It breathes.
Probably that is the only truly necessary point of the ritual, the part that binds the massive design into place. But the rest of the rite is important for people, for demonstrating the significance of individuals and neighborhoods: Representatives from every part of the Holy Empire, blessed with the songs and blood of their homes, link hands and breathe, give fire and sighs, spit, and blood into the ritual. For hours it builds to the crescendo, for hours it fades, bubbling and sinking like alcohol into the lifeblood of the empire. Family feasts and neighborhood parties follow, folk drowsy with the heat and echoing chimes. No businesses open, and even the army relaxes its grip—it was a good time for the undermarket, called the Sweet Night in the Little Cat’s court, because though it’s the shortest night of the year, it often produces the sweetest results.
There’s balance to that, too: The Crowning Sun ritual reaffirms the structures of the empire, and so of course it creates pockets of shadow in which the undermarket can thrive.
Iriset has never attended the ritual before, though she’s been to several after-parties in the Saltbath precinct, both with her father’s court and with her grandparents.
Watching it from the center, she can see the whole thing so very clearly.
Aside from the resealing of blood and hunger, it’s a sham. A performance. Pretense. A great big mask to fit over the whole empire, like sayingShe passed awaywhen you mean she died.The empire is balanced? The empire eliminates outliers, the marginalized or mighty, anyone or thing that disturbs equilibrium. The empire is holy? The empire makes laws and enforces faith by burning to the earth any counterbelief, creating a One God Aharté by destroying her rivals. The empire welcomes new citizens? It drags children from parents and forces them to change their names, their clothes, and beliefs. It rewards assimilation like it’s the only way to be happy.
This is why there is no room for genius or change here. No room for difference. Apostasy is the worst of crimes because it seeks power outside of the Holy Design. Maintaining these rituals—the Crowning Sun, the Days of Mercy, the Glorious Vow, all of them—reinforces the Holy Design. It literally reseals the design put in place by the Holy Syr that runs from throne to steeples and across the force-ribbons to the edges of the empire. But it also pins the design back down in everyone’s minds. Makes a holy rite of erasure.
Iriset is a little impressed.
But now that she’s used her apostasy to infiltrate the center of the Holy Design, she wonders if she can find a way to change the Holy Design itself—or tear it all apart. That would matter. That would be a fitting tribute to the princess whose life she’s stolen.
If it’s possible for intellectual exercise alone to push a person into full-out rebellion, she’s nearly all the way there.
Iriset is exhausted once the rituals finish, though she did little but stand or kneel at her husband’s side.
They retire to their rooms to drink water and rest. Lyric holds her hand, eyes lit with passion—not for her but for his god. Theempire has withstood another year, and if he can make it so, it will withstand another. Despite his misgivings.
Lyric believes her to be his partner in that endeavor now.
The more time they spend together, the stronger their binding will be. That’s conventional wisdom surrounding the marriage rite, but as Iriset lies there, aware of her inner design as she never was before—aware so fundamentally that she thinks she just might be able to stop her own heart from beating if she tries or, with a twist of will, squeeze the alcohol out of her bloodstream, or stop her stomach from broadcasting its hunger—Iriset realizes that the binding is already complete. The egg did its job entirely when she and Lyric kissed, weaving their designs together so well that Iriset could go around the world this instant and still feel the shape of his pulse.
That’s going to be a problem.
Only consent or death can break the marriage knot. Lyric will never agree to dissolving it without knowing the truth. There can only be death or confession, if Iriset wishes to be free. Unless, of course, she finds a way to undo it herself.
She wonders if Amaranth intends to kill her. It must be part of at least some of her plans.
Iriset closes her eyes and tries, for once, to stop thinking about problems she can’t solve today.
Dinner is served in an adjoining suite and Diaa of Moonshadow already waits when Iriset and Lyric arrive.
Iriset took comfort in Diaa when they first met, for Diaa made her feel welcome in the palace, with a falling energy that drew Iriset’s old maternal wounds closed ever so slightly. Sheexpects that Diaa will be just as welcoming to her son’s actual wife as she inexplicably was to the nobody handmaiden daughter of the Little Cat.
How incorrect her expectations turn out to be! Diaa is rather cool toward her—toward Singix.
Blinking away her surprise when Diaa merely nods greeting, brushing her fingers to one eye in a half-respectful, slightly dismissive gesture, Iriset leans nearer to Lyric. Both to remind Diaa of her loyalties and discover if Lyric noticed.
He doesn’t seem to, but touches her back, between her shoulder blades, and leads her to a low, cushioned chair around the long brazier-table. Instead of coals in the iron center of the table, chunks of ice melt, releasing the cold smell of mint leaves that were frozen into the ice. A charge of ecstatic force refreezes the drops of water where they collect in a basin.
Diaa kneels across from her and smiles slightly—but it’s a smile for a stranger.
Lyric reclines across several pillows with his shoulder touching Iriset’s elbow, and Diaa’s gaze slides between them. “How is the bond taking?”
“Mother,” Lyric says with gentle censure.
Iriset ducks her face, though she would prefer to narrow her eyes and reply with a biting observation.
“I remember the intensity and disorientation, loves,” Diaa says, reaching for the narrow crystal pitcher of pear wine. She pours two small cups, then some water. “There are few who can understand your situation, and I thought”—here she sets the water cup before her son—“that you might like to speak of it before the arrival of your overwhelming sister.”
The explanation seems acceptable to Lyric, who plucks the water up and sips, then says, “I feel strong, not disoriented.”
Iriset nods, leaning her arm against his. She wants to kiss his hair, for it shines, waving softly around his ears, and there are small curls stuck to the back of his neck. Her pulse quickens and Lyric tilts his face up to meet her eyes with an understanding smile.
