Aftermath

Owen was on the plain outside the City of the Gods again. He was seeing the Scanrans whip his sisters once more. He was hearing their screams and wails as the lashes cut into their soft, vulnerable backs and shoulders. He was hearing Olivia begging Mithros and the Goddess to save her, and he was wondering why they didn't intervene to rescue a young woman who didn't even step on insects when she could avoid it.

Again, he was watching Opal struggling to gather her courage and accept the blows without crying out, because she didn't want to give her tormenter the satisfaction of knowing how much the man was wounding her. As Owen stared on helplessly, her head turned toward him, even though she couldn't possibly spot him when he was invisible, and he watched as her cheek was ground further into the dirt.

Beside Opal, Olivia's eyes had squeezed shut in a futile attempt to block out the pain, and her face was pale, as though she were on the verge of fainting. Rage roared through his veins at the sight of someone callously beating his sweet sister. His fury was only increased by the fact that he was her older brother, who was supposed to protect her and Opal…

He had failed them both. He hadn't protected them properly, and he couldn't rescue them. Despite all his warrior training, he was as helpless as they were, and, in spite of all the lives he had saved, he couldn't rescue two of the people who were dearest to him.

A strangled howl tore through his lips, because he had finally reached the breaking point―the anguish boiling inside his soul needed to be released somehow. It didn't matter anymore that shouting would do no good. After all, nothing would, and he had to protest against the cruel whims of fate somehow.

The sound of his own scream, muffled by his pillow, awoke him. Once he was awake, it took him a moment to escape from the clutches of the nightmare. He had relived the horrible illusions the Chamber had shown happening to his sisters, just as he had previously relived Margarry's death and his total sensory deprivation.

Deciding that trying to catch up on the rest he had been deprived of last night was pointless if nightmares were going to ensure that he received basically no sleep, he rolled over and got out of bed. As he flipped over, he felt the tears that had accumulated on his pillow brush against his cheeks and learned that he didn't have to be awake to cry.

Confirmation of this theory came when he stumbled over to his dresser and saw in the mirror his bloodshot eyes, which complemented his flushed face nicely. His reflection made him recognize just how much he needed to clean himself up. His mind still dwelling on the terrible lies the Ordeal had forced him to believe were true, he scrubbed the sweat and tears from his face, wishing that his nightmares were as easy to wipe away.

Water and soap never could clean off the most important things, Owen grumbled inwardly as he removed his sweat-soaked nightclothes and threw on a shirt and breeches, which, as far as he could tell in his dazed state, seemed to match, or at least didn't clash too blatantly. Then, not really wanting to leave the safety of his bedchamber, but at the same time reluctant to stay in a room where the air was thick with the memory of his Ordeal, he left his bedroom.

As he entered the office that connected his and Lord Wyldon's quarters, Wyldon glanced up from reading a report to eye him closely.

"You look better than you did when you emerged from your Ordeal, at any rate," remarked Wyldon after studying Owen from top to toe, gesturing for the younger man to sit in the chair across from him.

"Appearances can be deceiving, my lord," Owen mumbled, taking the seat Wyldon had indicated. "I still feel like a walking corpse."

"Everyone feels that way after that way after their Ordeal," Wyldon answered, and Owen was abruptly flooded with loathing for the Chamber. It was indescribably brutal of the Chamber to deny squires who had already seen warfare as well as the poverty and injustice in the realm of their precious little remaining innocence. It was unfathomably wicked of the Chamber to steal the lives and sanity of young men. It was mind-numbingly evil of the Chamber to scar that hearts of every knight in the country. It was chilling to the bone marrow to contemplate how the Chamber had no qualms about preying on the worst memories and fears of those who would devote most of their existences to serving Tortall. "With time, your recollection of the Ordeal will become less vivid. Rarely something will happen that will remind you of your Ordeal, and you'll never completely forget what happened to you in the Chamber, but the pain will lessen and life goes on."

"I hate the Chamber," Owen hissed fiercely, his gray eyes sizzling. Abruptly, it didn't matter if he recovered from what the Chamber had inflicted on him, because the fact still remained that it had done everything it could to break him, and that was unpardonable. "I hate what it does to people without a trace of remorse."

