The gong chimed, and servants slid wide the paper screens enclosing the hall. ‘Let this marriage be blessed in the sight of heaven,’ intoned the priest.
The acolytes tipped the cages, jostling the birds from their perches. The female chirped angrily and flapped her wings, while the male leaped to the air and circled above the assembly, then swooped down towards his mate. He attempted to land on the perch next to the female, but she puffed up and flapped her wings in fury, pecking him unmercifully. The male retreated, then approached, but the female shot into flight, her dyed wingtips a green blur across shadow. With a loud cry she sped for freedom, and vanished, a flash of pale feathers in sunlight. The male bird gripped tightly to the vacated perch. His feathers fluffed and he shook his head in annoyance. As the chamber stilled with waiting silence, he preened his tail and hopped to the top of the cage, where he relieved himself. After a strained minute passed, the High Priest motioned with his finger, a small but noticeably irritated gesture. An embarrassed acolyte shooed the male bird off. All eyes watched as he circled lazily, then landed in the flower bed just beyond the, open screen door and began to peck for grubs.
Brocades and feathers shifted like a wave across the assembly. The High Priest cleared his throat, his wand dropping in one wrinkled hand. At length, with a glance at the stiff-backed Bunto, he said, ‘Praise the goodness of Chochocan, and heed his lesson. Under his guidance, may this couple find mercy, understanding, and forgiveness.’ Again he cleared his throat. ‘The omen shows us that marriage requires diplomacy, for as man and wife this Lord and Lady must ever strive for unity. Such is the will of the gods.’
A stiff interval followed as acolytes and guests waited for the priest to continue. Eventually it became evident that he would not say more, and the gong chimed. An attendant removed Buntokapi’s marriage mask. He faced Mara, who seemed dazed, except that her eyes were narrowed slightly and the faintest of frowns marred the line of her brows.
‘Exchange the wreaths,’ prompted the priest, as if he seemed worried the couple might forget.
Bunto bent his head, and Mara pressed the somewhat wilted ceremonial circlet over his dark hair. It slipped somewhat as he straightened, and she smelled wine on his breath as he leaned close to crown her in turn.
Mara’s frown deepened; during her hour of contemplation, custom demanded that the groom share a ritual sip of wine with his bachelor friends, to bring them fortune, and wives of their own. Yet it seemed that Bunto and his companions had emptied the ceremonial flagon, and possibly one or two more. Annoyed at his indiscretion, Mara barely heard the priest pronounce them man and wife for the duration of their mortal lives. She did not even realize the formal portion of the ceremony had ended until the guests began loudly to cheer and throw luck charms of elaborately folded paper into a colourful blizzard over bride and groom.
Mara managed a mechanical smile. Now came the time when each guest presented the wedding tribute, in the form of a work of art, recitation, or musical composition. Some of these would be elaborate and expensive affairs patronized by the great Lords and politically powerful of the Empire. Rumour held that the Warlord had imported an entire theatrical company, complete with costumes and stage. But his presentation would not occur for days to come, since the lowest in rank would perform first.
Picking a paper charm out of his shirt-front, Buntokapi spared himself the tedium of the first acts, pleading the need to relieve himself and don more comfortable clothing. By tradition he could not bed his bride until the last of the guests had offered tribute; and the heavy marriage robes hid enough of her that staring at slave girls offered better pastime.
Mara nodded courteously at her Lord. ‘I shall stay here, my husband, that the least of our guests may know of Acoma gratitude for their presentations.’
Buntokapi sniffed, believing she avoided him deliberately. He would see to her later; meantime a feast waited, with fine music and drink, and the chance to see his brothers bow to him for the first time, as he was now Lord of the Acoma. Smiling under his crooked marriage wreath, Buntokapi clapped his hands for his slaves to carry him from the hall.