by Phil Tucker
She was stripped gently but firmly, and the ceremony of her cleansing was played out by various actors. Golden horns filled with scented water were poured out over her body, flowers were cast into the basin, the chanting continued apace, and always, on and on like some great river, flowed the music, entering her room through the doors and windows.
The water was warm, the oils luxurious, the massaging fingers on her scalp and shoulders expert and relaxing. Not one man gazed at her in a carnal manner. If anything, they seemed to be looking through her. Raised as she had been in privilege and power, she still had trouble accepting this level of veneration, this level of beatification in their eyes.
The urge to cry out, to shake one of the servants, to send a great wave of water splashing out of the basin, shook her. To ruin and strike and bring a drop of her humanity to these proceedings. But what if they carried on, unperturbed, completely undismayed? What if she reduced herself to screaming and thrashing at them, trying to change their expressions, until they wrestled her down and clothed her regardless, sublimely assured of the righteousness of the acts they were performing?
She was led from the basin and toweled dry, and each step was part of a choreographed dance. The water had awakened her wits, and now she knew what was to come. The instructions Ainos had passed on to her the night before blazed across the darkness of her mind, and yet they were of no use; she was to do nothing but allow herself to be prepared, and a precognition of each step did nothing to change her expected passivity.
She was clothed in thick, delicate robes of white, a sash wound around her waist and then more robes were added, seven in all, each more sumptuous than the last. Her hair was brushed out and oiled. She was led to a chair, and there her hair was intricately braided, her face painted, her nails tended to, her body anointed with perfume, slippers placed on her feet.
The crowd parted. The music rose in urgency, and soldiers entered her hall. An endless stream of them, fully armored, four across and row upon row of them, nearly a hundred men entering the room before the front rank reached her, and upon doing so they knelt as one, down to one knee, left hands over their hearts.
The man at their front, armored like the rest and perhaps in her fifties, was the first person that morning not to gaze at her with a wondering and distant stare. Instead he examined Kethe with sharp scrutiny, his green eyes flinty and discerning. Rangy, his iron hair bound back into elaborate braids, he bowed low.
"Greetings and blessings upon the Virtue of Happiness, Makaria!"
His voice was a whipcrack. Kethe raised her chin, heart hammering. There was something in this man that spoke of war, of a profound understanding of violence and its consequences, no matter how bitter. This was a man who had lived, a man who had suffered, lost, conquered, and lost again. Something about him reminded Kethe of Ser Tiron. That same battle-tested edge, that same cutting derision for all the inessentials of life. That he was leading this ritual spoke volumes about the importance of Kethe's ascension to Virtue.
"I am Kade Irone, captain of your Honor Guard, and my life will be dedicated to your own upon your confirmation. I bring you your blade, unclean, for you to present to the Ascendant for his blessings."
A soldier stepped forth, a scabbarded sword laid across his palms. Kethe felt herself thrill at the sheer beauty of its form, the purity of the white leather, the wire-wrapped hilt, the silver spherical pommel. It was the exact length that she preferred fighting with, and the hilt was a hand and a half long. Perfection.
Kethe retrained the urge to draw it and admire its edge. Instead, she simply nodded, as was expected, and the blade-bearing soldier withdrew.
Kade then intoned the rest of the ritual, promising loyalty and bravery and commending his soldiers to Kethe's consideration. After doing so, he bowed sharply and stepped back, upon which a series of other nobles stepped forward to give brief speeches of their own.
Kethe heard none of their words. The Master of the Chamber, the Master of the Wardrobe, the several minor ministers, all spoke their piece. Always and on the music played, undulating and adding tension to the proceedings, making all of this a preface of what was to come.
Finally, the last speech had been given, and the soldiers parted, forming a passageway for her, and she strode down their length, Kade a step behind and to her left, most of the servants and courtiers remaining behind, their role finished, and she was ushered out of her chambers and escorted into the great halls beyond.