"You hate too easily, Owen." Sighing, Wyldon shook his head, and Owen wondered if the Chamber was meant to make people hate it. Maybe its objective was to churn out knights who were as cold and as hard as it was. "The Chamber is just a room albeit a magical one. It's irrational to detest a room."

"Everything about that room is irrational, and the Chamber is just a room the way a Stormwing is just a bird, sir," countered Owen, sticking out his chin stubbornly. "Besides, I can hate anyone and anything that insists on destroying beings without a twinge of guilt."

"You're hating the Chamber for doing no more than its duty," Wyldon pointed out quietly, his dark eyes adopting the haunted expression they had when he discussed the Chamber and the Ordeal with Owen on their journey to Corus. "It's the Chamber's job to hammer at the fault lines in a potential knight to see if he shatters. Only knights that will not break are of any use to the realm."

Biting his lip, Owen discovered that he didn't know how to respond to this. Wyldon took advantage of his silence to continue, "In a way, the Chamber is actually a mercy. If it didn't exist, the task of pounding at a squire's weaknesses until the breaking point would fall to the knightmaster. That would be impractical and unfair to everyone involved. Impractical because what is required to bring someone who has endured eight years of warrior training to the shattering point is tremendous pressure, and creating that pressure in real life would be not only extremely difficult but in many cases unethical, as it would likely endanger the wellbeing of at least one other person besides the squire. It would be unfair to the squire, because if the knightmaster held back, it would be unjust to make a squire a knight without testing him properly. It would be unfair for the country because if a knightmaster didn't test a squire correctly, that improperly tested knight could break on the front lines one day, which could have fatal consequences for countless people. It would also be unfair to put a knightmaster in the position of pushing his squire to the shatterpoint and beyond." Wyldon's eyes pierced into Owen, who swallowed hard, realizing for the first time that it was probably as difficult to send your squire into the Chamber as it was to undergo the Ordeal yourself. "Owen, I have never been the most indulgent of teachers, and I have never had a problem with pushing my students."

"I know, my lord," Owen agreed, wrinkling his nose. Certainly, he understood from experience how hard Wyldon pushed his pupils. After all, he had clear memories of running along castle ramparts until he was convinced he was about to vomit, and he would never forget practicing his fighting skills as a page until he felt like he was about to faint only to have to pay attention during the mostly boring academic subjects after a lunch that was never enough to restore his energy. He would probably always have blisters from all the sword and archery training; the bruises from staff work were definitely permanent additions to his body. As Owen's knightmaster, Wyldon had only been a more demanding instructor, because he could focus his complete attention on all of Owen's myriad shortcomings, which he was determined to stamp out. Owen had no trouble recalling training sessions that lasted most of a day during which he had been pushed beyond exhaustion and forced to fight, anyway. The sickening crack that his ankle had made when it broke during a jousting exercise wasn't something he was likely to forget, either. Really, it was a marvel that he didn't hate Lord Wyldon for his harsh training methods, but, then again, Owen supposed he would have to be very ungrateful indeed to despise a man who had poured so much time and effort into teaching him. "I've been training under you for eight years. I'd have to be stupider than I am not to have noticed that by now."

"If you're so clever, you might have recognized that every time I pushed a student, it was because I wanted to make them a better warrior, not because I wished to break them." Wyldon's lips thinned. "The difference between the two is considerable. I'm not sure that I would be able to push a student until they were at the shatterpoint, but I know that I could never do that to you, Owen. I've known you since you were an exuberant, impulsive, and ill-mannered ten-year-old. I've seen you at your best and at your worst. As a result, I have found your fault lines―the places where a sharp rap has the potential to crack you forever. If I was expected to hit you on those shatterpoints hard enough to break you, I couldn't do it. If I knew that there was a real chance that I could kill you or drive you insane, I would hold back, even if I knew it would be unfair to you and to the whole country."

Feeling a migraine coming on from all the recent stress he had been under, Owen massaged his forehead and made no response, because he didn't know what one he could possibly make.

"Many knightmasters would hold back as well out of similar sentiments, or out of a desire not to wreck a squire they have invested years in training," concluded Wyldon grimly. "Whatever you think of it, Owen, we need that Chamber. Without it, there truly would be no adequate way of determining who really is qualified to serve Tortall as a knight."

