emperor, it might be more suitable for you to do so through the Drazhadeise line, rather than deferring to the lineages of the Nethenada or Ceredada.”
“And you are suggesting we might need to consult with the Barizheise. In case—our identification as evening suggests that Chenelo was evening, which might restrict who her kin could marry.” If Maru Sevraseched cared any more about such things than Varenechibel had, which Maia vaguely recalled he did not. But there was no shortage of diplomatic missteps an emperor could take by mistake.
“Precisely.”
“We thank you for thinking of this matter. We do not suppose—” But Maia broke off. Something had struck him. “In the wonder-tales, this is associated with the marriage of the gods? The morning moiety are the children of Salezheio and Ulis, and the evening are those of Cstheio and Anmura?”
The Archprelate nodded. “That is the tradition.”
How many times had his mother read him the wonder-tales? “When wert thou born?”
“On the longest night of the year,” Maia had said.
“What is thy father’s true name?”
“Nemera Drazhar,” he had said, and giggled, because “Nemera” was a silly name, a name out of a wonder-tale, that had nothing at all to do with the emperor, an elf who lived far away. And Chenelo had sat there and laughed with him, laughed at the man who had sent her into exile, and Maia had been too young to understand whatever grief or bitterness she kept concealed.
“Whose child art thou?” Had she ever imagined that some day, her son might need to answer the ritual questions for himself, in a distant palace surrounded by pale elves he did not resemble?
“The star’s child,” Maia said, and they’d grinned together, united in their devotion to the Lady of Stars.
“Evening,” Maia said abruptly. “We are certain of it. Chenelo Zhasan was of the evening, so we are too.”
He could confirm it with the Barizheise dignitaries when they arrived, but he felt sure. Chenelo had been forbidden to speak to him in Barizhin, or to go into detail about her homeland. But she had tried, when she could, to pass along what Varenechibel had not explicitly disallowed. How to meditate. And the wonder-tales. Being a child of Cstheio had been something important to her, and she had made sure Maia had understood.
Had Chenelo expected to marry into a sedoretu herself, someday? Had she left behind morning lovers in Barizhan? Every time he considered his mother’s fate, from his adult vantage, he wanted to rage at the injustice of it. But now, for the first time, he realized that she’d left him an ulishenathaän as vibrant as the one on Lanthenel’s walls. And Vedero, who had asked to study the stars because she could not imagine marrying the woman she loved, was Cstheio’s child too.
The matter of the Sevraseched family’s political entanglements became less academic more quickly than Maia could have anticipated. Nadeian Vizhenka, the wife of the Hezhethoreise guard, nonchalantly introduced herself as Maia’s aunt, albeit one Chenelo had never met in her life. On the heels of this news came the revelation that Maia had three other aunts, besides Thever, who was not entirely mad so much as nervous and hesitant to travel.
“We are most gratified to meet you,” said Maia. “We still have much to learn of Barizheise kinship, so we hope this question is not improper. Would we be correct to understand that you and my other aunts are also of the evening moiety, as was Chenelo?”
Merrem Vizhenka did not seem to think this a rude or unexpected question. “In more traditional times, you would have been, but we confess that our father is not strictly observant in these matters. Holitho and Ursu’s mother was of the morning.”
“Ah,” said Maia. “We understand. We ask because we are betrothed within a sedoretu ourself, and hope to do nothing amiss.”
Merrem Vizhenka seemed genuinely surprised. “Congratulations, Serenity!”
Maia stifled a laugh. “The comings and goings of the emperor are everyone’s gossip, here. It is a relief to be reminded that there are places where our personal life is not news.”
“Our father complains about all the ministers who try to make rules for him, but he is adept at carving out privacy, we think. Else he could not have come to know our mother—and Shaleän’s, and Holitho and Ursu’s, so intimately.”
“We would like to know how he manages it,” Maia admitted. “Sometimes we fear we shall never know our spouses at all; other times we fear that all the Ethuveraz will expect to know them as closely as I do.”
“There is an old Barizhin saying—a dav with three beds is like a horse with three hooves. Do they say the same, here?”
“We have not heard it.”
