Clarissa’s turn for a hug. Stasia’s eyes roamed, taking in the sights. The glade ended at a cliff, and planted unknown years earlier was a large ring of rosebushes to form a circle just before. Stasia suspected that would be where the ceremony was held. Laughter caught her attention, and she glanced over to see Cyrus, Arn, and Rayan cracking open bottles of liquor.

  “You are going to love your dresses,” Adella said when Clarissa pulled away. “I helped pick them out myself.”

  “Then I am sure they will be beautiful,” Stasia said. She glanced around the clearing, and she saw no actual building or tent that might grant her privacy. “So where do I dress?” Her eyes widened, remembering previous discussions on Thanese wedding traditions. “Wait, is this where we wrap ourselves naked in silks and blankets while the crowd throws paint on us?”

  “Please try not to sound too terrified,” Clarissa said. “And no, we won’t be doing any of that. We’ve not the time or the preparations. Mari will help you with your dress, while Mother helps me with mine.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  Her fiancée winked playfully.

  “Hidden in the trees. You are a Miquoan woman, are you not?”

  Stasia looked for Mari and found her ordering servants about. She had a sneaking suspicion her sister had shouldered a large amount of the responsibilities when it came to the wedding. Stasia started for her, only to have her path intercepted by her father.

  “A moment before we begin,” Thorda said simply.

  He guided Stasia to a tree stump cut not far into the forest. A thin sheet of metal was laid atop it, its purpose, she could not guess.

  “Is this when you give me some loving final words?” she asked him.

  “I will give you something, yes,” he said. “And it is far better than any clumsy words I might offer.”

  Her father reached into a pocket of his robe and pulled out two silver wedding bands. Her eyes widened at the sight. These bands… the amount of care and detail carved into them was exquisite. The Ahlai name might have been synonymous with weaponry, but her father was capable of so many more impressive feats at his forge. She took the bracelets in hand and held them up to the faint light of the setting sun.

  The silver bands shifted and changed throughout their entire length, as if they were shaping themselves before the very eye. On one side, little trees emerged from the silver, the Ahlai name written so small and perfectly among their leaves. On the other side, the band curled and turned like waves rolling across the surface of the ocean. The Greene family name was carved into the recesses of the waves. The waves and trees crashed together at two central gemstones, an emerald for Miquo, a sapphire for Thanet. She knew they represented those nations for the gemstones had grooves cut into them so that when the light hit just right, the outlines of their respective nations reflected off their surfaces.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. The sight of the silver, the shape of it… she’d seen these before. Thorda had been working on these bands when she interrupted him in his forge and he ordered her to visit Pilus at Pelion.

  “It is not often I am given reason to push my craft,” he said. “But the work is not yet done. Place the bands upon the plate.”

  They seemed finished to her, but she did not argue. Instead she put them on the metal slab atop the stump as he requested. Meanwhile her father withdrew a slender hammer from one of his pockets. He hesitated a moment with his eyes closed as he whispered what sounded like a prayer.

  “Here,” he said when finished, and offered her the hammer. “This is yours now, daughter. Take it, and finish what I began.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, accepting the small hammer.

  In answer, he turned the bands around. Opposite the gemstones, where the two bands came together, were two overlapping loops. Lodged into those loops was a thin silver cap that still looked loose.

  “Held, but not sealed,” he explained.

  Stasia nodded in understanding. Her father, ever in love with symbols and rituals, had left the final hit to be hers. Strange he didn’t want Clarissa here, but so be it, theirs was a family of smiths and crafters, so perhaps this harkened back to her own father’s wedding.

  Doing her best to give the act the weight her father desired, she struck the first bracelet, sealing the twin bands together. Would this one be hers, or Clarissa’s?

  “Well done,” Thorda said upon inspecting it. He gestured to the second. “Finish the deed.”

  The hammer was electric to Stasia’s touch. Something about this felt personal, felt heavy. She lifted the hammer and caught Mari watching them from the tree line, a folded dress held in her arms. Their eyes met. Stasia could not understand the hurt in her sister’s gaze. She brought down the hammer, sealing the second bracelet.