"Yes, sir." Owen's voice sounded parched, and that wasn't so amazing when he realized that he hadn't consumed any beverage since his visit to the city with Margarry and his sisters.

Perhaps Wyldon detected from his tone how thirsty Owen was, because he reached into a drawer and withdrew a bottle of wine and two glasses, commenting, "Wine is famous for its ability to boost people's morale, and it has also been found to help many an individual forget an unpleasant situation."

"You mean that it's traditional for squires to recover from the Ordeal by getting blasted out of their craniums," observed Owen bluntly. "Only when they are drunk can they actually enjoy being knighted."

"Your subtlety never ceases to astonish me." Wyldon's lips twitched upward wryly. "After passing their Ordeals, squires are expected to be mature enough to consume only moderate amounts of alcohol." Here, he waved a hand at the wine bottle. "Well, would you care to start your moderate drinking now?"

"No, thank you, sir." Owen shook his head firmly. Honestly, he hadn't considered drinking himself, despite all the times he had complained about his father's reliance on alcohol, but now that he was offered wine for the first time, he discovered that it wasn't difficult for him to make a decision. His aversion to alcohol was an instinct born from the suffering he and his sisters had endured thanks to the substance's control over their father. "I should be careful not to begin drinking. Alcoholism tends to run in families, after all, and I don't wish to become a drunkard."

"Owen." For a moment, Wyldon paused, organizing his thoughts, and then he went on, "I have nothing but admiration for beings who choose to abstain from consuming alcohol. Still, before you decide not to drink at all, I think you should understand that there is a major distinction between drinking excessively and being dependent upon alcohol as opposed to drinking moderately and not being addicted to alcohol. Drinking excessively can lead to unnecessarily violent behavior, irresponsible actions, a loss of emotional control, a lack of coordination, a decrease in logical capabilities, passing out, vomiting, and even death. I would never recommend that anyone drink to excess, nonetheless on a regular basis. Drinking moderately, on the other hand, isn't such an awful thing. Alcohol in small doses helps make people more sociable, relaxes them, and reduces their inhibitions."

"Then I really don't need to drink." Owen bullied his lips into grinning even though he didn't find the topic of him drinking remotely amusing after being raised by an alcoholic father. "I'm already sociable, and I certainly don't need to have less inhibitions, my lord. I'm impulsive enough as it is, and I have no control over my mouth when I'm completely sober. Even moderate amounts of wine would probably be too much for me. I get drunk off life."

At this point, he recognized that the smile wasn't working its magic, and so he didn't waste the effort maintaining it, as he added, "Besides, if I drink once to cheer myself up, I might have to do it again in the future. Before I was aware of it, I'd become dependent on alcohol to make me happy. I don't want my joy to come from inside a bottle; I want it to emerge from within me."

"I understand." Wyldon nodded as he returned the wine and the glasses to the drawer. "You should know, though, that people also drink wine to celebrate, and, when you're knighted tonight, many beings will expect you to share a glass of wine with them to commemorate your achievement."

"Don't worry about that, sir," Owen said earnestly. "It's simple to have a glass of wine and pretend to drink it. I've been watching people at parties for years, so I know that when you have a glass of wine, you don't so much as drink it as you sniff it, lift it up to the light to examine it, slosh it around, frown as you finally take the tiniest sip, and then you make a thoughtful remark about it that sounds more like you are describing a person than a drink. It will be easy enough to go through the motions of drinking and just not take the small sip."

For the second time since he had met Lord Wyldon, something Owen said caused the older man to chuckle briefly. Just as he had been on the first occasion Wyldon had laughed at a comment of his, Owen felt surprised. Then, a second later, the shock gave way to a sense of pride that he was one of a select group of individuals who could make Wyldon of Cavall chuckle.

"I only meant that you would have to explain numerous times that you don't want to drink, not that you would have to devise an elaborate charade to mask the fact that you weren't drinking," Wyldon replied once his laughter had died as suddenly as it commenced.

"If the people have been drinking, there's no point in explaining anything to them, since they won't comprehend or remember it." Owen shrugged. He hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to broach one of the most crucial topics he would ever discuss in his life, and then asked in a tone that he was sure trembled like pudding with his nerves, "My lord, may I talk to you about something important?"

"It was my understanding that we were talking right now, Owen." Wyldon arched an eyebrow at him. "What is it you want to say?"