“It dates from the time when moieties were held more sacrosanct. Even—especially—within a sedoretu, each partner should have their own space, to be alone as and when they choose. Just as candor and communication are necessary for the couplings, so too is it important for everyone to enjoy the pleasures of their own company, and not be overwhelmed by more forceful personalities.”
“We think this prudent,” Maia said. “We have seen but little of our grandfather, but he strikes us as...potentially forceful.”
Merrem Vizhenka laughed merrily, and soon she was telling Maia about all of his far-flung family. Ursu, perhaps because her own parentage was a matter of some scandal, had married into an entirely proper sedoretu. She and her evening husband had two children, Maia’s cousins, and their evening wife and morning husband had one son, Maia’s “othercousin.” “It sounds better in Barizhin,” Nadeian admitted, giving him the title of kazhornu. Meanwhile, Shaleän flouted propriety, less by coupling with another woman than by coupling with another evening woman.
Part of the reason that the tradition of sedoretu had lasted longer in Barizhan than the Ethuveraz was because of their interminable dynastic battles. When a Great Avar had no son, naming his kager as heir could sometimes forestall conflict. “We hope that will not be necessary here,” Maia admitted, and Nadeian grinned.
The Avar’s visit was an excuse for even more festivities and ceremonies than was typical, and while Maia was relieved that he did not have to dance himself, he was more gratified to see that Vedero and Pazhis were dancing and seeming to enjoy each other’s company. Csethiro briefly joined him on the dais. She had been very happy to learn that she would be claiming morning moiety, and tried to summarize the complicated matter of her genealogy again. Her father, the Marquess Ceredel, was now by rights obliged to claim the evening if he chose to enter a relationship where that was significant, but the Ceredada had never taken such matters very seriously. The Celehada, however, did, and since Count Celehel was a morning elf, his wife Csethiran had to have been of the evening.Csethiran had died shortly after Csoru was born, and when Ceredel’s first child was born later that year, he had named her Csethiro after his heart-brother’s wife. The implied intimacy was slightly scandalous. “But Count Celehel never took another wife, or lover. And now since my father is formally of the evening, perhaps if they decided to kindle a new intimacy, there could be no objections. Supposing my stepmother deigns to permit such a thing.”
Maia, completely bewildered, could only muster “Is that likely?”
“Not particularly, but thy reign has brought many changes.” Maia must have looked flustered, because Csethiro went on, “Do not fret, I did not say they were for the worse.”
On Maia’s nineteenth birthday, he received far more gifts than he knew what to do with. There were letters from Nelozho and the crew of the Radiance of Cairado and the families of the Wisdom of Choharo crew. And there were also extravagant gifts from his betrotheds. From Pazhis, a collection of elaborately engraved candles and holders from Thu-Tetar. They reminded him of the style Chenelo used to light, though perhaps that was coincidence, and the memories were hazy after so long. From Vedero, a manuscript of Amu Carcethlened’s poetry, which a scholarly friend of hers was translating. And from Csethiro, an ancient and elegant sword. His nohecharei were impressed that it had stayed in the family for so long, not even accompanying Arbelan Zhasan to her marriage. But Maia was struck by another aspect of the symbolism. “A sunblade,” he pointed out. “From my morning wife.”
The Great Avar took Maia to the Horsemarket, and when he roared a question at him, Maia admitted, “We know little of horses. Although,” he added, “we know they must not have three hooves, any more than a dav may have three rooms.”
The Avar gave a deep laugh. “You are your mother’s son, soothly.”
“We thank you,” Maia said tensely, “but we were not—permitted to learn much from her. This wisdom comes by our Aunt Nadeian.”
The Avar considered this gravely. “Well, let us instruct you in what we may.”
At sundown, the Untheileian filled with goblins and elves to dance the old year down. Maia spoke the traditional words to open the ceremony. As Csevet had told him, the doors were thrown open to everyone who wished to join the festivities. There were many unfamiliar faces—mazei, couriers, pneumatic station operators, Hezhethora guards. Csethiro led Vedero through the steps of “The Snow Queen,” and Maia smiled from the dais.
