The Raiselig Dossier: Five Flowers Part 2
It took less than an hour after Padarom left the dais for the headman to return, followed by two women.
The first was Mala, her eyes filled with an uncertain peace. The second woman wore glasses and carried a thick leather book and kept her head bowed.
“Who is this?” Raiselig asked before the headman could stammer out his obsequities.
“This is my secretary,” the headman gestured. “She will answer any questions about our town that you have, and remain at your service for anything you require. She is your servant as long as you remain in town.”
The serving woman bowed low as Raiselig took the book from her. It was the town charter, thick with historical notes and records. “Excellent. You may leave now.”
The headman vanished as the secretary stood to the side, neither approaching nor treading on the Scrivener’s dais.
Raiselig turned their gaze to the bride. “Mala, yes?”
“Your honor.”
“I have spoken with your groom, Padarom.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Do you know what he has told me?”
“I do not, your honor.”
“He has told me that this whole affair, this whole misguided notion of combining the rituals from two separate people, of crafting a wedding ceremony from two disparate cultures, was your idea.”
Deep in her brown eyes, flared a flicker of something bright. “Misguided, your honor?”
Raiselig gripped the town records and held them out over the table. Then, they let them drop with a heavy crash. “For fifteen generations has this village has existed in some form or another,” they snapped. “That is the weight of history. Of tradition. But this means little to you, no doubt. The binding of souls together, even in a metaphorical sense, requires the acknowledgment of multiple bureaucracies, pantheons, and lesser spirits. Marriage vows and sacred proclamations are chosen not out of a sense of poetry, but of legal obligation, do you understand? Combining two rituals may seem simple to you, but if there is a single mistake, a word misspoken or an article misused, it will open your wedding and therefore your marriage, if not your entire village, to possible legal retribution. Am I making myself quite clear?”
Mala gave a slow nod. Then: “Will you not help us, then, your honor?”
Raiselig bit their tongue. “I have accepted your grain and water. You are my client. I am duty bound to help you, which includes professional advice. Withdraw your request, and consent to a wedding in the manner of your fore-bearers.”
In an instant, the mild and charming woman had vanished, to be replaced with a steel-jawed warrior. “I will not.”
Raiselig shook their head. “You will defy your people for the sake of your groom when he himself does not wish you to? Why?”
“Because, your honor, I will not aid the Lark King.”
Raiselig blinked. After a moment, they leaned forward. “You surprise me. I had presumed you would make some lover’s appeal, say that the people of your village whisper and sneer at him, call him outsider, and you wish to show them that even outsiders can be embraced.”
Mala’s eyes flickered. “Have you heard such pleas before?”
“Many times,” Raiselig’s smile was without much joy. “They rarely find purchase in my heart.”
“Then know this,” Mala drew up her chin. “If I am to wed Padarom in a Souran wedding, I will be helping the Kells wipe away the people of Kyrathia, their gods, their traditions, their histories. I will not let my heart do such a thing to the man I love.”
Raiselig took a slow and steadying breath. Damn and rot this was going to be complicated. “Do you swear to this, that your heart is bent towards saving the traditions and culture of the Kyrathian people? That in wedding your husband, you will brook no sacrifice of either your culture nor his?”
“I swear,” Mala said without much pause. “I will not aid the murder of a people.”
Raiselig snorted. “Some have the strength of character to accept what cannot be changed.”
For a moment, the two stared at each other, neither gaze wavering.
Finally, Raiselig sighed. “You are fortunate there is precedent.”
“There is?”
“Centuries old,” Raiselig nodded, standing up to pull more ancient texts from the cabinet. They shot a sharp look at the girl, barely hiding a sneer. “You are fortunate I rarely make mistakes. I am finished with you, girl. Go about your duties, and swiftly now. I have many contracts and agreements to review.”
Hours passed, perhaps days.
It had been many years since Raiselig had administered a wedding in this region of the world, though the ritual was still clear in their mind. It was a boon of their nature to have a strong memory for details. It had been a curse in centuries past, a burden that caused many a hungry night. Now that they had transcended their bestial nature, their curse had become a blessing.
Raiselig poured through ancient scrolls and case law. The village records pointed them towards laws and contracts from centuries past, and their own ritual practices. Each name and signature, each letter and brush-stroke was of vital importance. This was not only a wedding, but an acceptance of sanctuary. There would be papers and letters and affidavits, all needing signatures, and even then the wedding, the actual ritual needed to be done right.
