Abengoni

by Charles R. Saunders

  Regardless of how some viewed the current state of their kingdom’s politics, nearly everyone eagerly anticipated the coming ceremony. The event symbolized not only a transition of rulers, but also a change in the destiny of the Matile people.

  2

  Long before the end of the day, the sun finally vanquished the clouds, and the last rain ended. Khambawe glistened as though it were a newly built city rather than one that counted its age in thousands of years. For all its antiquity, however, Khambawe had changed. And so had the people who now happily thronged its streets.

  The Matile were answering the summons of music that wafted in gentle, but insistent, waves throughout the city. Drums mimicked the heartbeat of a newly invigorated populace. Horns and flutes heralded the advent of new possibilities; fresh dreams; revived purpose. Stringed instruments – some of which were Matile, others brought by the Fidi – enticed people’s feet to dance.

  The music was sourceless, pervasive; no part of the city was beyond its reach, yet no one could see who played it. It was yet another sign that a new magic had come to Khambawe ... a magic that had proved much more effective than the ashuma of the old days.

  By the thousands, the Matile streamed through the streets toward the palace of the Emperor. From the humblest to the highest, they were clad in their finest chammas and other garments. There was no separation by social status: nobles of the Degen Jassi mingled freely with merchants, artisans, even beggars. All had suffered grievously during the Uloans’ invasion; no family was unaffected by its consequences. Everyone, rich and poor, had fought against the invaders with equal ferocity and desperation. And everyone who survived had paid a price for the victory.

  The influence of the Fidi in Khambawe was clear. More than a few of the Matile had dyed their hair in shades of yellow and red in honor of the newcomers, even though the hair of many of the Fidi was dark. The beads and metal ornaments that decorated their braids blended well with the exotic hair coloring. And many Matile wore solid-blue chammas that marked their status as Initiates among the Almovaads. Every day, more Matile in Khambawe were joining the new religion whose god had saved them from destruction.

  The more traditional people from the outlying provinces had not yet taken up the hair-coloring trend or the blue chammas, although some had become Almovaads after they heard about how the city – and the Empire – had been saved. As always, their simpler garments and hairstyles contrasted with the ostentatious finery of their urban kin. On this day, though, the Matile’s regional rivalries had been put aside. The country-dwellers knew full well that if Khambawe had fallen, the Uloans would have attacked them next. If not the Uloans, then the Thabas, who would have been emboldened once they heard that the heart of the shrunken Empire had been shattered.

  The Fidi walked with easy familiarity amid the crush of Matile. Whether or not they were Believers, the Matile were grateful for the role the people from Beyond the Storm had played in saving their city from the Uloans. And they expressed that gratitude with all the hospitality they could muster.

  The Fidi had changed as well during their time among the Matile. Most of them had adopted elements of Matile dress and hairstyles. Their chammas bore blue-green stripes that symbolized the sea from which the people of Cym Dinath had come, and their hair ornaments clicked in rhythm with their footsteps, just as they did with the Matile. The Abengoni sun had darkened the skin of all but the fairest of the outlanders, so much so that in some cases it was difficult to distinguish their color from that of some of the Matile who surrounded them.

  Smiles and pats on the back greeted the people from Beyond the Storm as they walked in the procession to the Palace. Since the end of the battle against the Uloans, the Fidi had wanted for nothing, even as they provided more than their share of assistance in the rebuilding of Khambawe.

  Only the Tokoloshe and the Fidi dwarves remained apart from the rest of the crowd. Yet even they mingled with each other as though there were no differences between them. The streets echoed with the booming sound of their laughter at each others’ jests.

  As the crowds drew closer to the Emperor’s palace, singing began – a harmonious blend of male and female voices, which, like the instrumental music, had no discernable source. Although the words of the songs celebrated the glories of past centuries, this time they signified more than mere nostalgia for the irretrievable past. This time, they heralded a promise for the future.

  The destination of the crowds wending through Khambawe’s streets was the Gebbi Senafa. Its jewel-encrusted doors stood wide open, with the customary contingent of guards absent on this day. The audience chamber of the Palace was large enough to accommodate hundreds of people. Still, even that capacity was too small to hold everyone who wanted to witness the coronation of Jass Gebrem. And in the past, that wouldn’t have mattered.

