If All the Sand Were Pearl

The small square box was the first direct communication between Jag Martin and his husband-to-be. Jag cradled the box in his palm, wondering if he should open it. Nobody had told him what to do should Brace Rivers send him a gift. He supposed nobody had thought to mention it because it had never happened before. All messages, all gifts, all introductions, should take place between the families of the intended. Had his parents seen this tiny box? Did they know who delivered it? It must have arrived while Jag was in the bath, applying the strange concoctions and oils left for him by Drake, the family’s only servant. The box arrived without a card, but Jag knew the gift came from Rivers. The box had the traditional mark of a wedding present—two purple entwined vines growing towards the ruby sun. The mark had infused his life for the past several tidal cycles, appearing on contracts, gifts, and clothing. His mother had even borrowed a large tapestry of the design to hang in the room where both ceremonies would take place. Was he supposed to smuggle a present to the other man? He looked around his small bedroom—he had nothing to give. His intended husband would know that. His family’s current humble situation was no secret. The two of them wouldn’t be betrothed otherwise. His mother might have mentioned the gift to him that afternoon before she left to oversee the first ceremony, but there was so much to remember that it might have slipped his attention. He untied the heavy purple ribbon and slowly unwound it from the box. He didn’t recognize the rich material, but it felt like fabric from a fine coat, or a heavy blanket, not a humble ribbon on a small box. He traced the sharp points and the smooth lines of the box before carefully easing the lid back. Jag was almost afraid to learn what was nestled inside. His stomach had been in knots for the past two months, and now all those knots tightened until he couldn’t even take a breath. He looked around the room, expecting somebody to barge through the door and take the gift from him. But nobody barged in. And nobody was spying on him through the window. Jag tilted the box up to the light and his face flooded with heat from pleasure and surprise. The yellow glow from the lamp above his head reflected off a perfectly black, perfectly round, perfectly smooth pearl, delicately balanced on a silver band. Pearls were almost mythic. He had never even heard of a pearl on the Timotai Peninsula. There were dozens of stories and legends about the lack of pearls in the rich waters surrounding the Peninsula, including stories of ancient curses and bloody feuds, but every telling ended with lost pearls. He took the ring between his forefinger and thumb, gently lifting it from the box to examine it. Ornate designs wound around the silver band. He recognized the pattern after several seconds of scrutiny. The mark of Rivers’ house. The mark of his new home. Jag slid it over his right ring finger. It fit perfectly. He stared at the exquisite piece of jewelry, his wrists tingling with excitement. A pearl that size, without any visible imperfections, would be worth a literal fortune. He imagined calling his mother into the room and presenting the ring to her. Here, Mother, he would say, sell this and pay off your debt and use the remaining money to buy back my freedom. I can stay here. The first ceremony had already begun, when the parents stood in for the bride—Jag in this case—and took care of all the legal business with the new groom. In the big room with the new tapestry, his parents were making promises, signing contracts and exchanging money. It was too late to call everything off. Even if Brace Rivers had given him the very thing that would render the ceremony unnecessary. Even if he was certain his mother would take the ring and do exactly as he suggested. Even if he was more than a little frightened to learn what his wedding night held for him. And the wedding would be the easy part. What came after that? Jag didn’t know. He slid the ring off and folded his fingers over it. Jag didn’t want to let it go. He wasn’t sure why it was so important to keep a hold of it, but the pearl was a small, hard ball of fire against his flushed skin. It seemed wrong to put it back in its box, to shut it away, to make it lose the heat it had already absorbed. Jag’s door was locked. It’s only tradition, his mother had assured him. We don’t actually think you’ll go anywhere. But Drake was positioned outside. A guard? Jag wasn’t sure. Maybe that was tradition too. For every piece of information his parents had given him about the tradition, about the ceremonies, about the wedding and marriage, it seemed like there were two pieces of information they left out. The ritual seemed designed to distance him until he was nothing but a passive pawn—a point that was beyond ridiculous given that the ritual was always held under the auspices of the Goddess. She was worshipped for her strength, her cunning, her intelligence; the