The sun rose and set as Raiselig studied, making notes in their tiny notebook, committing various clauses and phrases to memory. Loopholes were the bane of every Scrivener’s existence, and a single misstep could ruin everything. Promises would need to be made to local spirits, concessions carved out in long-term contracts, treaties between mortal and immortal alike would…
Suddenly, a sharp tang struck Raiselig’s nose. Torn from their work, Raiselig’s attention fell on the cup at their side, as it was filled with acrid tea from the pot.
The secretary averted her gaze when she saw Raiselig staring. She had stepped around to the back of the dais to place a silver tray within their reach. “If your honor wishes?” she stepped back after replacing the pot.
Raiselig winced internally. Ritual had to be followed, even when it was unpleasant. They nodded, and reached out to the cup, bringing the tainted water to their lips.
The taste was foul, but they drank deeply. The curling vapors rolled through their nose, scraping acidic fumes across their sinuses.
“Forgive me, your honor?”
Raiselig turned back to the secretary, noting her shy embarrassment. Oh gods, here it comes.
“Yes?” Raiselig replaced the cup.
“I do not wish to offend…”
It did offend, but there were things more important than Raiselig’s feelings. “Speak, child. Ask your question.”
She looked up at them with wide brown eyes. “I have never seen another with skin as black as yours. It is almost purple.” Raiselig didn’t answer. After a pause, the girl finished her question. “Are you a spirit?”
Raiselig grimaced. That was such a hard question to answer. “Of a kind,” Raiselig turned back to the village record. “But I am no longer what I was.”
“May I ask who you used to be?”
Raiselig did not look up. “No.”
They could hear the girl step back. “Forgive me, your honor. I merely —”
“Have the five sacred flowers been picked?” Raiselig cut off the poor girl before she could cause further trouble
“Yes, your honor,” the girl squirmed. “The Mountain roses and farthingales are drying in the shrine, and the yellow posies, moon-lillies, and follow-me-bys are hanging around the doors of the bride and groom’s homes.”
“Good,” Raiselig slammed the village record shut. “They must be well dried for the ceremoy, and —” they paused. “Moon-lillies?”
“They have been hung. I saw them around Mala’s door —”
Raiselig silenced the girl with a single raised hand, while the other opened an old book and began flipping through the pages. A moment was all it took. “Moon-lillies…light blue petals with a sickly sweet scent. Bloom in the first half of the newspring season, favoring rocky land.”
“Yes, your honor.”
Raiselig’s eyes were fierce. “Have you ever heard of Eidlbane?”
The girl blinked. “No, your honor. What is it?”
The book slammed shut as Raiselig stood upright. “I must see the headman immediately.”
The girl nodded. “I will tell him to —”
“No,” Raiselig stepped down off the dais. “Immediately.”
“Moon-lillies?” The headman gaped. “I do not understand, your honor.”
“I do not ask you to understand,” Raiselig glanced up from the book. “I ask only that you answer. Do you know anyone in the town who knows of Eidlbane?”
The headman glanced at his wife, a strong-legged woman of some more wear in her face, less gray in her hair. “Forgive me, your honor, but I have never heard the word myself.”
“Nor I,” the woman shook her head. “Is it important?”
Raiselig bit their tongue before answering. “It is vital. The primary contract between your village and the spirit of the forest explicitly names the five sacred flowers as blessed to the region. If there has been some clerical error on your part, the entire contract may be declared null and void.”
“Madam!” The headman stood, his jaw tight. “I protest at what you just said!”
“As do I,” Raiselig’s mouth twitched. “I am no Madam.”
The headman opened his mouth, closed it, and then resumed in a more measured tone. “Forgive me, your honor,” the headman started to bow before Raiselig stopped him.
“Stop bowing,” they snapped. “This is far too serious a situation for sycophancy.”
“Then let me speak plain,” the headman said.
“The people of this village honor and respect our ancestors. Our shrines are kept clean, our prayers are heartfelt, and we have never trespassed or offended the spirits of the land. To suggest that we have somehow been in error is an insult I cannot abide. We have held weddings in the village for many generations, and have heard no complaints nor objections from anyone, much less some spirit of the forest.”
“Some spirit of —” Raiselig’s mouth clamped shut. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t even know its name?”
“Should we?”
Raiselig pinched the bridge of their nose. When a suitable time had passed, enough for Raiselig to keep from shouting, they opened their eyes again. “Legally, no, there is nothing that requires you to know the name of the spirit which signed this contract. However, the fact that you do not is of grave concern. It suggests a laxity to your responsibilities that makes me shudder. I weep for whomever is chosen to audit your village, should the need ever arise.”