  Far fewer Matile had had even the slightest desire to attend the enthronement of Dardar Alemeyu, whose aged father had died in his sleep. Alemeyu’s ascension to the throne had not been a momentous occasion, and only the elite of Khambawe had appeared at the event. The rest of the populace was neither wanted nor needed at the ceremony, and few of them regretted their exclusion. Alemeyu was not a popular man before or after he became Emperor.

  As tradition dictated, only the higher-born and renowned had been permitted entry into the audience chamber to see the crown pass to Alemeyu’s head. Others had to be content with second-hand accounts or street rumors. And the doors of the Gebbi Senafa remained closed.

  This time, though, the palace doors were open – not to allow the entrance of the public; but, instead, an exit for the royal entourage who would be part of Gebrem’s enthronement. The coronation would take place not inside the palace, but outside. Khambawe had buzzed like a beehive with chatter about the change in tradition. Never before had such a thing occurred. Then again, never before had a foreigner’s hands been the ones to place the crown on the new Emperor’s head, as would happen on this day ....

  After lengthy deliberations over precedent and protocol, the Degen Jassi had decided that everyone throughout the Matile lands who desired to witness the crowning of Jass Gebrem should have the opportunity to do so. To that end, an enormous pavilion had been raised on the grounds in front of the palace. Hundreds of weavers had worked day and night, with the help of the Almovaads’ new magic, to create what amounted to a tapestry large enough to envelop an entire building.

  The tapestry was decorated with scenes from the triumph over the Uloans, with the people rendered in the ancient round-faced, large-eyed Matile motif. The cloth, light beige in color, was translucent enough to allow the sunlight to shine through, illuminating the woven scenes and suffusing its interior in an amber glow. Slowly, the pavilion filled with celebrants. On this day, soldiers in glittering accoutrements served as ushers rather than guards.

  For all its size, the crowd was relatively subdued. The people gazed somberly at the cloth walls of the pavilion. Surrounded by scenes of the battle that were animated by the motion of the breeze, it was as though the survivors were reliving that night – but bloodlessly, at a distance, with the horror and anguish abridged in black thread against pale cloth.

  But there were other sights to see as well.

  In the large space left by the gaping palace doors, a platform had been erected. It was hewn from the finest timber; the colors of the rare woods blending like those in a painting. Its polished surface was bare, save for the Lion Throne of the Emperor, which sat within a three-sided canopy that depicted the succession of emperors dating back to Jass Issuri himself. After Jass Gebrem was crowned, his likeness would be woven into the canopy, which was brought out of its storage place in the Palace only during coronations.

  Although the platform towered high above the crowd, there were no steps ascending to its surface. Many in the crowd wondered how the heavy throne had been placed there, and how Jass Gebrem and the others who would be involved in the coronation intended to mount the platform in the absence of steps.
But no one asked those questions aloud amid the hum of conversation that complemented the sourceless singing and drumming.

  Then, abruptly, the music stopped. As though on cue, so did the crowd’s chatter. It was as though the entire population of Khambawe were holding its breath. And all attention focused on the platform.

  3

  “Are you nervous?”

  Tiyana turned and looked at person who had asked the question. It was Byallis, the brown-haired Adept who had helped her to maintain her equilibrium during the manifestation of Oneness that had allowed the Amiyas and Almovaads to combine to defeat the Uloans’ magic.

  “Yes,” Tiyana admitted.

  She was sitting on a carved, hardwood bench in front of a mirror in the House of Almovaar, formerly the Beit Amiya. Her hair, which had grown to a length below her shoulders, was being re-braided by a Matile Acolyte.

  In previous times, a shamasha would have performed such a task. When, in the aftermath of the battle against the Uloans, it had been discovered that many, if not most, of the shamashas were fronting for the tsotsis, the position of shamasha was abolished, and those who had not already left the Beit Amiya were dismissed. Now Acolytes – new recruits from all parts of the Empire who were in the beginning stages of their apprenticeship in Almovaad sorcery – performed menial duties in the House as part of their training to become Initiates.

