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Chapter 8 Bane
Inearly recoiled from the sight of Cirrien, tears pouring down her cheeks, staring at me with… dismay? Horror?
Only the bracing presence of Visca at my back, the thin cut of Wyn’s mouth, and the press of my highest-ranking legio
None of them would allow her to leave. Now that she was here, the clock ticking steadily towards midnight, this wedding would be accomplished, whether through tears or fighting.
I’d tried to speak to her, hoping that the little I’d managed to learn from the Brother would help put her at ease, but… it was because I had gone deeper into the fiend, allowing my body to warp into even more monstrous proportions. She would never look at me and see anything close to the vampires around us.
She could only see the beast.
I lowered my hands, staring at the ground, wishing I had kept the words to myself. Perhaps I had signed something terrible to her, or had mangled her language so badly she was ashamed that I had even tried.
The silence between us was broken only by Cirrien’s soft breaths as she cried, and the faint chirp and trill of crickets.
Ancestors help me. Any progress I had made with the journal—if I’d made any at all—was now destroyed.
“Well, let’s get on with it then, shall we?” Visca said, forced cheer in her tone. “Who’s got the cup?”
Cirrien surreptitiously wiped her face with her hands, but the tears still flowed freely. I watched her sidelong as Wyn stepped up to the altar, producing a large iron goblet set with chips of ruby, and one of her trusted maids poured wine into it from a silver ewer.
Visca took the maid’s place next, releasing a handful of crushed bloodrose petals into the wine. I knew that Wyn had cut bloodroses from her and Visca’s own wedding brambles for this, hoping the strength of their union would help aid ours.
She moved to hand it to the fragile human in our midst, but Wyn stopped her.
“She must say the vows in whatever way she can,” my advisor said softly, and Visca nodded, keeping the goblet for herself.
Wyn inhaled, her eyes on my bride.
“Cirrien lai Darran. You come before Mother Blood, the first ancestor, to give yourself, body, blood, and soul, to this vampire before you. Will you have him?”
Cirrien straightened, the spill of hair down her back as red as the petals in our wine, every line of her body limned silver in the moonlight. It was nearly impossible to keep my gaze away from the slim form wrapped in spidersilk, but… for her sake, I couldn’t slaver over her like a starving wolf.
She lifted her chin, tears glittering like diamonds, and signed with strong, confident motions. An affirmative.
My muscles relaxed infinitesimally, tension leaking from my shoulders.
Despite the cadre around us, the determination of my commander and advisor, I had half feared she would break and say no. Or worse, try to flee the Bloodgarden, and have to be dragged back and restrained.
“Will you protect him with your life? Will you offer your heart freely? Do you accept his aegis over your body?”
Yes, she signed, one of the few I recognized. Yes and yes.
The words had been adapted slightly for her sake. Ordinarily the vows would ask her to take my blood as hers, but that was one point on which I steadfastly refused.
She would not become a vampire merely for drinking my blood, but I would not prolong her life with me u
“When you stand before your ancestors and your soul is weighed, will you claim him as yours?”
Yes, Cirrien said, and added something else with punctuated ferocity. Wyn tipped her head slightly, but didn’t seem to take issue with the addition.
“Very well. Visca, give her a taste of the hardships to come. There is no love without pain.”
My commander stepped forth, holding a length of freshly-cut thorny vine from the Bloodgarden’s roses. The sharp scent of its sap almost overpowered the perfume of the flowers as Visca quietly ordered Cirrien to hold her hands together before herself and wrapped them with the vine.
The thorns dug into that smooth skin, drawing drops of blood that made my mouth water. Cirrien inhaled sharply, but she didn’t pull away.
Wyn’s sharp blue eyes landed on me.
“Lord Bane Lifegiver. You come before Mother Blood, your first ancestor, to give yourself body, blood, and soul to the woman before you. Will you have her?”
“Yes.” My voice emerged in a low growl, and I made myself look into those teary green eyes as I made my vows. I would look her in the eye as I bound her to me for life. “A thousand times, yes.”
Wyn asked the same questions, and I answered yes to every one, meaning them with every fiber of my being. Cirrien was mine now, whether she wanted it or not, and every fragment of what I was would defend her to my dying breath.
“When you stand before your ancestors and your soul is weighed, will you claim her as yours?”
Cirrien’s eyes were so bright. I couldn’t read the horror in them, and wondered if I had misread, but… no. I couldn’t be mistaken, not when her tears had poured so freely.
We might be vowed to each other. I might want her with the intensity of a beast, but I would not force myself onto her if she wanted nothing to do with me. I would simply want from afar, and that would have to be good enough.
“Every part of her. My soul would be nothing without hers,” I said roughly, and a frisson of surprise ran through me when she smiled faintly.
