ignited the flames.
The altar resembled a long platform cloaked in indigo velvet. By the feeble, flickering light, she could see small, dark shapes resting before the candles-a pair of goblets, perhaps, and a collection of objects that refused to let her eyes define them.
The hooded figure lifted a round gold censer and moved slowly about the room, filling the air with a sweet, musky haze. As Marguerite watched, waiting for her cue to enter, she was filled with dread. She closed her eyes and thought of Darkon, recalling dreams of a wedding that never was.
In Malanuv, had she married, Marguerite and her beloved would have knelt outside, before the sacred stones, to exchange their vows. Afterward, jubilant brothers and burly cousins would have borne them through the streets on chairs held aloft, ribbons streaming from the rungs. She had witnessed countless weddings in this tradition, and in her mind's eye, she was there now.
Bards followed behind, singing joyous proclamations. Villagers lined the streets, showering the bride with flower petals. After the procession had passed through this gauntlet, the entire crowd celebrated the event, indulging in food, wine, and song until their very souls had been sated. When at last the sun touched the horizon, the conveyors lifted the couple again and carried them home, straight to the wedding bed. The bearers retreated then, of course, but all through the night, friends and family passed below the bedroom window to tease the lovers with bawdy jokes and songs of procreation. Everyone reveled in the celebration. When the cock crowed, the villagers knew it would be time to resume their simple, quiet routines.
Remembering how she had once anticipated that day, Marguerite felt something precious had been stripped from her. It was not her dead beloved she missed; her grieving for him had ended when she began her journey to Donskoy's land. Rather, she missed the familiar traditions, and she longed to wrap herself in the comfort of ritual. The coming wedding- her real wedding-might be steeped in ritual, but she sensed there would be nothing familiar or comfortable about it.
Marguerite's eyes snapped open as someone coughed at the front of the chapel. The priest stood at the altar once again. He had removed his hood, revealing a hairless head so white that it glowed and pulsed in the flickering light. Donskoy stepped out of the shadows and took his place beside the priest, who beckoned to Marguerite. She began to walk down the aisle, as if stepping into a dream.
When Marguerite passed the first pew, she glanced to see who would witness this union. Ljubo and Yelena sat near the back of the room. She passed ten empty rows beyond, most of them gray with dust. Zosia and Ekhart sat just before the foremost pews, which, of course, would have been reserved for family, had any attended. The onlookers continued to stare ahead, not meeting her gaze. Mot even Zosia turned to smile reassuringly upon her. It was if Marguerite were to be wed among the dead. A gentle rasping echoed through the church; it was the sound of her own gown, dragging across the cold stone floor. She longed for music. Donskoy would not have shared this desire, of course; he had said as much to her earlier.
As Marguerite neared her betrothed and the priest, she studied their unwavering eyes. Donskoy's were wide and reddened. The priest's were pale and almost colorless, save for a tinge of pink. White lashes adorned them like a dusting of snow. His brows lacked color as well. An albino, Marguerite thought.
The priest lifted a red sash from the altar and slipped it around his neck so it draped over his chest. As he turned, the light from the candles danced across his smooth skull, creating a cap of writhing tattoos. He began chanting in an ancient tongue.
The albino motioned for her to kneel, and she sank dutifully to the ground. The cold, hard stone stung her knees, but she didn't mind; a numbness had begun to permeate her body. Donskoy took his place at her side. When she looked at him, his eyes were closed, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. He must have sensed her gaze, however, for he turned and took her hand reassuringly. His soft glove caressed her fingers as he leaned forward to whisper into her ear.
'I will translate,' he murmured, 'so that you understand the ceremony and its meaning.' He squeezed her hand gently. 'It is really very quaint, full of tradition and lore, I hope you will enjoy it.'
The albino lifted a necklace of white petals from the altar and placed it around Marguerite's neck. Their spicy-sweet scent enveloped her, prickling her nostrils.
'A mark of your chastity,' said Donskoy, 'and a symbol of your fidelity in the future.'
The priest droned on as he placed a wreath of nettles around Donskoy's neck.
Donskoy returned to her ear and said softly, 'To ensure my potency, though I shall not need it.' He kissed her tenderly upon the cheek, and for the first time, she felt relatively at ease. It was not to last.