"Margarry is an amazing young woman." Owen took the plunge, bursting out with everything about Margarry that made his heart pound like a drum and robbed him of his breath, because he didn't know how else to convey the depth of his love of Margarry to Lord Wyldon. "She is one of the smartest people I've ever met, and she has probably read more books than most of the scholars at the university. She is one of the swiftest and most graceful riders I've ever raced against. Her sarcasm never fails to amuse me. Her sprit energizes me, and her strength supports me. When I'm at war, I look forward to receiving her letters, because they aren't stilted like many people's are, but rather they are genuine extensions of her personality. If I'm with her, even the simplest things feel sublime. When I'm with her, the grass is greener, the sky is bluer, the sun shines brighter, and the clouds are fluffier. Her grin can banish any of my fears, and her laugh always makes me want to join in her laughter even if I don't know the joke yet. Her hand in mine makes me feel like I'm flying. When I'm with her, I think that I can talk about anything, but I never feel like I have to speak if I don't want to. She is more of a home to me than any place ever could be. I'd die to protect her in a heartbeat." Steeling himself with a deep breath, Owen finished in a rush, "Sir, I'd like your permission to propose to your youngest daughter."

"Humph," Wyldon grunted and stroked his bad arm. "I imagine that if I don't provide my consent, you and my daughter, headstrong and impetuous as you both are, will just elope behind my back."

"No, my lord," answered Owen through the lump that had developed in his throat, because he wasn't certain that he was offering the proper response. After all, perhaps the best way to attain Wyldon's approval of his proposing to Margarry was to act like the wedding would occur with or withoutWyldon's consent, which might force Wyldon to agree to the match in order to maintain some control over the proceedings. Yet, Owen wasn't willing to lie to Wyldon, and especially not about something this important. "I understand how close you and Margarry are. I know that you loved her long before I ever did, and that she loved you for years before I entered her life. I wouldn't elope with her knowing that it would drive a wedge between you two."

"If my daughter reciprocates your feelings, my refusing your match would drive a wedge between us, anyway, especially since I have already promised her that she may marry whomever she wishes." Wyldon's lips twisted as he made this wry observation.

"I can't help that, sir," Owen pointed out. "I couldn't prevent myself from falling in love with Margarry, just like she couldn't stop herself from falling in love with me."

"Owen, your feelings are spontaneous and deep. That means that just as you are prone to hating too easily, you're likely to love too quickly." Wyldon sighed, shaking his head and scratching the arm that had been ravaged by the hurrock again. "Those who fall in love too rapidly tend to wake up in the morning to learn that their brand of love has a nasty habit of vanishing overnight."

"Don't diminish what I've felt." Owen bristled and folded his arms across his chest. "Refuse if you have to, but don't diminish what I've felt. What I've felt for Margarry is as complex as anything you have ever felt for your wife."

"If you thought to perform some basic mathematical calculations, you would have realized that, if my youngest child is your age, then I must have been married longer than you have been alive." Wyldon shot Owen an icy glare that was enough to freeze the younger man's blood in his veins. "That means that I have known Vivienne for more years than you have been breathing. Every one of those years added another layer to our relationship, since every year contained a thousand little memories that came together to add depth to our relationship. I've been loving my wife since years before you were born, and, by the time you were teething, Vivienne and I had already created a family together. I think it is you, young man, who is guilty of diminishing what I've felt."

"Age isn't the only indicator of the depth of love." Owen's jaw tightened resolutely. "Plenty of people die of old age without experiencing true love, and many people who have been wed for decades are trapped in loveless marriages. Besides, the love between Margarry and I can't develop as the love between you and Lady Vivienne did if you don't give it a chance to grow, my lord."

"It's not that I necessarily consider you and Margarry a poor match," conceded Wyldon, fingering the scars on his face. "I've seen evidence of passion and devotion in the regular correspondence between the pair of you. I know that you are always looking out for Margarry's best interests, and, even though we don't always agree on what those are, I do respect you for being brave enough to argue with me over what's best for her. I have no reason to believe that you would ever treat my daughter with anything less than tenderness and respect, and I haven't forgotten how you saved her life from the bandits, either."