On she was swept, her sleeves brushing the floors, the sound of a hundred slippered feet whispering back from the vaulted ceilings, torches burning, the music ever playing, though she never saw a musician. Onwards and into ever larger rooms, until finally she reached the Hall of Adoration. It was thronged with Aletheians, what looked like thousands of them lined on both sides, all dressed in their greatest finery, resplendent and overwhelming. The air throbbed with their breathing, was stifling with their heat, and Kethe felt sweat running down her back, between her breasts, making her scalp tingle, threatening the coherency of her thick makeup.
Her Honor Guard escorted her down the length of the Hall of Adoration. They were the only ones walking, and all eyes were on them – no, on her.
Kethe felt panic worm itself up within her. This was it. Every Aletheian of note, every noble of power, every citizen of the Empire worth their salt was here to watch her confirmation as one of the holiest warriors in existence. There was no going back. And behind them, roaring and rushing like the sound of a great waterfall, was the White Gate, unseen by all but her, looming invisibly above them, blessing this occasion, summoning her, compelling her to this duty. This sacrifice. This dedication of her life to a cause and faith she still did not understand, agree with, condone.
The far end of the Hall terminated in a vast series of steps that rose as if into the heavens, carved into the rock of the stonecloud and climbing to the Ascendant's Palace. This stairway was massive and flanked by the glittering elite of Aletheia, the true rulers of the Empire. Kethe didn't see them. Her gaze rose, and rose, and fixed itself on where another group was descending.
The Ascendant.
The Ascendant himself, the most holy and powerful living being in all the world.
Primitive fear and faith hammered at her, made her want to stumble to a halt. This was divinity. This was holiness made flesh. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. In the center of what appeared to be a glittering cloud of gold cloth and silver, of elegance and finery, descended a young man. Serene, his head shaved, face long, expressionless, radiating a confidence and calm that seemed unassailable, the Ascendant had descended from his palace to meet her, recognize her, lay his blessings upon her head.
Kethe reached the first step. The music grew soft, wind instruments that resonated rhythmically as if giving voice to Aletheia itself, its breathing, its presence all around them. Kethe placed her foot on the first step. The vast Hall of Adoration seemed to lean in toward her. The Ascendant was far above. She gazed upon him, and saw him look down at her. Their eyes met, and she felt a desire to wail rise within her, a desire to shred the robes and rake her hair asunder.
He will know me for a pretender, she screamed in the fastness of her mind. He will decry me; he will point and order me torn apart!
And yet Kade's presence at her side was a steel assurance that compelled her on. She began to climb. Her breaths were coming fast and shallow. There was no escape. The Ascendant stood still now, flanked by the other Virtues: Theletos, Ainos, and Synesis. All were gaudily dressed, armed with only their blades, their faces bearing the same elaborate and exaggerated makeup as her own.
Kethe climbed. Her Honor Guard remained on the main floor. Kade escorted her to the designated seven steps, then stopped. Kethe continued on alone. Not even her ascent to Skarpedrin Range with Asho and Maeve had seemed so perilous.
She passed her Consecrated students to the left: Sighart, Wolfker, Gray Cloud, Akkara, Dalitha, Khoussan. Their faces betrayed myriad emotions, from
Dalitha's excitement to Akkara's mute absence of being. Kethe didn't stop to exchange glances. Onward she climbed.
The Virtues stepped aside as she drew close. How far up had she come? Only one man remained by the Ascendant's side. She'd never seen him before. Though old, he retained the vigor and presence of his youth, broad-shouldered, face patrician and carved deep with lines of authority and dignity. His hair was steel gray and pulled back into a disarmingly simple knot. Clad in subtle hues of black and purple, he watched her approach with eyes so dark they appeared almost black.
The Minister of Perfection, she realized. The most powerful man after the Ascendant, the head of the Fujiwara clan. It was a testament to his authority that he remained beside the Ascendant after all the others had stepped away. Kethe almost faltered. She'd been told she would meet the Ascendant alone. Should she wait?
No. At the very last, the Minister gave the slightest of nods and stepped aside. Kethe's heart thudded even louder. It was just the Ascendant now. She didn't want to meet his eyes. She wanted to stare at the ground, at his shoes, anywhere but meeting his gaze.