  “I’ll hold these until you are ready,” Thorda said, and he took both bracelets in hand. “I believe your sister is here to help you change.”

  Stasia set the hammer down on the stump and walked to the tree line.

  “I cannot wait to see you in your dress,” Mari said, and shifted her hold of the fabric so she could clap excitedly. Her smile seemed genuine, and her enthusiasm was infectious. Had that sorrow in her sister’s eyes been a trick of the light? Or perhaps Stasia projected her own nervousness onto others…

  “I only pray it fits,” she said.

  “Clarissa gave us your measurements. I presume she knows you well enough that her guesses will be close.”

  Stasia coughed and blushed.

  “Yes, she does indeed. All right, let’s see what my beloved picked out for me.”

  By the time Stasia was dressed, the moon had risen, the food was cooked, and a small crowd assembled. Based on the design of the dresses, she suspected a starlight wedding had been the plan from the start. Her and Clarissa’s matching dresses were a pale shade of violet that seemed to glow in the dark, setting them apart from all others in attendance. Inset gemstones, cut so small as to be nearly imperceptible to the naked eye, sparkled when they caught the faint light, forming swirling patterns along the legs and waist.

  As she had expected, Stasia and Clarissa gathered in the ring of rosebushes along the cliffside. The others formed a matching ring outside the bushes. Her father stood before them to lead the ceremony. This would be no legally sanctioned wedding, after all, not with the Uplifted Church controlling the courts in Vallessau. No priest or priestess of Lycaena was here, either, nor a speaker of any Miquoan god. Just her father, commanding everyone’s attention with his firm voice normally reserved for leading his rebellions.

  “We come here to mark the union of Clarissa Greene and Stasia Ahlai,” he said. “Let friends and family bear witness. Let the stars gaze down in jealousy. This is a joyous moment, and we are all blessed to partake.”

  Thorda lifted what appeared to be a roll of green silk wrapped around a wooden pole the length of his arm. The interior side was rougher than the outside, but she caught only a glimpse of it. He had set it in the grass beside him before starting, and offered no explanation.

  “I have best decided on an amalgamation of both Miquoan and Thanese traditions,” her father said. He offered the end piece of silk to Clarissa. She accepted it with a mischievous grin. Around and around them it went, her father quicker on his feet than Stasia would have guessed. Six loops in total to surround them, each loop pulling Stasia and Clarissa closer together, their arms circling each other as the silk wrapped tight.

  “Is this where we are doused with paint?” Stasia asked.

  “No paint,” Clarissa said. “Just watch.”

  When the circling was complete, Thorda stepped back, the end of the silk held in his right hand.

  “Here upon Thanet, blessed couples come together to celebrate their rebirth,” he said. His voice, often deep and somber, took on an even more serious tone. He sounded like a god of creation to Stasia, one come to offer blessed scripture to his subjects. Each syllable raised hairs on her arms and neck. Each word lifted her spirit.

  “They wrap themselves in a cocoon, an act meant to honor the kind and gentle Butterfly. But it is more than mere worship to a goddess. It is a symbol of rebirth for this most holy of unions recognized and held sacred by all the gods upon all the lands of Gadir. It is a change, a becoming, emerging new and wondrous and beautiful. Would that the starlight could sparkle upon Lycaena’s wings as she graced you with her presence, but we are not so blessed. I hold hope for a future where your children, or your children’s children, might still exchange their vows beneath her watchful eye.”

  He tightened his grip on the silk.

  “The Ahlai, though, we come not from Thanet, but from Miquo. We come from a land swathed in darkness beneath a towering skyscape of trees. We are a people raised in the shadows of the godswood. Patience is in our blood. It takes a century for a scattered seed to grow high enough for its branches to join the illustrious canopy. So, too, would I ask patience from you both. Aid each other. Help each other reach for the stars. Do not expect perfection, not now, not even a decade from now, but instead embrace a mutual growth that will continue into your twilight years.”

