Page 55
“Did they sleep?”
Her hands pause over the fastening. “The work was ordered completed before dawn.”
That answers me.
I bathe and dress without allowing the attendants to treat me as an object passed between them. Briar helps with the fastenings only when I cannot reach them myself.
She reaches for my wooden comb.
“No.”
Her fingers retreat.
“This comb remains.”
“The silver pins match the gown.”
“My comb matches me.”
She arranges my chestnut braid around it and adds no ornament.
Sarveth waits outside the chamber. Her gaze stops at the comb but she offers no correction.
“The Arbiter’s cleric has arrived,” she says.
“I saw proof of delivery.”
“I know.”
“Then I will sign.”
We descend through a stronghold waking into ordered motion. Zagfer guards change watches. Miou officers cross the lower gallery. Human servants bow and move against the walls to clear our path.
The rite takes place in a small household court rather than the great hall.
No flowers decorate the chamber. No musicians wait. There is no gathered crowd to mistake this for celebration.
A silver balance hangs above a block of black neptherium. One scale holds the Morwen’thir house seal. The other remains empty.
Rhysandir stands beside it in a formal black coat. His platinum hair falls over his right shoulder, leaving the shaved left side exposed. His nearly black eyes find me as I enter.
Joran waits near him. I recognize the Miou captain from Sarveth’s brief description. He is broad-shouldered, violet-eyed, and dressed in military black. Scars cross his knuckles where one hand rests over the pommel of his ceremonial blade.
An unnamed cleric of the Arbiter stands behind the balance. Silver robes cover a body taller and narrower than Rhysandir’s. The cleric’s face is hidden beneath a smooth mask divided by one vertical line.
Sarveth takes her position opposite Joran.
Two witnesses. One for the household. One for its military strength.
No one stands for Lowtown except me.
The marriage contract lies open upon the neptherium block. Rhysandir’s signature occupies the first line.
Mine waits beneath it.
The cleric raises one hand. “Fiona Holt, have the material terms preceding this rite been satisfied?”
“Yes.”