And yet, she felt her father's sneering disdain. Felt his pride and strength. Had he respected anyone in his whole life? Had he truly ever bowed to another? But she was not him. In her heart, she felt instead her mother's dignity, a different strength, a quieter power, and with that she looked up and met the Ascendant's eyes.
He was so young. Fourteen? Fifteen at most? Smoothly shaved, he had no eyebrows or lashes, giving him a subtly alien look. He was handsome, though still boyish, his frame lost within the multiplicity of his robes that were a complicated labyrinth of wonder and glory that would have beggared a lord.
He watched her, making no expression. Watched, and waited.
Ainos' instructions came back to her. This part of the ritual was almost painfully simple. Perhaps, Kethe thought almost hysterically, out of an awareness of how terrified most of its practitioners would be by this point.
Kethe took the last step and then flipped back her robes. As they settled, so did she, lowering to one knee, then the second, then placing both hands on the step just below the Ascendant's feet and pressing her brow to the smooth stone.
I don't believe in you, she found herself thinking, over and over and over. I don't, I don't, I don't.
"You are come to us, Makaria." The Ascendant's voice was surprisingly soft and warm. Surely nobody else in the Hall of Adoration could hear him. "My heart lifts at the sight of your perfection, and with your return I find my soul once more at ease. The safety of my Empire is assured. You shall live and you shall die for me and mine. You are the embodiment of all that is best, even as you continue to wear your human form and experience its temptations."
Kethe's tongue felt thick, her mouth parched. She rose to kneeling and gazed up at his face. "My mind, heart, and soul are yours," she croaked. Lies. "I shall fight and die for you and the Empire." Lies. "I shall safeguard the roads to Ascension, shall enable each man and woman and child to rise as is their right, and shall dedicate myself to this sacred and sole duty."
The Ascendant was supposed to speak, to intone the next words of the ritual, but instead he simply gazed upon her. His eyes seemed to swell. She felt as if she were falling up into them, as if the ties of gravity were loosening around her. Why wasn't he speaking? Her eyes filled with tears from the sheer effort of meeting his gaze. The silence was louder than any cymbal crash. Her whole body was shaking.
The Ascendant reached down and cupped her chin. She heard the gasps that tore themselves from myriad lips. His touch was smooth, soft, akin to that of a babe. Firm, gentle, he lifted her face so that she fully met his gaze and smiled.
"I know," he whispered, and those two words skewered her though her core. She felt her whole body freeze, then go numb. His eyes encompassed her – her weaknesses, her failures. His smile pardoned them. It was impossible; it was too much.
The moment lasted an eternity. It was just the two of them, and then he withdrew his hand, and her sense of self came crashing back. He spoke the final words, but she didn't hear them. She rose woodenly to her feet and lifted her arms so that Kade could lay her blade across her hands. Her sword was blessed. Kade took the sword and belted it around her waist. The Ascendant invoked his blessing on all present, and a cheer arose as he announced her shrived, cleansed, and ready to perform her duties for the rest of her life for the Empire.
Kethe bowed and retreated slowly down the steps, Kade hovering and ready to take her elbow should she trip. Down she went, the Ascendant watching her retreat, and then, as she stepped down into the Hall proper, he turned, the Fujiwara Minister of Perfection joining him, and together he and his company climbed once more to the Palace on the First Level.
People crowded in around her, calling out their blessings and asking for blessings in return, seeking to touch her robes, to catch some indirect wisp of her brush with divinity. Kethe knew she was expected to go out into the Hall and be embraced, to touch hands and spread the Ascendant's good wishes with one and all, but she simply wasn't capable of doing so.
Kade caught her eye. He saw the helpless panic glimmering just beneath the surface, and gave one curt nod. He followed this with a sharp command, and immediately Kethe's Honor Guard formed a circle around her. The courtiers and nobles fell back, dismayed. The music rose in volume, voices pitched in an ecstasy of celebration, and Kade, iron-haired and indomitable, forced a swath through the pressing masses, caring nothing for the cries of dismay and outrage.