There was a fireworks display and a banquet, at which Maia made the acquaintance of Lord Berenar’s wife, and then the ritual in the Untheileneise’meire, where the Archprelate asked for the gods’ blessings upon the new year. Again, Maia imagined Anmura and Salezheio, Cstheio and Ulis, tracing their dance through the heavens, as they had since the beginning of time. And then back to the Untheileian.
It was perhaps two o’clock in the morning when Maia heard a faint, high-pitched, scream from across the ballroom. Like a stone thrown some distance into a lake, the noise rippled outward slowly, taking time to reach him. The Hezhethora were squaring up around the Great Avar, the Untheileneise Guard were seizing hold of bystanders, people were running, fleeing, the musicians had stopped.
And someone was running directly towards the dais. Vedero, large and imposing, but her face panicked. “Serenity!” she called, but she was looking at Cala rather than him. “Thy dachenmaza—come—”
Cala glanced between Vedero and Maia uncertainly. Again, Maia was reminded of the absurdity of the situation, that he should be ordering around a sister ten years older than him. “Go with the archduchess.”
“Serenity, we cannot—”
“We will accompany you,” Maia declared. Any semblance of protocol had been abandoned by that point. “Beshelar—”
“What’s toward?” Beshelar interrupted, his sword unsheathed.
Vedero was babbling something, but Maia could not understand her. Csevet had joined them, and Cala turned to him even as Vedero was dragging him into the fray. “Kiru!” he yelled. “Tell Kiru Athmaza to make ready—”
Beshelar looked as if he wanted to guard Maia from every direction at once, but as their awkward pack shuffled across the floor, almost no one took notice of the emperor, his nohecharei, and his sister amid all the mayhem.
The first thing he noticed, as he drew closer to the fray, was what looked like four or five Hezhethoreise goblins seizing Csethiro, who was flailing against their grip in a mad rage. Vedero strode up to her, and yelled something that Maia couldn’t make out, but it got her to calm down slightly.
There were two limp bodies lying on the floor. One of them was Eshevis Tethimar. A half-dozen elves, some from the Untheileneise Guard and others merely those who happened to be nearest at hand, were crouched around him warily, as if he might roar up and start breathing fire any minute.
The other was Pazhis Nethenel.
He was bleeding profusely from a gash in his stomach, and Maia, whose conscious mind was still struggling to make out the chain of events, could not help but be reminded of the ostentatious sharadansho silk he had been gifted by the Tethimada less than twenty-four hours before. He wished it was at hand. He wanted to staunch his betrothed’s wounds, press the silk close against Pazhis until the garish white was stained with blood, show all the world what he thought of the Tethimada’s gifts…
“Serenity.” Orthema’s voice. “Serenity, come with us.”
“Pazhis,” Maia blurted. “What—is he—”
“There’s nothing you can do for him—”
Maia was shaking too much to hear the rest of Orthema’s sentence. He thought again of the Wisdom of Choharo and all the crew who had died stathan, for no reason other than being near the emperor. Pazhis was dead because he, Maia, had tried to be kind, and the conspirators could not even manage to kill Maia alongside him. He thought he understood why nohecharei committed revethvoran if they failed their emperor.
It was the sound of his name that broke through his grief; only a few people would call “Maia, Maia,” to get his attention. “Maia,” Vedero repeated. “The dachenmazei are—they are still laboring to heal him. They would not bother if they thought there was no hope. But we cannot help him by getting in their way.”
Dully, Maia nodded, and let Orthema guide him out of the Untheileian, Beshelar and Telimezh flanking him on each shoulder. Even fatigued and mad with grief, he sensed something odd about being guarded by two soldiers, when there ought to have been one soldier and one maza at all times. He wondered if that, too, had once been tied up with moiety, if the prelates had taught that the emperor always needed one guard of the morning and one of the evening, one to labor with their body and one with their mind…
At the Ulimeire in the Mazan’theileian, he had managed a sort of peace from his prayers to Ulis, that his rage might die with Dazhis. As Winternight slowly gave way to dawn, Maia tried to summon that stillness again. Whatever tentative, uncertain love there was between Maia and Pazhis, let it be stronger than Tethimar’s hate. Whether Pazhis lived or died, let Maia be able to rise and serve his people. If he was to take on the role of Ulis in the celestial marriage—gods let it still be possible—he would have to learn some more prayers.
