Ride the Moon: An Anthology (13 page)

He sighed, took a deep whiff of her scent—the orange, yes, but beneath the smell of salt and sweat, of new life. He leaned against the wall, fighting tears. “Does this mean ...”

She moved closer, the sound of wind in trees, of water running up a beach. “Mean what?”

“That you'll....” he fought against his voice breaking, but he did not succeed. “...come home now?”

She reached out and put her bronze fingers beneath his chin. Lifted his head. “Is it safe?”

He looked into her face and saw doubt. Now water filled his eyes and tears spilled. Such a relief. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

She clucked, just as she had to their four sons when they had been infants. “When will you ever learn, my light?”

He let himself be lifted up and led out of the room. They walked out into the garden of the Hotel Imix. A breeze blew through the door and wound around their heels, then bloomed out her dress. They moved quickly, as immortals are wont. He lifted his great Mayan nose and snuffled. The smell of water and brine filled him, plumping up the hallows in his cheeks, moistening his mouth and lungs. He took her hand, his skin cooling.

They reached the beach and walked for a while on the sand, letting the waves run up over their feet, then pull the pain of their years apart back into the Pacific, his loneliness, the parched yearning. They watched the full moon slide down the western sky. Ixchel stopped and he moved to her, their bodies touching all down the front, their toes tickling, their thighs pressing, her breasts once more filling the emptiness of his chest.

“Time to go home,” Ixchel whispered. She reached down, took his hand and led him out onto the water. They walked on the reflected light from the White Moon laying like a road across the water. By the time the moon touched the ocean, they stepped onto her body, two small dark shadows blending with the marks from meteor strikes. The White Moon took them to her bosom and sank into the Pacific.

The New Sun pushed his head up through the folds of the eastern horizon and peeked down into the city of angels. A new day dawned.

Much like the male she would soon marry, Shara did not meet her bridal robe's acquaintance until a time appointed by someone other than herself. She stood before the entrance to the marriage grove, picking at the robe's neckline that dipped down to her belly, exposing her midriff and the sides of her breasts. Mother had done a fair job, she supposed. The robe's ornamented fabric blended perfectly with her snowy Orbian skin. As she moved, columns of soft light drifting down through the forest's thick canopy caught the jewels woven through her robe.

Behind her, bells rang in the start of another Orba's Eve, ushering in a rising wave of music and merriment. Turning as much as she dared, Shara looked through the wall of trees and pictured the tables piled high with food and decorations—much of which she had helped prepare but would not enjoy until after her new husband had finished with her. Her eyes drifted back to her plunging neckline and the bright white nimbus around her skin intensified. She looked away hastily.

“Calm yourself,” her mother said from beside her, facing the marriage grove. “You will lie with your husband soon enough. Such eagerness is unbecoming.”

Shara grimaced.

“Don't make noises. They are unbecoming.”

Shara pressed her lips together.

“Stop fidgeting.”

She stiffened.

“Fix your headdress.”

She patted the leaves woven through her braided silver hair.

“Stand straighter,” Mother said. “Slouching is unbeco—”

Shara hunched.

Rosy spots bloomed on Mother's cheeks just as two robed and bent forms emerged from the marriage grove. At that, Shara did straighten, looking ahead as the Orbian priests paced around her, hands clasped, their roving blue eyes cold despite their warm smiles.

“Orba has blessed this child with great beauty,” one of them said in a warbling voice.

Mother bowed low and muttered something incomprehensible and likely unctuous.

“You have come of age, Shara,” the other priest said. “Did you bring the crests?”

Mother bowed again and offered him the four silver-gilded leaves she'd clutched to her chest. Shara stopped short of rolling her eyes. Surely the priests had seen that Mother held the House crests. But Orbians never deviated from tradition or ceremony. If they did, she would be dancing and playing Yule games with her friends rather than pledging her freedom and fortune to a stranger. And wearing significantly more clothing on such a chilly night.