Kethe strode forward, seeing nobody, avoiding all eyes, and hurried back to her rooms, surrounded at all times by her guard. The burnished golden flames of torches smeared across her vision, voices slurred, the walls tilted and came at her like waves. Her mind was thrown into the arms of chaos. They passed through doorways, then she heard the fierce stomp of her guard lining up before her doors and, with Kade by her side, she entered her suite.
Darkness, passages, then sunlight. Early morning, her personal hall, the gleaming basin, her vast bed, the windows, silence.
Kethe stumbled to a halt, chest heaving, and suddenly had to be quit of her robes. Gasping, she clutched at them, tore at the belts and sleeves, but their sheer complexity defeated her. The more she pulled, the tighter they seemed to form, and she was on the verge of crying out in rage when she saw Kade coming at her with a drawn dagger.
"Damn robes," said the older man quietly. "Stay still."
Trembling, Kethe stood frozen as her captain cut through silk and cotton and cords. Robes fell from her like orchid leaves. Kade cut with sure, firm strokes, and after only a minute Kethe stood clothed in a single layer of white, sweat-soaked silk.
She stepped out of the ruined nest of clothing and went over to the basin, where she dunked her head and washed vigorously at the makeup, over and over again till the water from her face ran clear. She stood still, hands on the basin's rim, staring down at the mascara-muddied water, then went to the window.
It was glorious outside. The view, as always, was incomparable. And yet, no mortal beauty would ever match the resplendence of the White Gate. No stunning vista would ever make her feel the same sublime terror she had felt in the Ascendant's presence.
She turned to glance at Kade, wondering if the captain had remained, might become a confidant, but the older man was gone. Kethe was alone. She shivered, then covered her face with her hands. What had she done?
The door to her chamber opened. Kethe dropped her hands and saw Theletos entering as if the rooms were his. He was wearing his innumerable robes and stylized makeup with casual ease, with a confidence and elegance that would have made him stunning whether he was wearing sack cloth and ashes or the finest clothing of the Empire.
Kethe pushed back against the windowsill. "What are you doing here?"
Theletos stopped at the pile of torn clothing, considered it with bemusement, then flicked his gaze up at her. She recalled suddenly Henosis' words: If Theletos believed it necessary, he could defeat th
e six of us. "Hello, Makaria. I've come to congratulate you."
"Get out," whispered Kethe. He was standing completely at ease, but she felt imperiled. If he attacked her, would she even see her death coming?
"That was quite an exit," he said, completely unperturbed. "Your captain must be commended for his loyalty, even if his tactics and subtlety leave much to be desired."
Kethe thought of placing her hand on the hilt of her sword. But to what end? She couldn't defeat him. She'd barely been able to block one blow from Mixis.
The silence grew long, and Theletos stepped up slowly to stand beside her, gazing out over the clouds. "I've witnessed six Quickenings in this life," he said. "Two as Consecrated, four as Theletos. Yet never have I seen an Ascendant break with the ritual."
Kethe stiffened but held her tongue.
"What did he say to you?" Theletos looked at her sidelong, his smile slight and quizzical. "We all heard every word but those two he whispered. Would you share them with me?"
Kethe shook her head mutely.
Theletos nodded. "I can't say I'm surprised. But I can guess."
"Oh?" Should she draw her blade? The indecision was killing her.
"Oh, yes. Perhaps not his exact words, but the sentiment." Theletos leaned an elbow on the broad stone sill and turned to her, languorous, indolent. "These are perilous times for the Empire. Portents abound. Hints at dissolution. The stench of decay in the Empire is such that it reaches even these rarefied heights."
Kethe couldn't read him at all, couldn't divine a single emotion beyond mocking amusement. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Why? Because you are Makaria, my brother and sister in arms." His smile grew wry. "You have my complete confidence. There is nothing I would not share with you."
Kethe blinked. Was he mocking her?
"The Agerastian army that escaped Otran has disappeared. They passed through a forgotten Lunar Portal." Theletos looked at his nails. "During the day, no less. Quite impressive. No comment?"