Goddess was never passive. Some people spent their entire lives being groomed and trained for marriage. Sons and daughters were assigned at birth to a life of expectations, whether that involved marriage, the priesthood, academics or being a caretaker. Jag was never intended to be betrothed. His parents had had him late in life, long after his siblings had been promised to their mates. While his siblings had been taught the nuances of everything from the ceremony to the wedding bed to running a household, his birth order had given Jag a certain amount of autonomy. He was allowed to choose between becoming a priest or a scholar, and he had chosen to devote his life to the Goddess. He took the first orders at the age of twelve, and now was within six months of finishing his vows and becoming a priest at the Temple. But marriage put the priesthood out of his reach, and his parents were anxious and sorry. Jag was anxious too, but he didn’t know how sorry he was. A part of him refused to accept that he would be abandoning not just his dreams, but his vocation. For what? For debts. For a stranger. Jag knocked on his door, hoping Drake would hear him. Hoping Drake would answer him. Hoping Drake would have an answer for him. Drake didn’t respond. He knocked again. Still no response. “Drake? Please?” A long pause before Drake’s low, gravelly voice answered, “You should be meditating.” “I know. But…” “Do you need something?” “I…” The pearl seemed to grow heavier in his hand. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to lift his arm at all. “Has the ceremony started?” “Yes.” “Oh. Drake?” “Yes?” “Did you see anybody come into my room today?” “Nobody unexpected.” “Can you please unlock the door? I’m not going to go anywhere.” Jag released a long breath when the lock turned and the door swung open, revealing Drake’s grim, foreboding form. Even when he smiled, he looked grim. His black suit was impeccable, everything from the creases in his pants to the yellow ropes on his shoulders broadcasting his status as the household’s butler. He bore the Martin family mark on the back of his hand, a tattoo that had faded and wrinkled over the years but was still a source of pride for Drake—if for nobody else. He had been with the family since long before Jag was born, and looking at the man now brought a strange tingling to Jag’s throat. It hurt to think he’d probably never see Drake again. He certainly wouldn’t be able to rely on the older man if he had a question, and Jag didn’t doubt he would have several questions about his new life. He remembered racing through the halls, ducking and dodging between Drake’s legs while the butler tried to manage the house. Drake had the authority to send Jag to his room at any time, or punish Jag severely, but he never did. Sometimes he even gave Jag small treats and gifts—pieces of candy he never had to share with anybody else. “Do you need something?” Jag wondered if that was a trick question. “Have you ever seen a pearl? A real pearl, not just a picture in a book.” Drake didn’t look surprised by the strange question. He merely shook his head. “No. I never have. They’re rare in this province, Jag. I would guess only the Vargas family has any in their possession. And they certainly wouldn’t flaunt the fact. There’s also supposed to be one in the Temple. A special gift from the Goddess, but I have never seen it.” Jag nodded. The ring in his hand wasn’t just a token. He couldn’t believe anybody, even his betrothed, would offer such a gift. He struggled to remember every single detail his mother had told him about the ceremony, certain she never mentioned anything about rings. “Drake, I’m not sure what to do.” “About what?” Jag held his hand out and opened his fingers, revealing the precious stone. It looked darker against his skin, and he had been gripping it so tightly the silver band left deep marks in his palm. Drake inhaled between pursed lips. “Is that from Rivers?” “I think so.” “Nobody mentioned it would be something so dear…” He spoke under his breath. “So you were expecting this?” “What?” Drake tore his attention away from the ring and met Jag’s curious eyes. “You don’t have to keep that.” Jag blinked. “What?” “You don’t have to keep it. You can send it back. Or you can sell it.” “I can sell it? That’s…acceptable?” “Of course it is. It’s a gift. It’s yours now. You can do whatever you want with it. I can arrange the sale for you, if you’d like.” “Just like that? Brace won’t mind? I can just…sell it? And use the money any way I like?” “Yes. It’s a sort of good-faith gesture. It’s perfectly acceptable to sell the gift.” “And then I wouldn’t have to marry.” “Yes.” Drake’s voice dropped. “But there’s a time limit. You have until the beginning of the second ceremony.” While the first ceremony was all about sorting the business, the second ceremony involved the personal vows and declarations of fidelity and love. That part made sense to Jag, though it was about the only thing that did. A marriage involved the union