The headman slowly took his seat once more. “Is that likely?”
“If a claim is made, depending on the judgment, an audit is always possible,” Raiselig sniffed, placing their fingers together in professional thought. “But at the moment, the more pressing concern is the issue of Eidlbane.”
“May I ask,” the woman leaned forward, “what is Eidlbane?”
Raiselig flourished the ancient yellow contract. “Eidlbane is the fourth of the five sacred flowers that your village swore to keep and honor in their hearts upon its founding.”
“It’s…what?” the two stared at each other in bemusement. “Surely, Moon-lillies are the fourt of the five sacred flowers.”
“So you say. Indeed, it may have been so for generations, but they were not always called Moon-lillies. Based on the description of Eidlbane in the supplimentary filings made at the time, it appears that at some point in the relatively recent past, Eidlbane attained the colloquial name, and then eventually lost its original designation.”
“Surely, that can’t be important, can it?” the woman shook her head in amazement. “It is still the same flower, no matter what we call it, no?”
Raiselig pursed their lips. It wasn’t a new protestation. People, for some reason, had blindspots when it came to things changing. It was ironic, really. “Whomever drafted the original contract was a scoundrel who didn’t know their ink from their elbow. They specified the five sacred flowers by name. In this wedding, there must be an offering of scattered flower petals on the path walked by the newly betrothed. In exchange, each of the five blessed flowers bestows a particular blessing upon their household, in accordance with the will and whim of ‘some forest spirit.’”
“Yes,” the headman nodded. “It is how the newlywed are guided to their home, by the flower-children who scatter the petals on their path.”
“Because this contract was written so…so artlessly, it is classified as a ritual sacrifice. Replace ‘petals of the five blessed flowers’ with ‘heart of a boar,’ and it’s as close as no difference, and when it comes to sacrifice, the consequences for non-payment are severe to say the least.”
“Can we not just call Moon-lillies Eidlbane for the ceremony?” The woman looked hopeful. “Will that not solve the problem?”
“No,” Raiselig said, unwilling to explain the complicated legal issues any further.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the headman looked up. “What is to be done?”
Raiselig thought for a moment. “My advice would be to cancel the wedding.”
The woman laughed, a sharp bitter retort. “You have no idea how much we wish we could.”
Raiselig blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you know anything of politics, Scrivener?” The woman cocked her head in amusement as Raiselig pinched the bridge of their nose. “I see you do,” the woman’s wry smile was no less warm for its cold humor. “The laws of humanity are every bit as complicated as your own. To many, the Souranise and the Kyrathians are not so different. Perhaps… perhaps if the Kells were to march down our roads, a clever soldier might be able to tell that Podorom is a refugee from the North, but they would not be certain. They might pause for just a moment, decide to report back their suspicions rather than charge ahead with rifle and lance.”
The headman nodded in ashamed agreement. “Souran is a humble village, yes, but we are officially a part of the Barony of Celnwall, though our Baron has little time or patience for us, or we for him. We reside on the edge of civilization, your honor. Our land has little value beyond it being our own. We manage to survive through harsh winters and burning summers because we work together.”
“The Lark King will not threaten Celnwall so brazenly as to attack us,” the woman said, “though if his army finds a Kyrathian refugee in our midst…”
“If Padarom were to become Souranise,” Raiselig finished, “then he would be easier to hide, and be less a threat to your people.”
The headman sighed. “We are a humble people, your honor. We need every shield we can find.”
Raiselig frowned. “A wedding will not stop a war. If the Lark King craves your land, he will take it.”
“Perhaps not,” the headman spread his hands, “but we will not throw the boy out of our town because we are afraid of the monster who hates him.”
Raiselig pinched their nose again. “Very well,” they said at last. “I will do what I can.”
“Thank you, your honor,” the two’s relief was palpable. “You have done a great service to Souran, and to the people of —”
Raiselig cut the air with their hand. “I provide service only to my client. Now I must go. Already the time grows late, and if I am to find appropriate loopholes and concessions for this wedding to succeed, I must work from dusk ’til dawn.”
“Then you believe it is possible?” the headman asked. “The spirit of the forest may be appeased?”
“I do not know yet,” Raiselig admitted. “I shall have my answer in three days. Await my messages, they will tell you what to prepare and how. Follow them to the letter, accept no substitutions or cut-corners. If this ceremony is to succeed, it must be precise.”