Renna threw herself into Arlen’s arms, pressing her mouth against his, and if the Tender finished the sentence, it was lost in the thrumming of blood in her ears.
‘Owe you a favour,’ Arlen told the Tender when they finally broke. ‘Won’t forget.’
Hayes smiled. ‘Nor will I.’
‘Congratulations,’ Gared said, slapping Arlen on the back when he turned the baron’s way. The slap would have knocked most men across the room, but Arlen stood his ground. ‘Honoured to be yur witness. Don’t deserve it.’
‘Honour’s ours, Gared Cutter,’ Arlen said. ‘Hollow’s got good men looking after it now.’
Gared looked suddenly sad. ‘Ent been as good as I should. Even after you come to the Hollow. Made … mistakes.’
Arlen smiled, reaching a hand high to put it on the giant Cutter’s shoulder. ‘We all make mistakes, Gared. But those that can see ’em are halfway to being better men. Whatever you done, I forgive you.’
The light that came over Gared’s face was unmistakable. He straightened to his full height, towering over even the Inquisitor — a step higher on the altar — then bowed low. ‘Gonna make the other half of that trip, startin’ now.’ He glanced at Hayes. ‘Creator as my witness.’
‘Love you, Arlen Bales,’ Renna whispered. Arlen took her hand and led her back down the aisle.
Gared rushed ahead of them, pushing the great doors as if they were weightless. They slammed open with a boom, revealing hundreds of people swarming about the Holy House with a steady stream coming from every street, filling the Corelings’ Graveyard. Folk stood on balconies around the square for a better view, and children sat atop their parents’ shoulders.
Renna froze. The only time she had seen such a crowd was the night the whole of Tibbet’s Brook had gathered in Town Square to see her staked out for the demons. A thousand souls, come to watch and not lift a finger while the corelings tore her apart.
She felt her heart stop, and before she knew it she was reaching for her knife.
‘Man and wife!’ Gared roared, and the cheer that arose from the crowd was deafening, shocking Renna back to her senses. She stood stunned as hastily picked flowers began to rain on them and the Jongleurs in the sound shell struck up a reel.
Arlen bowed, offering her his arm, his voice too low for any without their enhanced hearing to catch. ‘They ent here to hurt you, Ren. Just wanna give their regards and dance.’
Renna took his arm as he led her out into the crowd. An older woman appeared, a nervous smile on her face as she curtsied. ‘Meg Cutter,’ she said. ‘My family was proud to stand with your husband at the Battle of Cutter’s Hollow. None of us would be here, not for him.’
She pressed a beautifully painted pot into Renna’s hands, adorned with a few half-wilted flowers. ‘Pot’s been in my family a hundred years. Don’t know if it’s true, but my grandda said he bought it from a Messenger said it come from before the Return. Know it ent much, but I’d love for you to have it, to bless your wedding.’
Renna froze, not knowing what to say. The woman was acting as if the gift was nothing, but it was clear in her eyes she treasured it. Such a thing was not given lightly.
‘I … Thank …’ she began at last, but the woman was swept away by the crowd as another took her place. Renna knew the woman’s face but not her name. She loved the rosebush in the woman’s yard and had once told her so in passing.
‘Sandy Tailor.’ The woman curtsied awkwardly, thrown off balance by the huge bundle of roses she held in her arms, tied together with red silk. Renna could see the cuts and scrapes where she had torn her sleeves and flesh hurriedly pulling them. She must have denuded her entire bush to make the bundle. ‘Know you like roses, and a bride should have a bouquet.’ Her face flushed redder than the flowers, and she turned to go, then looked back, pointing at the bow. ‘That’s real Krasian silk,’ she noted before vanishing into the crowd. Renna tried to add them to the pot, but they would not fit and was left holding both awkwardly.
She felt drunk as people came on. Her night senses, instincts that kept her alive when she was out among the corelings, screamed at her, expecting them to rush forward — grabbing, clawing. But folk kept bowing and offering hastily chosen gifts. The Hollowers did not have money, but again and again they came forward with things Renna knew were more precious by far.
‘Stood with your husband …’
‘… please accept …’
‘… Mairy Blower …’
‘… please accept …’
‘… husband saved my life …’
‘… my son’s life …’
‘… every last one of us …’
‘… please accept …’
‘… please accept …’
‘… please accept …’
Even with her night strength, it became hard to hold all the baskets and bundles. Before long she felt like a Messenger’s pack mule, and still the well-wishers came on, hundreds in the line. Thousands.
Amazingly, it was a Krasian woman who saved her.
She appeared from the crowd, covered from head to toe in black cloth in the southern fashion, but her eyes were kind. ‘What is this?’ she said loudly. ‘A bride should not carry her own gifts on her wedding night!’ Around her, everyone froze, and the woman, her tone one of comfortable command, pointed to a few of the women who had already given her gifts. ‘Find tables to lay them on, that such precious things not touch this ground, hallowed by the blood of your people in alagai’sharak.’
The women nodded eagerly, drafting still others, and the gifts were pulled back from Renna’s hands. The Krasian woman looked at her, and from the crinkling around her eyes, Renna knew she was smiling. ‘Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Shamavah, First Wife of Abban, son of Chabin, of the line of Haman of Kaji.’ Arlen looked up sharply at that, and she met his eyes. ‘My husband was always a true friend to the Par’chin.’
Arlen looked at her a moment, then smiled and nodded. ‘It is good to see you again, First Wife of Abban. I hope your sister-wives and daughters are well.’
Shamavah bowed. ‘And to you, son of Jeph. It is my fondest wish that you and your honoured family have prospered in these years.’ She turned back to Renna. ‘If you will allow me to facilitate, it would be my great honour to assist the Jiwah Ka of the Par’chin on this sacred night.’
Renna blinked, then nodded, stuttering, ‘A-ay.’
Shamavah bowed again, producing a small writing board, paper, and a pen. When the next woman presented her gift to Renna, Shamavah recorded her name and the gift, then instructed her to lay it on the tables that the folk were putting together and covering in white cloth.
‘I can set guards on the tables if you wish,’ Shamavah said when she caught Renna looking.
‘No need,’ Arlen said. ‘Ent no one gonna steal anything here.’
Shamavah nodded. ‘As you wish.’
It went on for some time, and Renna felt herself slowly unclenching as the Krasian woman handled everything with smooth efficiency. Whoever this Shamavah wife of whatever was, she was a lifesaver.
There was a shout, and a group of Wooden Soldiers broke through the crowd, their lacquered armour and polished shields shining as they pushed the revellers back. Renna felt Arlen tense a moment, and even Shamavah stiffened. But then the soldiers split, opening a path for Count Thamos, looking as dashing in silk and velvet as he did in his armour. His heavy medallion of office hung at his chest, and he wore a golden circlet of ivy in his hair, a mind ward moulded at its centre.
The count walked right up to Renna, dropping smoothly into a court bow that had one knee hovering barely an inch off the cobbles.
‘Congratulations to you on your wedding night.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Please accept this small token from the people of Hollow County.’ He waved behind him, and Arther ran forward, looking a bit breathless. He, too, wore finery, but it seemed more hastily thrown on. He held out a box of black velvet that the count took, opening it as he turned, still bowing, to present it to Renna.