  “So am I,” Byallis said.

  They both smiled.

  The friendship between them had grown since the night the Uloans had invaded. Because of Tiyana’s changed status, her other friendships – even with Yemeya – had suffered. Tiyana was the only child of the new Emperor. Therefore, she now stood next in line to the Lion Throne.

  Women had ruled the Matile Mara Empire in the past, but only when the previous monarch produced no male heirs. One Empress, Shumet, was almost as legendary as Jass Issuri. Under her command, Matile armies had pushed the Empire’s borders far to the south, deep into Thaba territory. Shumet had also recaptured Gondaba, a city that had attempted to break free from the Empire just as the Uloan Islands had later done.

  As a child, Tiyana had learned the history of Shumet. But she never imagined she would one day emulate that legendary ruler.

  As Empress-in-waiting, Tiyana found that a distance had developed between her and those she had known since their shared childhood. Before, she had been only one of many in her generation of the Jassi, the Matile nobility. Now, as the future sovereign, the lives of everyone in Matile would one day be in her hands.

  She knew the questions that the others were asking themselves now. How much would Tiyana remember about the past? What grudges did she hold? What slights and insults were hidden in her heart, never forgotten? And what favors did she give or receive that would one day demand reciprocation?

  But none of those concerns mattered to Byallis. As an outsider and an Adept of the Almovaads, the intrigues of Matile royalty were irrelevant to her. Thus, Byallis was free to become Tiyana’s confidante, the ear into which she poured her hopes and misgivings about the new direction upon which she and her people had embarked. Byallis listened ... and sometimes, she advised.

  Byallis was swathed in a blue chamma that left one of her plump shoulders bare. Her hair was braided Matile-style, with blue beads woven through its length. The sun had finally darkened her skin, although it was still much lighter than Tiyana’s.

  Her face bore the serenity typical of the most unwavering Believers. Unlike Tiyana, Byallis harbored no qualms about the future. Whatever happened would be Almovaar’s will, and whatever that will might be, she would accept it without question.

  The acolyte, a Matile girl not much older than Kalisha – whom Tiyana had long-since forgotten – finally finished her work. Tiyana’s hair was now a fall of silver, amber and gold beads, framing her dark face. Her chamma was the color of a cloudless blue sky, and it hung in immaculate folds from her slender frame.

  After inspecting herself in the mirror one last time, Tiyana turned to the acolyte.

  “You have done well,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She would never have said anything so complimentary to a shamasha. The girl smiled shyly in acknowledgement, then departed.

  Tiyana looked at Byallis for a moment. The coronation ceremony was new to the Fidi woman, and the preparations had been at once elaborate and meticulous. But Byallis showed no signs of apprehension, regardless of what she had said about being nervous.

  One day, I might have such serenity, Tiyana mused in her mind.

  “No one among the Matile has ever tried what we are about to do,” she said aloud to Byallis.

  “No one among us has, either,” Byallis returned.

  Byallis smiled as she spoke. The smile became a giggle, then a laugh. Despite her nervousness, Tiyana soon joined her.

  Then, within the part of their minds that all Adepts shared, a Summoning to the Oneness came. And the women’s laughter stopped.

  “It’s time,” Byallis said.

  Tiyana nodded and rose from the bench. Arm-in-arm with Byallis, she went to the place in which all those who were participating in the coronation ceremony were to gather.

  4

  The silence inside the pavilion had stretched from moments to many minutes. Anticipation – but not yet impatience – hung like a low cloud over the vast assemblage of people who awaited the coronation.

  Along with the other surviving members of the White Gull’s crew, Captain Pel Muldure stood in a place of honor at the forefront of the crowd, along with the Matile who had fought valiantly against the Uloans. Lyann was, as always, at his side.

  Muldure was resplendent in full Matile regalia: embroidered tunic and trousers, and a white chamma with sea-green stripes. A leather band studded with silver held his hair in place. If he was still brooding over the destruction of his ship and further loss of crew members, neither his eyes nor his demeanor showed it.