Here, Wyldon paused and shrugged before resuming, "However, I also am familiar enough with the personalities of both my daughter and you to worry about a marriage between the two of you. Both of you are headstrong and impulsive. When you are together, your willfulness and impetuousness feed off each other, which can land the two of you in trouble, as it did when you took your unauthorized trip to a refugee camp. It is not difficult for me to imagine those traits leading you both into an early, potentially unwise, marriage in which you both discover that you aren't nearly as in love as you once believed."

Before Owen could stammer out a defense, Wyldon's dark eyes lanced into him. "My answer to your request to propose to my daughter isn't a no, though, if you will promise me one thing."

"I swear that I'll always love Margarry, I'll always be loyal to her, I'll always protect her as best I can, and I'll never hurt her," Owen vowed instantly, thinking that was what the older man wanted to hear and aware that every word that emerged from his mouth was the absolute truth.

"Good, but I do not require that you make such a promise to me," Wyldon informed him, and Owen stared. "After all, you will swear such things to the gods at the wedding ceremony should you marry my daughter. If vows that you offer to the gods aren't binding enough to make you treat Margarry properly, I am not arrogant enough to believe that any promises you made to me would be. No, I want you to promise me something that doesn't appear in any wedding vows."

"What do you want me to promise, my lord?" Owen wanted to know, frowning as his forehead furrowed as he tried to figure out what important item Wyldon believed had been left out of the marriage vows. He also didn't bother to mention that, in some ways, a promise made to Wyldon would indeed feel more binding to him than a vow made to the gods. As blasphemous as it sounded, the gods were such invisible and insubstantial entities, whereas Wyldon was such a solid and steady being. There were times when it was hard to believe in the gods, but there were no times when it was difficult to believe in Lord Wyldon of Cavall. There were occasions when it seemed easy to renege on a promise made to the gods, but there would never be an occasion when breaking faith with Wyldon appeared uncomplicated.

"I want you to promise me that if Margarry accepts your proposal, the two of you will wait at least three years before you marry one another," pronounced Wyldon, his eyes penetrating Owen, who could feel his heart plummeting, because three years was an eternity to a young person in love.

"Three years?" Owen repeated, hoping he had misheard. "That's a terribly long time!"

"If you love someone, waiting three years to ensure that your feelings are genuine and that you truly wish to be with that person for the rest of your life isn't so awful." Unperturbed, Wyldon shrugged. "However, if you hurry into an early marriage and discover three years into that you don't really love your partner and the two of you aren't as compatible as you thought, you'll be sentencing yourself to a lifetime of mutual misery unless a tragic death befalls one of you or one of you commits an offense serious enough to warrant a divorce."

Seeing Owen's scowl, Wyldon relented and added, "I know that it's hard for you to believe right now, but I have both Margarry's and yours best interest at heart. The two of you have the unusual opportunity of picking your own spouses. It is a great gift to be able to select your own husband or wife, since you have the chance to marry someone you truly love, which can make your marriage much happier than many arranged marriages. At the same time, picking your own partner is incredibly risky, because, if you choose the wrong being, you are likely to end up in a marriage more miserable than many arranged marriages. After all, if you choose the wrong spouse, you may not be compatible at all, while arranged marriages are often made because the two parties involved are judged to be compatible in some manner. Also, when you choose your spouse, you expect your marriage to be filled with love; an arranged marriage tends to be seen as a business entered into by both parties, and love is regarded as an added bonus that might develop over time. This means that people who select their spouses are likely to be far more bitter if their marriage is loveless than people in arranged marriages. Apart from that, people who choose their own partners cannot blame an unsuccessful marriage on parents who made a poor decision for them, but only can fault themselves for their bad selection. I do not want Margarry or you to squander the rare opportunity that you both have to choose your own partners, and I don't wish for either of you to turn a chance for great happiness into a torturous experience. That's why I want you two to be certain that you know and love each other as well as you think you do before you are wed. After all, engagements can be broken off fairly simply, but marriages cannot be ended nearly so painlessly."

Recognizing that Wyldon wasn't about to be swayed to turn the three year engagement into a shorter wait and knowing that he would have agreed to wait a hundred years for Margarry if he had to, Owen sighed, "I promise to wait three years before marrying Margarry if she accepts my proposal."

Wyldon opened his mouth to reply but was chopped off before he could begin by a sharp knock on the office door. Glowering at the interruption, he strode over to the door and opened it to reveal Margarry.