  Thorda lifted the silk above his head in a bunched fist.

  “Will you change?” he asked them. “Will you grow?”

  “We will,” Clarissa said.

  “We will,” Stasia echoed.

  Her father bowed his head. His eyes closed. When he spoke next, it was no speech, no traditional blessing. A prayer. He whispered a prayer, the first she had ever heard from him. If he was not so close, she might not have heard it at all.

  “Gods of Miquo,” he prayed. “Those from ages past who may only whisper, and those who yet live hidden and scattered, I beseech you. I ask naught for myself, but for my daughter. Witness her. Embrace her. Love her, and the woman she has chosen. I ask. I beg. I pray.”

  He lifted his head. His voice deepened, and he spoke once more for all to hear.

  “In our lost land of tree and shadow, there is no day more blessed than the autumn fall. Underneath the black branches, and beneath a burning sky of leaves, our people wed. Though we are exiled from our home, I would give you that autumn, my daughter. My child.”

  And then he pulled the silk that bound Stasia and Clarissa. The thin fabric broke, and on the interior side she saw her father had smeared it with the ashes of his forge. Those ashes had covered their violet dresses, but at his prayer, they lifted free and into the air as glowing embers. Light washed over the crowd as the embers swirled higher, higher, higher.

  Stasia looked heavenward, enraptured. The burning ashes danced on divine winds, becoming leaves and branches, a wedding canopy there on the island cliff. They burned the many colors of the godwoods, shades of orange, red, and gold. It lasted but a moment, witnessed in hushed awe of all gathered, and then the leaves broke apart. The ashes scattered upon the wind, and in the absence of their light the brilliant stars shone all the brighter.

  Tears streamed down Stasia’s face. A Miquoan autumn. A falling-leaf wedding. Her father had given her one, even here at the edge of the world. Whatever magic this was, whatever blessing, she did not want to question it, or understand it. Experiencing it was enough.

  Thorda cleared his throat, and the ceremony resumed as if nothing extraordinary had preceded it. He pulled out the two bracelets he had forged from a deep pocket of his robe and then gave one to each of them.

  “Exchange now your bracelets, and with this exchange, acknowledge your status as beloved and married, wife to wife.”

  Clarissa went first. She took Stasia’s hand into hers. The fine silver passed over calloused fingers and bruised knuckles. The light on the emerald and sapphire stones sparkled in the starlight, twin nations in glowing relief.

  “Whatever comes, I embrace it fully,” Clarissa said. Though she stammered a bit, clearly nervous, the rehearsed words flowed more steadily as she continued. “Whatever future we have, I desire it. Be it a day, a year, or an eternity, I want each and every moment of it spent with you. My world was complete the moment you stepped off your boat and into my life.”

  Stasia swallowed hard.

  “You’re going to make me cry,” she whispered. Clarissa’s smile widened as she fought back a laugh. The deed done, she released the bracelet and offered her own wrist. Stasia took the bracelet from her father. The silver twirled between her fingertips. She had practiced no speech, and did not consider herself a master at words. What now to say?

  The bracelet slid easily over Clarissa’s dainty hand to rest upon her wrist. The truth, Stasia decided. The simple, honest understanding of her heart.

  “Clarissa Greene, you are the best thing to ever happen to me, and you are so much better than I deserve. I love you. I hope that will always be enough.”

  Thorda held his arms high and clapped twice.

  “And with that, I name you newly wed, Clarissa and Stasia Ahlai, my dearest and most blessed children.”

  They had not discussed last names, Stasia realized much too late, but it seemed her father had made the decision for them. Thorda clapped again, and their friends and family joined in. Cheers and whistles soon followed, along with demands for a kiss. Stasia and Clarissa obliged, though each was too busy smiling to perform more than a quick, chaste exchange.

  “So I’m better than you deserve?” Clarissa asked, and she clinked her marriage bracelet against Stasia’s. “Then it is good you have the rest of your life to work at it. Maybe by the time we are old women, we will each be what we deserve.”

