Free The River's Gift by Mercedes Lackey Page A

produce on the morrow. One girl voted for a troop of knights on winged
horses to escort the bride and groom, one for a forest of silver and gold trees
with fiery birds singing wedding songs, and one for fountains of sparks and
fire, and great fiery bursts of sky-illuminations, with an invisible band of
musicians playing in accompaniment.
    When they had
finished turning Ariella into a soft, primped, perfumed and polished creature
she hardly recognized, they assisted her into a fine nightgown, gave her a
hot, sweet posset to drink, and put her to bed. There must have been something
akin to the Abbot's potion in the drink, for she fell asleep before they
finished closing the curtains around her.
    The
maids woke her at daybreak, singing as they brought the wedding dress to her.
It might just as well have been a shroud, for she felt no joy in seeing it,
only despair and a wild wish to rend it to pieces and escape.
    But
there was no escape, and the maids encased her in the heavy, entrapping folds
of the dress, then smothered her in the veil, with her
hair loose and unbound beneath it. They weighed her down with chains and
fetters in the form of jewelry and exclaimed how lovely she was. Then they led
her down to meet her doom.
    At
the foot of the stairs, Lord Lyon waited with a troop of his guards, all garbed
for the occasion in splendid red surcoats over their mail like the one the Lord
himself had worn the day he came for her. He, for once, was not in armor; he
wore a scarlet damask robe that matched her gown, and he took her hand with a
smile so feral and hungry that she shrank inside the heavy gown, feeling her
heart contract to a hard, cold knot.
    He
said nothing but simply led her along yet another torchlit hall to another
door. This one led to a stone- paved courtyard filled with people in festive
array, and a low platform on the opposite side held a portable altar and a man
in the robes of a priest.
    But
a handsome, striking man standing immediately before them was not in the bright
peacock colors of the rest of the guests. Instead, he was clothed from head to
foot in black velvet, even to boots and gloves of the same material. He bowed
when Lord Lyon appeared, and stepped forward, holding out his hands.
    "For
you, my Lord, to place your seal upon your bride," the man said in a
melodious tenor as he placed a massive gold ring in the shape of a lion with
ruby eyes in the Lord's hand. "Remembering that some
things must be grasped and held against all odds."
    Lord
Lyon exclaimed with pleasure, for the ring was of such fine workmanship that
every hair in the lion's mane had been perfectly formed, and the rubies flashed
with far more fire than the ones Ariella wore. But the beauty of the ring gave
Ariella no pleasure, only a further sinking of her heart.
    But
the man had turned to her, and had taken her free hand, placing something into
it and clasping her fingers around it. "For you, Wild Swan," he
said—and there was something about his voice, and something in his emerald-
green eyes, that seemed strangely and tantalizingly familiar. "Remembering that some things are meant to be shared."
    He
dropped her hand; whatever he had put in it was round, cold and hard—but it
didn't feel like a ring. She relaxed her fingers a little, just as he stepped
back and raised his hands—
    She
hadn't felt any real interest in the gift, but his sharp glance at her hand
drew her own gaze to what she held. It was a rainbow-filled sphere as
transparent as crystal, as fragile as a bubble, and cool and smooth as a
sphere of ice.
    "And
now," he cried, before she could react, "I bring you magic!"
    The
air exploded with colored lights, flashes of rainbow fire, and showers of
sparks. Lord Lyon cried out involuntarily and threw up his arm to shield his
eyes, dropping Ariella's hand.
    She
stepped away, clenched her fingers tightly on the magician's gift, and felt it
shatter in her grasp.
    A white-hot lance
of fire pierced her from head to toe until she