Luxuriating in the coolness of the breeze, and enjoying every moment she could delay joining her husband in the marriage bed, Mara tried to concentrate on the coming finale. The actors were superlative, handling their lines with aplomb despite the breeze that twisted the plumes of their costumes awry. A shame that the script they performed was so overwritten, thought the Lady of the Acoma, whose taste did not run to sobatu, preferring as she did Grand Do; and the trappings of the travelling stage were gaudy, even to Tsurani eyes.
Then, at the height of the opera, when Lord Tedero entered the cave to free ancient Neshka from the clutches of the dreaded sagunjan, two black-robed figures entered the hall. The presence of the Great Ones alone would have marked this a special occasion, but the two magicians cast illusions. Rather than the traditional paper sagunjan, inside of which a singer and several stagehands walked the stage, an illusion of startling appearance was cast. A sagunjan, twelve feet at the shoulder, all golden scales and breathing red flames, emerged from the doorway painted to resemble the cave. A wonderful baritone voice erupted from the terrible fangs, and though all in the hall knew the singer walked alone, none could see him. Even Mara was transported by the sight, all her worries banished. Then Tedero’s sword fell, and the illusion of the sagunjan faded to a mist, then to nothing. Traditionally, the sobatu ended with a formal bow by the cast to polite applause; yet the climax of the opera raised a loud cheer and furious beating of hands more common to street theatre. As all watched, the Warlord’s expression melted into a rare smile as he basked in the reflected glory brought by his theatre troupe and his magician friends. Mara sighed faintly, sorry when the performers finished their final bow. As the sequined curtains swished closed, or tried to, for the breeze by then had stiffened into gusts, she resigned herself to the inevitable. ‘Now, wife,’ said Buntokapi in her ear. ‘The time has come for us to retire.’
Mara stiffened reflexively, the appropriate smile frozen like paint on her face. ‘Your will, my husband.’
But a blind man would have sensed her reluctance. Buntokapi laughed. With a shout of drunken triumph, he raised her into his arms.
The guests cheered. Mindful of the thoughtless strength in the arms that held her, Mara tried to calm her racing heart. She would endure, had to endure, for the continuance of the Acorria name. She nestled her face into the sweat-damp fabric of her husband’s collar and permitted him to bear her from the dais. Paper fertility charms thrown by the crowd showered them both as he carried her from the crowd of well-wishers and down the path to the brightly painted structure of the marriage hut.
Keyoke and Papewaio stood as honour guards at the end of the path. Buntokapi passed them by like common servants and stepped across the threshold into the silvery half-light of sky shining through walls constructed of reed paper and lath. The servant and the maid in attendance within bowed low as their master and mistress appeared. Buntokapi set Mara upon her feet. At his half-grunted syllable, the maid rose and slid the screen entrance closed. The manservant settled motionless into a corner, awaiting his Lordship’s pleasure.
The hut had been rearranged during the day; the screen dividing the quarters of husband and wife had been removed, replaced by a wide sleeping mat covered with sheets of fine silk against the east wall, for dawn symbolized beginnings. In the centre of the floor lay an array of sitting cushions, and a low, bare table. Mara took a shaky step forward and settled upon the cushions before the table. She kept her eyes downcast as Bunto sat across from her.
‘Send for the priest of Chochocan,’ demanded the Lord of the Acoma. His gaze fixed upon Mara, fevered and intense, as the servant leaped from the corner to obey.
The priest entered alone, carrying a tray upon which sat a decanter of golden tura wine, two goblets of crystal, and a candle in a jewelled ceramic stand. He raised the tray skyward, intoning a blessing, and set it on the table between husband and wife. With eyes that seemed to hold misgiving, he glanced at both, the Lady with hands that trembled beyond control, and the young Lord whose impatience was tangible. Then, with resignation, he lit the candle. ‘Let Chochocan’s wisdom enlighten you.’ He traced a symbol in chalk around the candle stand and lifted the wine in blessing. He filled the two goblets and set them opposite bride and groom. ‘May the blessing of Chochocan fill your hearts.’ He scribed more symbols in chalk around each goblet and the half-empty decanter.
‘Drink, children of the gods, and know each other as your masters in heaven have ordained.’ The priest bowed in benediction and, with near to visible relief, left the marriage hut.
Buntokapi waved his hand, and the servants retired. The paper screen clicked shut, leaving him alone with his bride in a shelter that quivered in the gusts of rising wind.
He turned dark eyes to Mara. ‘At last, my wife, you are mine.’ He lifted his goblet too quickly, and wine splashed, obliterating one of the symbols. ‘Look at me, my Lady. The priest would prefer if we drank together.’