"Good morning again, Father." Margarry stood on tiptoes to kiss Lord Wyldon's cheek. Without waiting for a return greeting, she went on breathlessly, "Is Owen awake yet?"

At this point, she caught sight of Owen over her father's broad shoulder. As soon as her eyes found him, she lurched toward him, a vision in a scarlet cloak and gown that suddenly made him wish that he had attempted to tame his unruly hair more earlier, and threw her arms around him.

"You look famished," she announced as they pulled apart. "You must not have eaten a bite since yesterday."

"I am hungry," Owen admitted. Now that she brought it up, he could hear his empty stomach begging him to put something―anything―into it. His body craved food to restore the energy the Ordeal had drained from him. "I didn't notice that I was before, but now that you mention it, I'm starving."

"I'm ravenous enough to eat an entire herd of cows myself." Margarry grinned, her brown eyes sparkling like Midwinter ornaments. "Let's go into Corus. There's another carnival there today, and the food at festivals is always gloriously awful. That is, it tastes delicious, but you can always feel it congesting your arteries as you eat. Of course, maybe that's a good thing, because you know that you're getting full if your arteries are starting to clog."

Owen was about to agree to accompany her into the city not only because the gloriously awful food she described sounded amazing appetizing in his current state of starvation, but also because he would have consented to follow her to the worst parts of the afterlife if she asked it of him. However, Wyldon chose that minute to state icily, "Since I am your father, Margarry, you might consider asking me for permission before you go around inviting young men to accompany you into the city."

"I haven't invited young men to accompany me into the city," returned Margarry. "I've only invited one young man so far, and that's the way I intend to keep it."

"When you are so impudent, I should be eager to shove you off on any man foolish enough to believe he could handle your sharp tongue," growled Wyldon, and Owen heard the unspoken half of the sentence; the part that said Wyldon wasn't happy to give her to any man. After all, Wyldon had cradled her in his arms when she was a baby, clutched her fingers as she learned how to walk as a toddler, and taught her to ride when she was a child, so there was probably a large part of him that still perceived Margarry as a little girl instead of an adult. For years, Wyldon must have been the most important man in his youngest daughter's life, and it must have hurt to be overshadowed―overshadowed but not replaced. It must have killed something inside Lord Wyldon to allow Owen to propose to Margarry, since, although he had to know that Owen would always do his best to protect Margarry and look out for her best interests, Wyldon must still have thought that nobody could do as good a job of protecting and caring for his daughter as he had. "Go down into the city, then, both of you, and don't get into too much trouble."

"We'll be as good as we can be, Father," Margarry assured him in a tone so sweet that sugar could have melted on her tongue.

"Somehow I don't find that particularly comforting," snorted Wyldon.

"That's because I'm trying to give you more worry wrinkles," Margarry educated him, all innocence. "Mother and I both think that they make you look so distinguished."

Silently, as Wyldon questioned his daughter's taste, Owen slipped into his bedroom, thinking his absence was not likely to be noted, to don his cloak. Once he had put on his cloak, he pulled the box containing the diamond ring from the back of his dresser drawer and shoved it into the folds of his cloak. Then, prepared for his excursion to Corus, he stepped out of his room.

"Are you ready to go?" Margarry asked as soon as he left his room, proving that his brief disappearance had been noticed, after all.

"I'm always ready to spend time with you." Grinning, Owen nodded.

"More like, you are always ready to flatter me, and I am never prepared to accept it," teased Margarry, tossing her hair back. Then, she turned her attention on her father, and, hugging Wyldon, she said in a more serious tone, "I do love you, Father. I just show my love with defiance and insolence."

"As long as you persist in doing so, I have no choice but to demonstrate my love with lectures and punishments." Wyldon returned the embrace for a second, and then released Margarry with a gruff, "Run along now, you two, before whatever temporary insanity has conquered me disappears, and I change my mind."

Obediently, Owen and Margarry bustled out of Wyldon's office, and, within half an hour, they had arrived at the festival in the center of Corus. By the time, he and Margarry reached the carnival, Owen discovered that the conversation and laughter he had enjoyed with Margarry on their trip into the city had driven out the lingering nightmares of torture, death, and sensory deprivation created by the Ordeal.

