Galanör took a moment to admire the bride’s flowing blue dress that parted at her waist, revealing her dark leather trousers and tall boots. It was the perfect blend of elven princess and hardened warrior, with a variety of soft and harsh materials. A delicate silver circlet adorned her head, ringing the half-elf’s black hair.
It wasn’t her clothing, however, that put her apart from the average bride. On her hip rested Firefly, the powerful Vi’tari blade. Its crystal pommel twinkled in the light with the promise of great power inside. Of course, it was the carrying of the weapon that was truly powerful. It was a symbol to the people that their king wasn’t acquiring a pretty bride or a stand-in queen to agree with his every word. They were getting a ruler who had already proven she could stand between the light and the dark.
“Beautiful and fierce,” Aenwyn commented in his ear.
Galanör smiled, entranced by Inara. “Indeed,” he said, noticing the small red dragon scale that hung from her necklace.
Nathaniel kissed Inara’s hand before she moved to stand beside Vighon. The couple exchanged broad smiles and resisted the obvious temptation to kiss. As Ilargo’s head arched over the pair, his bulk taking up much of the courtyard, Gideon Thorn stepped in, his travelling leathers replaced with a long flowing coat that hugged his figure.
Galanör had been there when they asked the old master to perform the wedding rites. The priests of Atilan had naturally opposed, pointing out that their order had always performed royal weddings. Inara and Vighon had politely, if firmly, told the priests that it was an elven custom and that there would be no further discussion on the matter.
Minutes went by as Gideon read through the marriage liturgy, words he had been rehearsing for days in the keep’s garden. From his pocket, he eventually removed a single strap of leather that he wrapped around Inara’s forearm and then around Vighon’s.
“You are bound!” he announced. “Never to be broken! Never to fade! Never to fear! For together, you are, now and forever… one.” Gideon beamed with happiness. “I believe this is the part where you kiss,” he said quietly.
Neither required more encouragement than that. The entire city shook with an almighty cheer that rippled from top to bottom as the news spread. Ilargo and Avandriell lifted their heads to the sky and added a roar to the resounding glee.
Vighon stepped towards the edge of the rampart and held up his hand, calling for silence. When, at last, the city knew of their king’s wishes and grew silent once more, the northman gave a subtle nod to Sir Ruban, who approached with a wooden box in his hand.
Inara shot her new husband an inquisitive look but he maintained his calm, yet serious, demeanour. “As Inara and I are bonded,” he called out, “so too is Inara bound to you, the people, and you to her, your queen!”
Without another word, Vighon turned to Sir Ruban, who opened the lid for him, and removed a crown for all to see. Thankful for his elven eyes, Galanör was able to examine it in great detail from where he stood, and what a crown it was. He had seen the crowns of queens before, often delicate sculptures designed to reflect their beauty rather than identify them as a ruling monarch.
Inara’s crown was adorned with a variety of horns and small claws, all in differing sizes. They sloped back, reminding Galanör of a dragon’s head. Befitting, he thought.
Vighon stepped forward and replaced Inara’s circlet with the crown, careful not to interfere with any of the delicate braids. Then he did what no king before him had ever done.
He bowed the knee.
With the exception of Inara’s parents and King Doran, every soul in Namdhor followed Vighon’s example and knelt in reverence to the new queen of Illian. Only when Vighon resumed his height did the rest of the city stand again. The next round of cheers was just as deafening as the first and Galanör happily added his own voice to the jubilation.
As their last act of the ceremony, both Vighon and Inara freed their blades and held them high. The sword of the north came alive with flames and Firefly shone from the glow inside its pommel. Galanör was sure the responding cheer was powerful enough to be felt by the rest of the realm. He would certainly never forget it.
By late afternoon, as winter’s sun bade its farewell, the wedding feast had been consumed and the party began in earnest. Elves sang merrily, dwarves bellowed their laughter, and the men and women of Namdhor filled The Dragon Keep with a warmth it had long been lacking.
Galanör moved from group to group, enjoying the stories they told as well as sharing a few of his own. He cheered Asher on as the ranger sat at a table, challenged by Thraal to an arm wrestle. It seemed, for a time, that neither would claim victory but, rather inevitably, Thraal slammed Asher’s hand down. There were few, even among the elves, who could best a dwarf in such a focused contest, their arms more akin to coiled steel.
More than once, Galanör had offered his congratulations to the happy couple, never missing an opportunity to talk to them, but they were much in demand. Defying the winter conditions, lords and ladies had come from every region with gifts for them, but they also expected some face to face time with their king and queen.
After a brief conversation with Kassian about the day’s affairs, Galanör found himself gravitating towards Gideon, who was often on the periphery of most social gatherings. They embraced as old friends and knocked their cups together.
“Before the rumours begin,” Gideon said, “you should know that