  “Maybe,” Stasia said. She leaned down, their noses brushing, their foreheads touching so she might whisper and smile. “Do you mind if we start on that tonight?”

  “First we dance, sing, and make fools of ourselves. But after?” Clarissa kissed her, just once, as their friends dispersed for the tables with waiting food and drink. “After, we shall have ourselves a night neither of us will forget.”

  CHAPTER 38

  ARN

  Arn leaned his back against the enormous pine tree and watched the ceremony in silence. He clapped when others clapped. He smiled when others looked his way. The dutiful acts expected at a wedding, he performed. The ceremony was beautiful, and he would not ruin that. All the while, he kept his unbandaged hand buried in his trouser pocket, twirling the foxtail charm between two fingers.

  You’re not upset at the horrors, but the guilt you felt in partaking.

  Afterward, the feast began. Arn held no appetite for it, but he accepted a plate and ate alongside Cyrus. He even laughed at some terrible jokes, and told more terrible ones of his own. Fitting in was so easy, when he wanted to do so. For Stasia’s sake, he would manage. Once enough time had passed, and everyone was sufficiently liquored up, he excused himself and approached the table where the Ahlai family was gathered.

  “Hey, Mari?” he said, tapping her on the back.

  “Yes?” she asked, glancing up and over her shoulder. The red of her eyes shone, her round face illuminated in a mixture of torchlight and moonlight. Beautiful, so beautiful, and so kind. He couldn’t ask for a better friend.

  “Can we talk?” he asked. “Alone?”

  Not a hint of concern crossed her face. She was masterful at hiding her emotions when she desired.

  “Of course,” she said with a smile. She turned to the others at the table. “If you’ll excuse us a moment.”

  Arn hurried away, glad to have his back to their stares. He didn’t know what they thought. Normally he’d say he didn’t care, but the heat building in his neck argued otherwise. To the north was the road, so he led them south, deeper into the trees. He walked until the sounds of laughter and music faded, and their only light came from the stars above that twinkled through the thin pines. Mari followed, calm and quiet. He envied her.

  “I suppose this is far enough,” he muttered, stopping in a small gap.

  “Far enough for what?” Mari asked. “Though given the wedding and the wine, perhaps I should have anticipated this.”

  She was teasing him. The smile growing at the corners of her lips gave it away. It was almost enough to change his mind. Fuck the charm in his pocket. Fuck his brother. Fuck the guilt and the sorrow and the blood on his hands. Fuck it all, and instead just have him and Mari… well…

  “Your offer,” he said, closing his eyes and squeezing the charm so tightly the bronze cap dug into his skin. “I want to take you up on it.”

  “My offer? Oh, you mean… well, it’s a bit sudden, Arn, but I’d be lying if I hadn’t considered…”

  He opened his eyes, and he watched the playfulness of her smile fade.

  “To speak with Velgyn,” he said.

  The younger Ahlai sister stepped back and lowered her head. She drew in a long, single breath. Gathering herself. Preparing for something difficult. The effort layered guilt onto his already overburdened conscience. She hid it from him, though, hid it as if she had spent a lifetime in hiding. When she looked up she was calm as a midnight lake.

  “Sit with me.”

  They sat opposite each other in the leaves and the dirt. Arn tugged at his shirt collar. It was too stiff, too nice, a lavender-white outfit given to him by Thorda to wear for the occasion. No doubt it cost extra to have it made for someone so large. Already the pale color was starting to stain green and brown from the forest leaves. An impulse to tear his jacket off filled him, and he fought it down. He was nervous, thinking stupid.

  Get it together, he chastised himself. You’re a damn paragon. Act like it.

  The thought sickened him instantly. A paragon… but he wasn’t supposed to be a paragon any longer. He had turned against that life, becoming the Heretic. He fought the empire. He killed their paragons. He waged war against their hate and bloodshed. It should have made him better than he was. Yet when he wanted to bolster his bravery, to talk himself up, he still relied on that past. Deep down, he took pride in what he was. These changes, were they real, if that pride still lurked in his heart?