When they purchased a meat and cheese pastry to share, he found that the hot food burned out the coldness in his body, while the spices mingling in his mouth reminded him of just how much of a miracle being alive and being with the woman he loved was.

Closing his eyes, Owen imprinted the scene―Margarry sitting across from him, her cheeks the color of apples thanks to the wind and the frigid temperature, sharing a steaming sausage and cheese pastry with him; a hundred people milling around the marketplace shouting, buying or selling merchandise, playing games, and watching the troubadours; the feeling of the cheese melting in his mouth and the taste of the spices biting into his tongue―in his memory. This would be a moment that he would want to freeze in time and return to often for a morale boost once he was back along the Scanran border.

Once they were done eating, they joined the crowd watching the troubadours. For two hours, they stood, applauding the agile maneuvers of the acrobats, chuckling at the jerky faux sword battle between four jesters, gasping at the man who swallowed six burning torches, cheering at the jugglers, singing along at to the ancient Midwinter ballads performed by the musicians, and listening silently as the storyteller began his tale.

When the storyteller began to speak, many in the crowd were restless, and some even started to drift away, but as the bard continued to declaim in a mellifluous tone that was somehow as entrancing as it was steady, many people reclaimed their places and listened as if the storyteller's voice was as addicting as alcohol.

The bard wove a tale that, like all great stories, began simply enough―umpromisingly even―but as the details began to emerge and profound truths could be discerned through the adventures, it became impossible for anyone to leave.

There was a hero and a heroine in the story, of course, and, as often transpired where both were present, a love story poignant and true arose. Greater issues than the emotions of the two lovers were at stake, though. The fates of hundreds lay in the balance, their lives and the lives of their children dependent upon the hero and the heroine making the correct decision―choosing to fight for truth and justice. There was sacrifice and warfare, greed and vengeance, and, in the end, as the fate of the two lovers hung suspended, redemption.

When the storyteller delivered the final surprise, there were shouts of delight and much applause from the onlookers.

"The story was enchanting," Margarry remarked, as she and Owen strode away from the throng around the troubadours. "I didn't care for the ending, however. The false friend who betrayed the two lovers shouldn't have conveniently died to save them at the climax. That was too unrealistic."

"It's a made-up tale, Margarry," Owen reminded her, as they headed through the packed streets toward the lane that led up to the Royal Palace. "It isn't real, so it doesn't have to be believable. It just has to take us away from the stress of the real world for awhile, and show us what life would be like if things actually turned out like they were supposed to."

"Stories are reflections of reality." Margarry shook her head. "Even when they are made-up, they should seem realistic."

"I reckon that you aren't a supporter of stories with happy endings, then," he commented, while they walked down the lane that winded back to the Royal Palace.

"I don't believe that there is any such thing as a happy ending." Margarry shrugged. "If the hero triumphs over one evil, another will inevitably arise, and he will have to fight it. If the heroine escapes death, she will still perish one day, even if that day is fifty years later. If the hero and the heroine get married, they will have arguments and rough patches in their relationship. Anyone who believes in happy endings doesn't understand that no story truly concludes until the hero and the heroine are dead, and no death is ever happy."

Owen couldn't argue with this as they stepped through the gates into the palace grounds. "Shall we take a stroll around the garden?" he suggested, feeling suddenly nervous as the time to propose to Margarry seemed to be rapidly approaching. "The ice sculptures are wonderful."

As Margarry nodded and permitted herself to be steered down a shoveled stone pathway lined with snowmen and ice statues, Owen gazed into her eyes so she could see that he was being nothing less than completely honest with her. Then, he said simply, "Ever since the first time I spoke with you in your father's kennels, I knew that you were special and that we shared some strange connection although we had only just met. I don't know when I fell in love with you. Maybe it was the first time I laid eyes on you. Perhaps it was the first time I had a conversation with you. Maybe it was the first time I read one of your letters. All I know is that I realized I was in love with you when the City of the gods was besieged, and I was haunted by the fear that you would die without knowing that I loved you. At the time, I imagined that I couldn't love you more, but my love for you hasn't stopped growing. Every laugh of yours, every smile you give me, every time you touch me, and every time I hear your voice, my love of you increases. By now, I've reached the point where I can't imagine life without you, and the idea of losing you is enough to make me feel sick. If every life is a story, Margarry, I want to merge mine with yours. I want us to fight the world together if we have to. I want us to cry together. I want us to whisper all our secrets to each other. I want us to comfort one another. I want us to laugh at the same jokes. I want us to eat at the same table and to live in the same castle. I want us to share everything and to grow old together."