Lord Berenar, as his wife had indicated, was never happier than when he was knee-deep in the brambles. Together with Csevet, and the anxious Mer Celehar, he pieced together Tethimar’s scheme. His original intent, it transpired, had been to first marry Vedero, and only then destroy Varenechibel’s airship, in the hopes of becoming regent. But not only had the emperor died before the betrothal was finalized, but Maia had scuttled the archduchess’ engagement. Then, Count Nethenel, who had never been supportive of the Tethimada’s tendencies, was granted the privilege of marrying not only Vedero—whom Tethimar thought should have been “his” by rights—but the emperor himself. As Celehar closed in on Tethimar’s accomplices, Tethimar grew more and more furious, and decided to take out his rage on the marnis he had always held in contempt.
All this Maia heard a few days later, once Ozhis, the Athmaz’are novice who had been running messages for the senior mazei, assured him that Pazhis was out of danger.
He had been very fortunate, another maza explained, that Kiru Athmaza was a cleric of Csaivo; her arrival at Pazhis’ side, within minutes of the attack, might have proven decisive. But it was not luck, but wisdom, that Cala had known to summon her immediately, and that Vedero had sought out the emperor’s nohecharis. And it was perhaps both that Csethiro had immediately drawn the attention of both the Untheileneise Guard and the Hezhethora by attempting to throttle Tethimar, which is why Maia had found her in a state of such disarray. He was selfishly relieved that, if his reaction had been perhaps less than serene, he was not alone.
The Great Avar had postponed his departure for several days, announcing with a booming voice that someone had to take care of Velvet, and if his grandson was too distraught over the fate of his betrothed to take the time, then he would have to see to it himself, because none of the moon-witted elves of the Untheileneise could be trusted with such a responsibility. He also, it transpired, had had forceful words with Berenar, Csevet, and several others, insisting that the elflands’ emperor needed to have time for himself—and those close to him—or he would go mad. Maia was slightly annoyed that it took a foreign head of state to make this point, but much more grateful to his grandfather for having made it.
So it was that Maia was at last permitted to visit the apartments where Pazhis was recuperating. He was wan, but sat up in bed and grinned to see Maia, flanked by his nohecharei. “Serenity.”
“Pazhis,” Maia stammered. “I am told that an emperor does not apologize. Yet I know not how to express my—regret, that thou shouldst be so ill-used on my account.”
“Thou?”
“I?”
“I have been apprehensive,” said Pazhis, “that one day or another I would be escorted to the Nevennamire because Eshevis Tethimar requested to speak with me before his revethvoran.”
No such appointment had been arranged. Tethimar kept insinuating that he would rather perish in a properly aristocratic style than be executed like a mere commoner, but had made no move to make amends towards those he’d wronged. Aina Shulivar, in contrast, showed great gusto about his misdeeds, and would have wielded the revethvoreis’atha with equal pride, but this was considered above his station. The impossibility of it all made Maia, grudgingly, consider that the Curneise might have had a point.
“From him,” Pazhis went on, “I would accept an apology. Thou, however, hath no cause for regret.”
“How comes the recovery?”
“More tedious than painful now. The doctors say it will scar, but—” He broke off abruptly.
“But what?”
“I am not in the habit of going about with my stomach unveiled, so any disfiguration should be of no import.” But Pazhis was shifting uncomfortably.
“I am most gratified to speak with thee and see thee well. If thou needeth rest, I will not disturb thee.”
“No, please stay. What’s toward at court?”
Maia told him of the countless trials, of cantankerous Lord Pashavar laboring to keep the Judiciate on-task, of the pomp when the Great Avar had finally departed. Vedero had invited Maia to watch a lunar eclipse with her in a few days’ time, and warned him to dress for the weather.
“I wish I could join you,” said Pazhis, in second-plural. “But the doctors think it unwise for me to exert myself yet. Wouldst thou convey my regrets?”
“Ah—certainly.”
“There will be other chances.”
“In sooth,” said Maia, absently.
“What ails thee, Serenity?”