  Lyann had eschewed Matile clothing, saying it was uncomfortably confining. She was clad in a shirt and breeches made to her specifications by Matile seamstresses. Her only concession to the culture of her new locale was a single strand of multicolored beads woven into a lock of her unbraided hair.

  Her well of patience wasn’t as deep as that of the others.

  “When is this thing going to get started?” she grumbled.

  “When they’re ready,” Muldure said.

  “Or when the Seer decides to pull the strings,” Lyann snorted.

  “Don’t say that!” a voice admonished sharply.

  Both Muldure and Lyann turned to the source of the comment. It was Herrin Junn, formerly one of the rowdiest and most profane seafarers Muldure had ever come across. Now, Junn’s burly body was wrapped in the blue robes of a Believer. The forces that had vanquished the Uloans had also shaken Junn’s lifelong cynicism and, like several other White Gull crew members, he had pledged himself to the Almovaads.

  Lyann found Junn’s new piety amusing. For Muldure, however, it was insufferable.

  “The Seer does not rule this place,” Junn said. “He merely advises.”

  “Of course,” said Muldure. “And the White Gull’s sitting at anchor out in the harbor, waiting to take us home.”

  Junn’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed into a thin line of disapproval.

  “Do not mock the Seer!” he hissed.

  Lyann’s sharp elbow to the ribs suppressed the sardonic retort that came to Muldure’s mind. He expressed his annoyance with a scowl instead.

  Suddenly, the air above the platform shimmered like a pulse of heat on a sun-scorched savanna. And a bang loud as a thunderclap caused everyone in the pavilion to close their eyes and cover their ears. Many cried out in surprise and, in more than a few cases, fear. Some even fell to the ground. When the echo subsided and the people opened their eyes again, the platform was no longer empty.

  Mouths agape in wonder, the crowd gazed at the glory of the people of power among the Matile and the Almovaads. This was a fea
t of sorcery that easily matched, or surpassed, anything the ashuma of the storied past could have accomplished.

  Gebrem was the center of the assemblage. He had materialized in front of the throne that was about to become his. Gebrem’s demeanor was solemn, a reflection of his mood. Never in his life had he imagined that he would succeed his cousin, Dardar Alemeyu. Now, he knew the reality of the responsibilities that rested on an Emperor’s shoulders. For all the lifelong abrasiveness of their relationship, he wished Alemeyu were still alive.

  The royal chamma that had enveloped Alemeyu was now wrapped around Gebrem’s own gaunt frame. His head, with its mass of graying braids, remained bare. The Crown of Issuri would weigh upon it soon enough.

  For the moment, the Crown rested atop a waist-high pillar of crystal in front of Kyroun, who stood at Gebrem’s side. The Seer’s unbraided white hair stirred in the gentle breeze that billowed the sides of the pavilion like a ship’s sails. Draped over Kyroun’s Fidi robes was a chamma dyed a blue so dark it was almost black. It was as though the Seer was cloaked in a segment of starless night sky.

  The Kyroun held the transformed abi, symbol of the status of Leba. The shining rod remained smooth, bereft of the symbols of vanished Matile gods. The Degen Jassi had earlier agreed that Kyroun would become Leba in Gebrem’s stead. A few traditionalists had objected, arguing that no one who was not of Matile blood had ever before been Leba. When Gebrem pointed out that Kyroun was indeed of Matile blood, however distant, because of his ancestor, Yekunu, the critics had fallen silent. Besides, this Leba would be the servitor and interlocutor for one god rather than many. That, too, was a break from tradition.

  Tiyana was at Gebrem’s other side. Already, her bearing was that of an Empress. Gone was the insecure Vessel of Nama-kwah who had feared for the future and longed for the past. Now, Tiyana almost never thought about Nama-kwah; nor did she miss the fleeting contacts she had experienced with the goddess when she was an Amiya. Her new relationship with Almovaar was constant, a reassuring anchor at the center of her being. Her magical strength was no longer ephemeral; it flowed through her as naturally as her blood.