of two people and two families; the terms for each partnership needed to be dealt with. Especially since it wasn’t unusual for the betrothed to be meeting the first time on their wedding night. “That doesn’t seem fair. I mean, that hardly gives me enough time to do anything.” “You have until tomorrow night. Then you either keep the gift and complete the ritual, or use it to buy yourself out of the obligation.” Jag wasn’t sure if his legs would support him. Hope and shock, and even fear, made him weak. He took a few stumbling steps back and slumped against the wall. “Why didn’t anybody tell me this?” “I wasn’t supposed to.” Jag looked up with questioning eyes to the man who had always been so patient with him. “What?” “It’s a test, Jag. It’s meant to prove your fidelity, though it’s becoming more and more of a gesture, rather than an actual rite. Traditionally…the temptation is not quite so extreme. This ring won’t just settle your family’s debts, it could very well make you the wealthiest person in the area. If you find the right dealer.” Jag didn’t need Drake to point that out to him. The weight of this understanding was still settling on his shoulders and back, working into his skin, burrowing into his flesh. “Why would he give me something like this? Surely he can’t think I’ll marry him if…Does he not want me to marry him?” Drake shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. And nobody is going to ask about the gift, or try to influence your decision. It’s entirely up to you.” Once again, Jag wanted to protest that it wasn’t fair. How could they force him into this decision when the only decision he had been allowed to make in this whole affair was what gender he wanted to marry? From his father: Do you want to be betrothed to a man or a woman? We have appropriate suitors either way. From his mother: I’m sorry, Jag. He hadn’t been given names or pictures or even the chance to speak to his potential suitors. He had pledged his troth to a man he’d never met, and now he was expected to weigh his freedom against his family’s word of honor? Why even bother with all the preliminary steps or the first ceremony? What was the consequence for choosing to sell the gift? There had to be a consequence. Something horrible, no doubt. This choice would have strings attached. “When will they be coming for me?” Jag asked, his lips numb. “Midnight. Two more hours. Then you’ll be taken to the marriage suite.” It was actually his parents’ master suite, but they moved out a week before the ceremony and had it transformed. Into what, Jag didn’t know yet. He hadn’t been allowed to see it. “But we won’t officially be married until…after I decide whether or not to keep the gift?” “Yes.” Jag turned back to his room, then paused and looked up to Drake once again. “What would you do?” “I’d sell the pearl.” Taken aback by Drake’s blunt declaration, Jag wondered if he was bound to a troll or an ogre of a man. “Have you met Brace?” “I have.” “What’s he like?” Which wasn’t the question he wanted to ask at all. He wanted to know if Brace was handsome, or at least attractive. He wanted to know if Brace had all his teeth. If Brace ever smiled. He wanted to know if Brace Rivers was cruel, or shy, or indifferent. He wanted to ask if Rivers would make him happy. “He’s lonely. I don’t think he ever expected to be married.” “Why?” Jag could hear the trepidation in his voice. “Is he some sort of monster?” Drake shook his head. “No, but he wouldn’t accept a woman. And most families would not agree to marry their sons to another man. There’s no chance for grandchildren or carrying on the family name. Your parents were an exception because they were sorry they had to do this to you at all.” Do this to you. Like it was a punishment. Or a crime. His parents were committing a crime against him. A criminal act inflicted on Jag’s passive body; they had promised him the priesthood, and then they took it away because they had the right and the need to do so. He knew that’s how the household viewed the situation, but Jag couldn’t quite see it in those terms. “Thanks, Drake.” “You’ve always been a good kid, Jag.” Now his grim face and stiff posture softened, and for a moment Jag thought Drake was going to embrace him. But the moment passed, and Drake stepped back, maintaining the same professional distance between them he always kept. Jag shut the door behind him and returned the ring to its box. He didn’t have time to think about it right now. He needed to dress himself. The wedding costume was elaborate and he would need Drake to help him get it on. Brace would have to help him undress. Which only brought up more questions about his bridegroom. Would he have the patience to unbutton what seemed like a thousand tiny gold buttons? Would he have the dexterity? It was too easy to imagine a man with huge paws, bent, chubby fingers, and rough skin. He worked with horses, didn’t he? It seemed possible that he would have mangled hands. Jag needed to meditate. But meditating just reminded him