“’Tis nothing.”
“I have been bedridden here for days on end, and thou meseemeth more downcast than I. An thou confideth not in me, I would thou unburden thyself to another.”
“Thou hast always been a loyal friend unto Vedero. Thou speakest truth; she shall surely invite thee to watch an eclipse. If not this season, than another.”
“A loyal friend,” Pazhis repeated. “But not as her husband?”
“Perhaps ‘twould be for the best.”
“Ah,” said Pazhis. “We see.”
The switch to formal was jarring, but then, if they were no longer engaged, some formality was expected. He had almost seemed like he expected Maia to suggest as much. “You do?” Maia cautiously repeated.
“It is to be expected. We are hardly a desirable companion for an emperor who does not share our—persuasion. A few inches lower and Tethimar might have forestalled that concern, but—” He gave an ironic, languid shrug. “You were bound to recognize your folly.”
“Do you think us so stupid that we would exchange rings based on a passing whim? We knew some in the court held this opinion, but we thought better of you.”
“You were newly coronated, moved to do right by the Archduchess. ’Tis no surprise you acted—impetuously.”
“Any marriage we undertook would have been a transaction. We are not romantics, to believe otherwise.”
“Perhaps. Yet we trust you will find partnership with Dach’osmin Ceredin rather more pleasant than ourself.”
“We will find no such thing!”
Nethenel blinked. “Perhaps we misunderstand. What exactly is it you intend?”
“We intend,” Maia said, “to rule in solitude. It will only be a few years until Prince Idra’s majority, and no doubt our foes will find his heirs more tolerable than ours.”
“And what exactly is that meant to accomplish?”
“It is meant to prevent any more harm from coming to you—or the Archduchess, or Dach’osmin Ceredin—merely for the misfortune of wedding a hobgoblin!”
Nethenel considered this for a moment. Then he laughed.
“Do you mock our concern?”
“Forgive us, Serenity. We only—doubt your priorities. It is one thing for fickle elves such as Ciro Zhasanai—” the widow of the unfortunate Beltanthiar IV, Maia dimly recalled—“to think relegation beneath them after having once enjoyed all the bullion of an empress. But ‘twould be a strange bargain indeed to suffer indignity on your behalf, and have no share in the entailing joys.”
“What joys have we to offer? We are thought a fool—not without cause—and betrayed by our Lord Chancellor, sister-in-law, and nohecharis in one fell swoop.”
“You are not the first nobleman to draw the ire of the Tethimada. That one such as Eshevis should despise you is, as we see it, an honor. And we are certain we speak for the Archduchess and Dach’osmin Ceredin in this regard.”
The fear after Winternight itself had been bad enough, tossing and turning as he waited for news. He could not let his heart grow so anxious again, just when he’d mustered his resolve. “We see we are tiring you. We will visit again when you are haler.”
“Serenity,” Nethenel went on. “Think on what we said.” He shifted to second-plural. “We are all fond of you, and would not see you beholden to a contract that ill-suits you.”
“Yet you think me so cruel to consign Dach’osmin Ceredin to a union without Vedero?” Maia blurted. “We—confess that we are inexperienced in the ways of intimacy within a marriage, as with so much else besides. Yet we stand by our word, and our oath. Would stand by it, an you—” plural again— “think such a venture worth the risk.”
“If we are to marry, we think we ought to resume first-familiar with you. Serenity.”
“We concord.”
“Then let me say that I consider thee a wondrous emperor, and a wondrous man. And having once faced peril on thy behalf, I would gladly face the unknown—for good or ill—beside thee.”
Maia stepped closer. “And I hope that I may prove a worthy husband in all regards. But whatever befall, I shall always endeavor to honor thy loyalty as House Nethanada deserves.” A bit recklessly, recalling his banter with Lanthevel and Pashavar when the wine had flowed freely, he added, “And if thou thinkest otherwise, art a moon-headed ninny in sooth.”
“Nonsense,” Pazhis retorted. “Thou’rt the moon-head. I am a sun-headed ninny.”
Maia bent down and kissed his right thumb, above the rings. He gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Ulis: this time, it had been the god of open hands who had let go, and given his betrothed back to him.