The priest drew a shining blade from the folds of his robe and passed it through the air, making a pattern like a star. Candlelight glinted on the steel as he took Marguerite's hand. She braced herself in anticipation of the sharp pain to come, but felt only the barest caress as he stroked the blade across her palm. The surgeon-priest released her and she stared at her unmarred skin. At first, the cut seemed merely symbolic, a mere brush, not a breaking of her fragile shell. Then, slowly, a thin red line appeared. Marguerite held her hand aloft and watched the blood as it brimmed in the gash, then trickled in streams down her arm until it merged with the sleeve of her gown and disappeared. Presumably, the priest cut Donskoy as well; she was too dazed to watch.
Lord Donskoy turned to face her directly and raised his hand as if to touch an invisible barrier; instinctively Marguerite did the same, mirroring his gesture. He pressed his gloved flesh against her bare skin-palm to palm, finger to finger, wound to wound. He spread her fingers and slipped his own between them, clasping her hand firmly. The priest made a cryptic pronouncement, then began to wind a strip of ivory linen snugly over their touching hands and wrists. The damp cloth smelled of sulphur and smoke. Marguerite's skin grew hot beneath it.
Donskoy's voice was deep and slow. 'And so we are bound in flesh,' he said.
The albino lifted the pair of silver goblets from the altar and presented one to each of them. Dark red wine filled the vessels, viscous and gleaming. Donskoy spat into Marguerite's goblet, then thrust his own under her lips. She returned the gesture awkwardly. When she had finished, a tiny strand of saliva escaped from her mouth. There was no discreet way to remove it. She had no hands free; one hung at her side, bound to Donskoy; the other held the gobiet. To her astonishment, Donskoy leaned in quickly, licking her mouth with a darting tongue. It was so deft, she hardly felt it. His arm snaked itself gracefully around hers and they sipped the warm, bitter liquor while entwined. The wine caressed her throat and descended slowly into her body, pooling in her stomach.
'And so we are bound in spirit,' Donskoy murmured, his lips now moist with the red stain.
They drank until the goblets were empty. Marguerite swayed as the priest took the vessels away, and she felt Donskoy's firm grasp holding her in place.
'One final stage, my dear,' he whispered hoarsely, 'a rite of fertility. Then we will be done.'
The priest withdrew a long, slender needle from his sash. Marguerite's eyes grew wide with alarm. She wriggled once in Donskoy's embrace before regaining her self-control.
Zosia stepped forward with a tiny pillow, upon which a small, dark egg was resting. The priest pricked both ends of the shell, then returned the needle to his sash. Marguerite sighed with relief, glad that she was not the one to be pierced. Zosia presented the pillow to the priest, then retreated. Donskoy gingerly picked up the egg.
He smiled knowingly at Marguerite. 'Take half into your mouth and hold it gently with your lips,' he instructed. 'I am to blow the white through. Do not crush the shell or lose your hold, or you will bring bad luck upon us both.' Donskoy winked and whispered in her ear. 'I do not believe it myself, of course. But it is only proper we appease the priest and his so-called gods.'
Marguerite suppressed the urge to laugh at this assertion. Propriety certainly varied with the territory. She took the egg as it was offered, and wondered suddenly whether Donskoy's first wife had undergone the same ceremony. Marguerite pushed the question aside. It would not do to think of the dead while celebrating a marriage.
Donskoy put his lips to the other side of the shell, leaning in gently. It was the most peculiar kiss Marguerite could imagine. There was nothing sensual about the exercise; she had to concentrate fully upon holding the egg and adjust to Donskoy's every change in pressure so as neither to let it drop or be crushed. She feit the contents of the egg slipping into her throat. Donskoy pulled away from her, and the priest retrieved the half-empty shell, crushing it forcefully beneath his foot.
The priest motioned for the couple to rise. They stood facing one another, still bound at the wrist. As the albino slowly unwound the gauze from their skin, Lord Donskoy leaned forward and kissed her intimately. When at last he released her, Marguerite's fingers were stiff and sore. No evidence of her cut palm remained, and the priest was gone.