that he needed to prepare himself for his wedding night. If he understood Drake correctly, it didn’t matter what Jag decided to do with the pearl, there would still be a wedding night, a chance for the couple to meet, to talk, to decide if they were compatible. It was generally perfunctory, but Brace’s gift changed everything. Their night together was the only positive thing about the whole situation. He didn’t know if he would even be attracted to Brace when they met, but he did know it would be good to feel a hand on his body that wasn’t his own. Even if the hand might be rough and twisted. Jag had wanted to be a priest since the day he understood who the men were in the Temple. He had been fascinated by the richly attired men, watching as they paid alms, bowed in prayer, lit incense, and most importantly, aided the visitors in their worship. A large, perfectly sculpted, divinely crafted image of the Goddess oversaw everything from her lofty perch. His parents had encouraged his fascination with the Temple, taking him to visit often, and allowing his education to emphasize the mysteries of the Goddess’ existence. Despite his devotion, he had dreaded the vows of celibacy. He understood he could not be distracted with the worldly concerns of the flesh. Even so, he had spent countless nights imagining what another man must feel like. A hard body. A hairy chest. Large hands. A full mouth. Another erection, with smooth, velvety skin and a wet tip. He always imagined a masculine body very different from his own form. Jag was not muscled or rough. He was protected and soft. Maybe he wasn’t what Brace wanted. Maybe when the other man closed his eyes and stroked himself, he imagined somebody tall and solid, somebody who worked hard and had the body to prove it. But now, he supposed, he didn’t have to worry about that. He had the ring. If Brace wasn’t attracted to him, then he would choose to sell the gift before the end of the ceremony, and they would never have to see each other again. Or maybe he should turn the ring over to his parents and spend the rest of the night praying in the Temple. It always brought him peace, even when he was aching with s****l frustration. Jag began brushing the lint from the heavy coat he was expected to wear with a Burhman brush—a curved tool that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand with long teeth designed to clean lint from the plush texture. He had never had to use the sort of brush before, as none of his clothes were made from the same thick material of the coat. His father had used it to clean his own wedding suit. Jag found the steady, repetitious task soothing. It wasn’t just the wedding night that wore on him, or the fear of being betrothed to some sort of monster. It wasn’t just the sense of unease at abandoning the Temple. He had no idea what being married actually meant. He would not be the head of the household, and so he assumed he would take on the wife’s role. Judging from the way his parents treated each other, his mother’s role in the house was to raise the children, help her daughter and daughters-in-law through their pregnancies, and then do what she could to help with the grandchildren. None of that would be in Jag’s future. So what would be expected from him? If he dedicated his life to the Temple, he would know exactly what to do. He had spent his life preparing to wed a distant Goddess, not a very close, very physical man. That was a different kind of intimacy. A different kind of commitment. Or maybe it was just the same sort of commitment? Jag thought he should save both he and the stranger he married a great deal of hurt and confusion. He didn’t even have to meet the man. There would be no awkward explanation of why he couldn’t marry him, or why he wanted to choose a life of celibacy and quiet devotion. He concentrated harder on the coat, brushing it aggressively. Jag was an educated person. He knew he had a great deal to offer a spouse, and his household. What he didn’t know, he could learn. Jag wasn’t sure why being a good spouse, a good partner, meant so much to him, but if he intended to go through with the ceremony, he didn’t want Brace to have any regrets. He didn’t want to shame his family by being sent back to their home, a burden once again, another mouth to feed. A person did not have to be a virgin to take the vows. He could have his wedding night, then turn the ring over and continue his life as planned. It seemed like a reasonable plan, but the thought disgusted him. It tangled him up inside. It was dishonorable. Not the sort of behavior befitting a priest of the Goddess. The light caught the shine on the pearl, and he stopped brushing long enough to study it once again. Its beauty made his chest hurt. How could something look so strong and so delicate at the same time? He wondered if the ring was like Brace at all. He could meet the man. He could give Brace a chance. That would take nothing from either of them. Jag just wanted to do the right thing. For all of them.