The priests examined the crests, nodded, took hold of Shara's arms, and began to lead her into the trees. At once, panic flooded through her, washing away annoyance. She glanced back at her mother, but her head remained bowed, never once looking up.

They strode through darkness along the forest's soft carpet of berries, twigs, and soggy grass, weaving around trees as they went. Like all Orbians, she could see perfectly in even the deepest blackness, but her legs felt weak so she let them guide her, shivering as cold shoots of grass caressed her bare feet. She looked up, hoping to see a hint of Orba's light peeking through the canopy. Not the faintest sliver broke through. The goddess had assigned her this fate, then abandoned her.

By the time they broke through a strand of trees and entered the adytum, Shara felt a glimmer of her usual fire. She would do this because she must, but she could make the ordeal as unpleasant for her husband-to-be as it would be for her. Shaking free of their grip, she strode ahead of the priests to the stone slab in the center of the grove, forcing them to hurry. Here, Orba waited.

A wide shaft of light ringed the stone—Orba's gaze, the place where the goddess watched from where she swam the night sky. According to legend, the goddess had sent two Orbians to the world where they might spread her word. Here they had fallen, along with the stone, a piece of Orba herself; and here they had married and populated the forest with their offspring.

Shara hoped the fall had hurt.

Opposite her, three Orbian males stood whispering just beyond the light's reach. All three were hairless as was their custom. Two were tall and brawny, but the male on the far right stood a head shorter and less burly—toned, but just so. The other two pointedly avoided looking at their shorter peer. They noticed Shara and fell silent.

“We stand beneath Orba to join Shara of House Sonta with her intended,” one priest said. “Praise Orba for guiding you through the forest to us this night.”

“Praise Orba,” the males intoned, far deeper than was necessary. Shara fought another battle against the impulse to roll her eyes and lost gloriously. Then the second priest spoke to her, and his words doused her tiny flame of rebellion like the coldest water.

“The three standing before you have shown desire to unite your House with their own.” He held the crests up to the light. “I offer their sigils to Orba for her blessing and consent.”

But not mine
.

The priest stooped and placed the first leaf, depicting an arrow intersecting with a white orb, on the stone.

“Jeffret of House Standen,” the priest announced.

One of the males stepped into the light. She ran her eyes over him once, then averted them as he fixated on her neckline.

“Tolbas of House Moltar,” the priest said, placing another leaf, this one decorated with a crowned stag.

Tolbas shouldered beside Jeffret, all signs of camaraderie absent as he threw Jeffret a disdainful glance before turning his attention on Shara. Unbidden, she traced his sculpted form and once again her body emitted a low glow. Dozens of other soft white glows shone through the trees around her. Orbian wives, she knew, their intoxicating luminescence guiding their mates deep into the forest to celebrate the fullness of their cycles, pulling them into a lover's embrace.

Except Shara was not ready for that embrace, ceremony and law be damned. Fighting every instinctual urge within her—she did not even
like
overly muscular males—she tore her gaze from Tolbas's thick arms, caught his eyes, and almost shrank back. Looking ravenous, he appeared ready to devour her where she stood.

The priest set the third leaf, this one showing a neat row of daggers, on the stone. “Ketern of House Wollen.”

As Ketern took his place beside them, Jeffret and Tolbas renewed their tenuous alliance. They sneered at Ketern, who stood a head shorter and significantly less chiseled than they. Ignoring them, Ketern stood straighter, adopting a mask of cool confidence as he locked eyes with Shara. Shara glared back, ignoring her persistent and uncooperative aura.

“Orba hangs full in the night sky, her cycle complete,” the first priest said.

“You entered here as children,” the second said, looking between Shara and her potential mates, “but tonight, your childhood ends and your next phase, your life together, begins.”

“May Orba choose wisely,” they said together, their tone leaving no margin for error. Orba
would
choose wisely. How could she not?