What did that mean?
“Visca, give him a taste of the pain the future holds. There is no love greater than that which weathers the storms.”
I held my hands out, my newly-blunted fingertips nearly touching Cirrien’s, and Visca wrapped me with the other end of the vine. The thorns dug in as she tightened the bond around us, our blood spilling on the same length, which would be buried in this garden.
Wyn finally handed the goblet to Cirrien, who held it awkwardly, rivulets of red spilling over her pale fingers from the thorn-pricks.
“Drink of this cup, blessed by the ones who came before, and bind yourself to this vampire.”
I watched my bride raise it to her lips, the column of her throat working as she took a deep draught. Purely wine and petals for her—if she were a vampire, or were she to choose an eternal life with me, the cup would have been held beneath our thorn-bonded hands to catch our intermingled blood.
Wyn slid a bottle from her robes, full of fresh blood that was nearly black in the moonlight. As Cirrien swallowed her wine, she uncorked it and poured it in, the sweet salt aroma of Cirrien’s fresh blood overpowering the roses.
“Now, Lord Bane, drink from this cup, blessed by the ones who came before, and bind yourself to this woman. She lives in you now, the other half of your soul.”
Cirrien’s eyes narrowed faintly at the words she hadn’t received, and if I understood anything about her at all, she already knew much of the ceremony had been changed for her sake.
I took the goblet and drank deeply, my first taste of Cirrien.
It was not the same as fresh blood from the vein, but it was sweet. The wine was an unwelcome addition, diluting the fresh taste of my bride, warmth soothing my aching throat.
Wyn took the goblet from me and held it beneath the thorns now, catching droplets in our mingled blood in the dregs of the wine. She swirled it, mixing them together, and then paused.
It was only a second of hesitation, one that perhaps no one outside of those who knew her well would even notice. But for the next part… I wondered if she was worried.
“Two are now one. You have vowed yourselves to each other, through life and into death; you will never be parted. We ask you now, Mother, to bestow your blessing upon this union.”
Wyn poured the wine-and-blood dregs into the mouth of the statue. It was only a few mouthfuls at most, the thin red liquid dripping over the white marble fangs of the Mother’s likeness, disappearing into her dark throat.
Cirrien stood so close to me, still bound by the thorns, that I felt her muscles tense. Her breath caught and held, her eyes fixed on the altar’s statue.
There was silence for a long moment, and then, in a silent, almost eerie waterfall, blood flowed from the Mother’s mouth, pouring over her white neck, filling her cupped hands in a dark pool.
Cirrien stared into the pooled blood, her eyes wide as it soaked into the pale marble, staining it red.
Wyn let out an audible sigh of relief. “This union is blessed. May the Lord and Lady of the Rift rule with the strength of iron for all their days.”
My cadre bowed before us, their own relief evident. A smothering hand of unease seemed to vanish, the Bloodgarden itself lightening around us.
“Now let the binding be planted, that their love and power might flourish so long as Ravenscry stands.”
Visca unbound our hands, coiling the bloodied thorn vine into a perfect spiral, and she handed it to Cirrien. “May the Lady plant it.”
We were ushered from the Mother’s altar, to a small, bare patch of ground in the garden at the base of one of the loggia’s columns. Someone had already dug a hole on Wyn’s orders; Cirrien knelt to lower the spiral into the ground.
“May the Lord bury it,” Wyn intoned, her voice much more relaxed now that the vows were made in time, and the union blessed. I hadn’t realized just how deeply worried she was until I heard her usual tones once more.
I knelt at Cirrien’s side, pushing soft, rich earth over the vine and patting it smooth.
Cirrien glanced up at me from under her lashes. Did she regret this?
“If this grows to become bloodroses, our marriage is doubly-blessed,” I said quietly. “If it withers… well. That’s never considered good luck.”
She signed something, then smiled and patted the back of my hand.
She touched me. Willingly.
I stared at my hand, where dirt had mixed with blood, where her fingers had left a smudged print.
A twisted urge rose up inside me, some perverse imp taking the reins—hadn’t I just sworn to myself not to make her life harder? To inflict myself upon her as little as possible?
But I couldn’t stop myself. I offered my hand, for a single moment pretending to be a man, a handsome vampire, instead of a fiend. “There will be a small celebration. Would you… accompany me?”
Cirrien looked down, contemplating her dirty, bloodied hands, clenching those fine-boned fingers.
I began to draw my hand away, already cursing myself for offering.
This was not a happy wedding. It was a necessity. Of course she wouldn’t wish to hang on my arm and pretend to be a blissfully-wedded wife.
But she signed something, her movements abrupt, and drew my hand back. Slid her arm through mine, resting our palms together lightly.