Kneeling on the cold stones, Owen pulled the ring box out from under his cloak and opened it before lifting it up to Margarry as if it were an offering to the Goddess. "In short, I love you, and I wish to marry you. Will you accept my proposal?"

For a moment, she gaped down at him as though she didn't understand a word that had come out of his mouth, and Owen felt his heart turn to stone. Then, she beamed more radiantly than he had ever seen. "Well, since you asked so politely, I suppose that I could accept your offer, Owen of Jesslaw."

At her words, a crazy bliss flooded him. Abruptly, he wanted to scream his euphoria out to the whole country. Once he had done that, he would kiss the ground and hug everyone he met…

"Now, get up." Margarry's hands clamped about his wrists and yanked him to his feet. "I don't wish to have to listen to you complaining incessantly about knee damage in old age, and kneeling on cold, hard stone like that can't be good for your kneecaps."

"You should have told your father not to beat me up in training so much if you didn't want to hear about my aching body parts when I am bald," smirked Owen, sliding the ring about her finger.

"I don't need you to do that for me," she chided, knocking his hand aside. "I don't expect you to be some mythic hero who will magically do everything for me, or protect me from all harm and anxiety. I just want you to stumble through life beside me, so that we can have a lot of fun making mistakes together."

"I'd be a hero for you if I could," Owen informed her earnestly.

"And I'd be a heroine for you if I could, but I can't," answered Margarry, squeezing his fingers with her own. "We're both imperfect. Maybe it's best that way, since now we can be sure that we won't have a boring marriage."

Before he could respond, Margarry studied the golden ring and the gem affixed to it that were both glistening in the wintry sunlight, and murmured, "Merciful Mother, Owen, this ring is gorgeous."

"It's worthy of your splendor, then." Owen kissed her on the lips and then added in a subdued voice, "It was my mother's engagement ring."

"I'm honored you gave it to me, then," Margarry whispered, her eyes moistening. "In that case, it has a real history behind it. If we have a daughter together, perhaps we can pass it along to her as an heirloom."

"I'd like that." Even as tears obscured his vision at the thought his mother, the prospect of one day really having a chance to raise children with Margarry made him grin so broadly that he feared the smile would split his face in half. "Nothing would please me more than having a daughter as smart, as strong, as sarcastic, and as stubborn as you."

"That's funny, because I was just thinking about how much I would love to have a son as courageous, as determined, as noble, and as honest as you."

"Your father would be really pleased if we had a son like me," snickered Owen, envisioning the expression on Wyldon's face if the man discovered that he had a grandson as blunt and obstinate as Owen.

"He would." Margarry's palm stroked Owen's cheek. "Father appreciates how unique you are, and he'd want the traits that make you so special to be passed onto the next generation."

"I'm sure he would if we phrased it properly and told him to regard having a grandson like me as just another excellent opportunity to resist his innate urge to commit child abuse."

"I'm supposed to be the pessimist, silly, not you." Margarry nudged him in the ribs.

"Role reversal builds empathy in a relationship." Owen's eyes gleamed slyly. "Anyway, since I'm supposed to be the perpetual optimist, is it okay if I say that this feels like a happy ending?"

"It's okay that you say that if you don't mind being wrong," she replied. "This isn't a happy ending. It's an auspicious beginning."

"Hmm." Owen examined her pensively. "Maybe now would be a good time for me to mention that your father made me swear to wait at least three years before marrying you."

"Father really can't bear to let me go. No wonder he was so odd this morning. He knew you were going to propose. Watching your children grow up must be the only thing more painful than growing up yourself." Sighing, Margarry shook her head. "Oh, well, at least this way I have plenty of time to pick out a wedding dress that won't make my thighs look fatter than they actually are. I want our marriage ceremony to be perfect."

"Our marriage ceremony would be perfect even if you were walking down the aisle in rags," Owen reassured her, kissing her on the lips. With that, their conversation was replaced with locking lips, dancing tongues, and caressing fingers as one language of love overtook another.