Everyone watched the crests, waiting. Ignoring her clamoring nerves, Shara inspected her three suitors. Jeffret and Tolbas appeared even paler than usual, all pretense of confidence absent from their visages. In contrast, Ketern beheld his leaf with intensity, practically pinning it to the marriage stone as if willing it to flare up.

And then it did, throwing a flash of Orba's light. One of the priests stepped forward and raised the leaf high. “Ketern of House Wollen, come forward. Shara of House Wollen, come forward.”

Shara's head swam.
Shara of House Wollen
. One of the priests pulled her to the stone and linked her fingers through Ketern's. His hand felt cool and clammy.

“May Orba bless your union, Ketern and Shara of House Wollen,” the other priest said as he placed Shara's leaf, an elegant bird set against Orba's full roundness, atop Ketern's. Turning, the priests collected the two rejected Orbians and their crests and herded them from the grove. Shara watched them leave, too dazed to look anywhere else.

Clearing his throat, Ketern dropped his hands and looked at her. “Your robe is beautiful,” he said, clear voice belying sweaty palms.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying far-off sounds of the party and, slightly closer, the sounds of another couple whose union Orba was in the process of blessing. Shara tried to close her pointy ears and examined the ground. She found grass and creepers and dirt quite fascinating.

Ketern cleared his throat again and raised a hand toward her. She flinched away and his hand retreated.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I was just—”

“I know what you were just,” she said, forcing her body to relax. She would have to go through with this. It was expected, and truth be told, might not be so bad if her damned urges could be trusted. She thought back to the way the other two males had stripped her down with their eyes, and the likelihood that, had Orba chosen the gargantuan Tolbas as Shara's mate, the consummation might already have ended. Her mind spun an image: his great form rising from atop her, leaving her plastered to the grass as flat as a leaf.

She permitted herself a silent laugh at the thought, then clapped her hand to her mouth upon realizing that she had laughed aloud. No, she hadn't. Ketern had. Blinking, she looked over at him and saw him swallow a smile.

“What's funny?” she said.

Picking at a blade of grass, he shrugged. “You said, ‘I know what you just,' but I don't think you do.”

“Don't think I what?”

“Know what I was going to do.”

“Oh? You have different urges than other males?”

“My urges are the same, but aren't guided by rote or instinct. Not usually, anyway. I don't know you, Shara. Tonight marks the first time in my life I have seen you, and you me.” He sighed. “And yet despite mutual unfamiliarity, I saw the way you looked at me from across the marriage stone, removing my garments with your eyes as if I were some carnal plaything made for your amusement.”

Her mouth fell open. “I didn't... You... But I...”

“You glowed, yes?”

“Well, yes, but I couldn't help—”

He looked away and sighed again, deeper this time. “I beg you: do not wrestle me to the dirt and ravage me .”

“I would
never
—”

“Resist your feminine instincts and get to know me for
me
, not as an object made for your consumption.”

She collected her thoughts. “Get to know you? How?”

“Why, by talking, of course. Is your thirst for my perfect male form so unquenchable that you can only think of—”

“Perfect?'

“That depends on who you ask,” he said airily.

“Who should I ask?”

“Me. I'm the expert, after all.”

She found herself smiling uncertainly. “You—you really don't want to...?”

“Eventually,” he admitted, then held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Should we come to care for one another in that way. But the fact remains, Orba, in her infinite wisdom from her place high in the sky apart from all our thoughts, feelings, and struggles, has chosen us to be together. Or perhaps I simply polished my crest more. Either way, we are married. We had no say in that, but we have say in other things.”

“Such as?”

“Friendship.”

“Consummation is expected,” she began, then clapped her hands over her mouth again as Ketern let fly a passionate bellow.

“We mustn't have them think we aren't getting along,” he said.

From across a copse bedecked in twinkling decorations, Shara meandered through the gathered Orbians, her gaze slipping past Orba's Eve dancers and delicacies until she caught sight of Ketern leaning against a tree at the entrance to the marriage grove. Looking bored, he scanned the crowd, nodded imperceptibly, then ducked inside. Grinning, she waited a few minutes before following.