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“Do you know anything more about his whereabouts?” I ask instead.
“We call him Ashbringer for a reason,” Mak says. “I usually wait to hear of a mass killing of Azza soldiers, and that’s my clue that our brother is still alive.”
I grunt.
“He’s often gone for long periods of time. I’m sorry you were stabbed, but if you were here or even in steady contact with me, then you would have known not to risk reaching out to him in the first place. You would have known, as I knew cycles ago, that the comm line you messaged was compromised.”
“You’re right.” As I relent, Mak looks shocked.
“Am I? What a concept! Accepting the word of your only liege!”
“I’m sorry.” I show him I’m serious by grasping his forearm. “I’m sorry that I abandoned you. I can’t even remember the last stupid fight we had. It doesn’t matter. I owe it to Raina that I’m ready to confess my longtime cowardice and avoidances.”
“Forget your mating ceremony! Now this is what Kalla should be here for.” He springs up out of his seat. His beast stirs to wakefulness and bounds up beside him. “Warriors! Raise a toast to a day I thought would never come—the day when Niko La’Nira swallowed his rutting pride! Ahahahahaa!”
Mak smashes a glass against the wall and all his males cheer with deafening bravado. I swipe a hand over my face and find myself laughing along with them. More liquor is poured as the warriors swarm the throne to crack jokes and ask me about human females.
After another toast, Mak embraces me with hearty enthusiasm.
“Don’t you think for a second that a ceasefire between us means I’m dressing up in your uniform and letting you order me around.” I hiss in his ear.
When he pulls back, he grins. “Maybe not today. But perhaps your female wouldn’t mind the sight of her mate in traditional garb, eh?”
We drink and catch each other up on the exciting stories we’ve acquired over the past few passings. By the time I make it to the appointment for my powders, my belly is warmed, and my mood is up. I anxiously await the moment we meet each other in the royal gardens for a sacred chase. She’d been surprised, even scandalized, when I told her that the mating ceremony included this tradition. I think Lalo purposely left it out of her explanation because she’s a conniving old female that wants to get her way.
“It’s all that remains of the more extreme traditions of the archaic times,” I explained when she asked me where it came from. “It’s meant to be held in a real forest, but the gardens are the best we can do.”
The beginning will be slightly altered to accommodate another human tradition. Instead of walking together to the entrance of the forest, I will wait there alone for her arrival. Mak will be accompanying, acting as the equivalent of a “best man.” He’s certainly happy to have attention on himself, as all the females in the crowd eye him longingly. To be chosen by the spirit as the Ka’lakka’s mate is the highest honor.
Powders are now sprayed across my chest. The layers of blue and red symbolize the change in the blood from unmated to mated. I’m wearing only an embroidered loincloth and the hair trinkets that Raina made for me. They might be more akin to what a child could accomplish, but I would never part with them.
Raina is far away at first, cutting through the center of the crowd. I don’t think that her people’s tradition is to reach out and touch the so-called “bride” in her aisle, but the gathered Kar’Kali do it anyways. They whisper compliments and words of blessing for a long and fruitful matehood. They touch her arms and shoulders gently as she passes.
She’s clutching a bouquet of Zaledian flowers against her chest, no doubt hiding her exposed breasts on purpose. Lakkavi brought these fresh from the Station City flower markets, bright pink tropical blooms that cascade in a waterfall of petals. The veil she’s wearing is thankfully nothing like I imagined. It’s a floaty length of netting that falls down her back, attached to a carved comb on the crown of her head. The ribbons she’d chosen for Lalo to weave through the skirt of her chain link gown are white, a unique choice. Most females choose bright colors that complement their appearance or represent the house their line hails from. But white is apparently the color of weddings among the people of America, the place on Earth where Raina grew up.
But ultimately, none of those details matter to me. I watch her face as she walks up to meet me. She’s not glaring or rolling her eyes or welling up with those human tears. She’s smiling beautifully, never taking her eyes off me.
When she reaches me, she takes a deep breath and turns toward the hushing crowd. They have filled in her “aisle” now, readying to watch the mating dance. I use this opportunity to let my eyes linger on her back and the curve of her ass, so nicely highlighted by the place where the ribbons tie together.
“Humans from my culture toss their flowers to the crowd,” she announces. I know she was nervous to address the people, having expected a priest or some other officiant to lead our ceremony. I explained to her that mating happens on the couple’s terms only, and it’s perfectly acceptable to have no ceremony at all. Usually, the crowd is not even addressed directly by the couple performing the mating ceremony.
The gathered Kar’Kali seem very curious about the flower throwing, however.
“The person who catches the bouquet is supposed to be the next to become mated,” she adds.
A few females gasp with sudden interest.
“Ready?”
There’s laughter as some move closer, jokingly muscling for a better position. My mate grins, turns her back to the crowd and chucks the bouquet over her head. Males and females alike jump to reach for the flowers as they fall. When a male, one of Mak’s soldiers, catches it, everyone cheers him on.
Meanwhile, my mate has me locked within her gaze, stepping closer and closer. She offers up her palms to start the mating dance. I meet her palms with my own, finally getting my eyeful of her torso. Her breasts are painted red, only obscured by the thin chain bodice that hugs her shape. There are no ribbons to conceal what’s underneath, hence her apprehension about wearing it.
“You look stunning. I cannot wait to catch you,” I whisper to her. “Perhaps there’s something to that tradition of yours. You left me yearning for you all day.”
“This whole game is rigged. Because tell me why I’m in a dress and you’ve got that easy breezy loincloth on? And my legs are shorter than the average Kar’Kali woman—”
“It’s not a game. It’s a chase.”
