in a prayer of blessing. More quickly than Mara had believed possible, her maiden attendants arose and helped her from her litter. Bunto arose also, and with the priest and acolytes between them stepped down from the dais and bowed to the gathered guests. Then, in a small procession that included Buntokapi’s father, the Lord of the Anasati, and Nacoya, as the Acoma First Adviser, the priest and his acolytes escorted bride and groom from the hall and across the courtyard to the entrance of the sacred grove.
There servants bent and removed the sandals of Mara and Buntokapi, that their feet might be in contact with the earth and the ancestors of the Acoma as the Lady ceded her inherited rights of rulership to her husband-to-be. By now the sun had risen high enough to warm the last dew from the ground. The baked warmth of the stone path felt unreal beneath Mara’s soles, and the bright birdsong from the ulo tree seemed the detail of a childhood dream. Yet Nacoya’s grip upon her arm was quite firm, no daydream. The priest chanted another prayer, and suddenly she was walking forward with Buntokapi, a jewelled doll beside the towering plumage of his marriage mask. The priest bowed to his god, and leaving his acolytes, and the Lord, and the Acoma Chief Adviser, he followed the couple into the glade.
Rigidly adhering to her role, Mara dared not look back; if the ritual had permitted, she would have seen Nacoya’s tears.
The procession passed the old ulo’s comfortable shade and in sunlight wended through the flowering shrubs, low gates, and curved bridges that led to the Acoma natami. Woodenly Mara retraced the steps she had taken not so many weeks earlier, when she had carried the relics to mourn her father and brother. She did not think of them now, lest their shades disapprove of her wedding to an enemy to secure their heritage. Neither did she look at the man at her side, whose shuffling step betrayed his unfamiliarity with the path, and whose breath wheezed faintly behind the bright red-and-gold-painted features of the marriage mask. The eyes of the caricature stared ahead in frozen solemnity, while the eyes of the man darted back and forth, taking in the details of what soon would be rightfully his as Lord of the Acoma.
A chime rang faintly, signalling the couple to meditate in silence. Mara and her bridegroom bowed to the godhead painted on the ceremonial gate, and stopped beneath at the edge of the pool. No trace of the assassin’s presence remained to defile the grassy verge, but a canopy erected by the priests of Chochocan shaded the ancient face of the natami. After a session of prayer and meditation, the chime rang again. The priest stepped forward and placed his hands on the shoulders of the bride and groom. He blessed the couple, sprinkled them lightly with water drawn from the pool, then paused, silent, while the vows were spoken.
Mara forced herself to calm, though never had the exercise learned from the sisters of Lashima come with such difficulty. In a voice of hammered firmness, she spoke the words that renounced her inherited birthright of Ruling Lady of the Acoma. Sweating but steady, she held fast while the priest tore away the green veil and burned it in the brazier by the pool. He wet his finger, touched the warm ash, and traced symbols upon Bunto’s palms and feet. Then Mara knelt and kissed the natami. She remained with her head pressed to the earth that held the bones of her ancestors, while Buntokapi of the Anasati swore to dedicate his life, his honour, and his eternal spirit to the Name Acoma. Then he knelt beside Mara, who finalized the ritual in a voice that seemed to belong to a stranger.
‘Here rest the spirits of Lanokota, my brother; Lord Sezu, my natural father; Lady Oskiro, my natural mother: may they stand as witness to my words. Here lies the dust of my grandfathers, Kasru and Bektomachan, and my grandmothers, Damaki and Chenio: may they stand as witness to my deed.’ She drew breath and managed not to falter as she recited the long list of ancestors back to the Patriarch of the Acoma, Anchindiro, a common soldier who battled Lord Tiro of the Keda for five days in a duel before winning the hand of his daughter and the title of Lord for himself, thus placing his family second only to the Five Great Families of the Empire. Even Buntokapi nodded with respect, for despite his father’s formidable power, the Anasati line did not go as far back in history as the Acoma. Sweat slid down Mara’s collar. With fingers that miraculously did not shake, she plucked a flower from her wreath and laid it before the natami, symbolizing the return of her flesh to clay.
The chime sounded, a mournful note. The priest intoned another prayer, and Bunto spoke the ritual phrases that bound him irrevocably to the Name and the honour of the Acoma. Then Mara handed him the ceremonial knife, and he nicked his flesh so the blood flowed, beading in dusty drops upon the soil. In ties of honour more binding than flesh, of previous kinship, more binding than the memory of the gods themselves, Buntokapi assumed Lordship of the Acoma. The priest removed the red and gold marriage mask of the Anasati; and the third son of an Acoma enemy bowed and kissed the natami. Mara glanced sideways and saw her bridgeroom’s lips curl into an arrogant smile. Then his features were eclipsed as the High Priest of Chochocan slipped the green marriage mask of the Acoma onto the new Lord’s shoulders.
Mara could not remember getting up. The procession back to the entrance of the glade passed in a blur, a dream set in time to birdsong. Servants awaited to wash her soiled feet and replace her jewelled sandals. She endured while the Anasati lord bowed formally to his host, the new Lord of the Acoma, and she did not cry as Nacoya took her place one pace behind Buntokapi’s shoulder. Dazzled by the flash of sunlight on the priest’s robe, she followed into the main hall, to complete the formal portion of the marriage ceremony.
The hall had grown warm. Great ladies fluttered fans of painted feathers, and the musicians who had entertained them wiped sweaty fingerprints from their instruments, as attendants helped bride and groom into their litters, then raised them to the level where the High Priest and his acolytes presided. Garbed now in an overrobe sewn with precious sequins of silver, gold and copper, the High Priest invoked the ever-present eye of Chochocan, the Good God. The gong chimed as he crossed his arms over his chest, and a boy and girl mounted the dais, each carrying a cage woven of reeds. Within perched a male and a female kiri bird, their white-and-black-barred wingtips dyed the green of the Acoma.
The priest blessed the birds, and acolytes accepted the cages. Then, lifting the ivory ceremonial wand from the pocket in his sleeve, the priest invoked his god for a blessing upon the marriage of Buntokapi and Mara. The hall grew hushed and fans stilled in the hands of the ladies. From the lowliest of landed nobles, to the gem-crusted presence of the Warlord, all craned their necks to see as the priest tapped the cages with his wand.
Reeds parted under his ministrations, leaving the birds free to fly, together in joy as in well-omened unions, or separately, to the woe of the couple on the litters, for much stock was placed in Chochocan’s favour.
Nacoya closed her eyes, her old hands clenched around an amulet she held under her chin. Bunto looked on with his expression hidden behind the luridly painted marriage mask; but his bride stared off, unseeing, into the distance, as if the ritual in the grove had drained her of interest.
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
