Ekhart led her through the castle with a slow, stiff gait, never varying his even pace. Once, she stumbled on the hem of her gown and, to her horror, left a ragged piece lying on the floor. The torn fabric seemed to shrink and curl, becoming dark pink at the edge. Ekhart tugged on Marguerite's arm, and she abandoned the piece behind her.
Soon each twist and jog in their winding path was mirrored by a turn of her stomach. Wedding jitters, she repeated silently. Every bride succumbs.
In time she and Ekhart stood at the threshold of a chapel. How they had reached it, Marguerite could not say. Ekhart sank his bony fingers into her elbow and whispered, "Stay here until the priest calls you forth." He looked at her, then sneered and added, "If you can manage."
Ekhart stepped across the threshold and walked toward the front of the dark chapel. His silhouette quickly faded into the shadows.
Marguerite gazed after him. The chapel was small, but the ceiling soared to an impossible height, as if to penetrate the realms of gods. In the inky darkness, she could not discern the apex of the vault; she knew the distance only by the pointed window set high overhead. Light streamed through the crimson glass, creating a pale shaft of color that pooled like blood when it struck the floor near the front of the church, ft was the only light of any brightness. The left wall was rent by a row of tall, narrow windows, but the shutters were closed tightly upon them; each dark, heavy panel was illumined by a small candle fixed in a bracket beside it. The tapers struggled in vain to brighten the nearby area, but inches from each flame the darkness won out.
Slowly Marguerite's eyes adjusted to the scene. Pews blackened with age emerged from the shadows. Near the front of the chapel two dark figures sat flanking the aisle-one tall and slim, the other small and stooped. They were mirrored by another unmoving pair seated near the back of the chamber. Marguerite struggled to discern the nearer couple's identity, but failed; they were facing away.
A light flared at the front of the chapel, revealing a dark figure in a hooded robe. His fingers were stroking a line of candles on the aitar, coaxing the wicks to life. Marguerite blinked. He held no taper, no burning candle whose fire would be shared with the others. Instead he needed only the long, curving nails of his fingers. A mere touch 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.