As for the girl... he was displeased that she had escaped the poison attempt, but it was designed more to frighten and warn the witches than to do serious harm. He planned far more serious damage to the Penestricans before he was finished.
Sien rubbed his hands briskly together. All was going well. Even the Madrun hordes were on schedule, already massing at the border. Soon they would come pouring through.
He lifted his empty cup in a mock salute to Kostimon, the man who had once depended on him, the man who had used him as a bridge to Beloth and the bargain of a thousand years. Kostimon had discarded his old friend Sien of late, however. The emperor preferred to keep his own council, wanted to plot his own schemes alone. He would regret that. Soon he would regret everything.
Sien laughed softly to himself, and poured himself another serving of blooded wine. Kostimon’s days were numbered. It was time to pay the shadow god’s price.
And what a steep price that was. Sien laughed again and drained his cup with a smack of satisfaction. Kostimon had no idea.
Part Two
Chapter Thirteen
The bells of Imperia began ringing at sunrise, filling the air with joyous peals as the new light gilded the rooftops of the city. Already revelers from the countryside thronged the gates; some had spent the night on the road in order to be here in time. The city gates, normally massive and grim, had been cleared of the rotting heads of offenders and festooned instead with garlands of greenery. Just behind the sentries stood wooden tubs filled with tiny muslin bags of dried flower petals. Each person entering was to have a sachet, in order to toss flowers at the empress during her processional. A burly sergeant, his face impassive between the chin straps of his helmet, tossed sachets to eager recipients the way he tossed grain rations to foot soldiers.
The sentries were alert, but not actively checking anyone. Mainly they shouted to keep people in an orderly line, but the gates remained thronged. Women exclaimed over the sachets, and children milled about heedlessly, constantly in danger of being trampled.
Every street was choked with carts, people on foot, people on horseback. There were whole families in their finery, ribbons fluttering in the frosty air, scrubbed children wide-eyed with wonder. Keyed up with excitement, they cheered each time a squadron in burnished armor and crimson cloaks trotted past, forcing them up against the buildings to make way.
Red imperial banners flew from every rooftop and hung from the windows along the coronation route. People were already clustered at second-floor windows, clutching red scarves in their hands, laughing and chattering.
The coronation would be at mid-morning, followed by the swearing of allegiance, then the processional through the city. Feasting would come afterward.
Within the immense granite walls of the palace, servants worked frantically to put the finishing touches on decorations. Normally the buildings were impressive enough with their massive scale and walls of gleaming marble, but everything had been gilded so that in the sunlight all the buildings and statuary blazed in dazzling grandeur. The imperial banners, vast sheets of silk so heavily embroidered with gold that the breeze could not lift their folds, hung from gilded poles. Streamers in the lady’s golden colors fluttered gaily, however. White doves—imported at great cost—were released at regular intervals into the sky.
On the parade ground, sergeants bawled orders as horses and elephants were lined up in proper order for the processional. Arguments over precedence flared among warlords from different provinces, and heralds scurried about to soothe and placate, intent on keeping peace.
Inside the palace itself, musicians in palace livery were already tuning up. Majordomos strode along the passageways and galleries with fierce eyes, making the final inspection for any omission. Within the vast banqueting hall, sweating servants hauled the new banners up to the vaulted ceiling on ropes and secured them. The table stood in the shape of a T, extending the full length of the hall to accommodate all the dignitaries and aristocrats in good standing. Stewards walked the length of the table, measuring the distance of gold wine cups from the edge, so that the entire lengthy row of them stood absolutely straight from one end to the other.
Exotic flowers grown in the conservatory for this occasion were laid in place. The heavy fragrance of the lilies and roses filled the air, which was already redolent of roasting meats and baking pastries.
The servants wore new livery, very stiff and fine. All the men had new haircuts and were clean-shaven. The women wore their hair in looped braids, and their stiff skirts rustled as they moved. Again and again, they were lined up and inspected, fussed over and reprimanded by their nervous superiors. Every detail, no matter how minor, had to be perfect.
Within the state chambers of the emperor, Kostimon had risen early, as was his custom. He received his morning reports on the status of the empire and read his dispatches. The barber had shaved him, and he had bathed. Whispered gossip among the servants was that he was behaving as though this were an ordinary day. Only the fact that he still wore his dressing robes indicated any deviation from his usual routine.
Outside his bedchamber, the lords in waiting stood yawning and chatting in their finery. They watched as the imperial breakfast tray was carried in, under gold covers so no one could tell what his diet would be. A few minutes later, there was a bustle and the cadenced clatter of armed soldiers marching in.
“Make way!” cried the Master of the Bedchamber, and the lords scattered in confusion.
The soldiers, their breastplates polished to blinding brilliance, hands on their swords hilts, marched through the long antechamber with a heavy tread, completely surrounding the trio of men bearing locked caskets of exotic woods.
“The emperor’s jewels,” said one, and the murmur ran around the room. Everyone craned to look.
Next came a group of tailors, swelled with importance and looking very serious, who rolled in huge trunks containing his new coronation garments.
The doors to the bedchamber opened, and all these individuals emerged again. Following on their heels came old Hovet, the protector, looking as sour as ever. Hovet’s grizzled hair had been cropped short to his skull, and he wore only a crimson tunic and leggings. It was rare that the man appeared without his armor, and murmurs circled the room again.
Glaring at everyone, Hovet muttered a question to the Master of the Bedchamber, who frowned as he replied. Hovet stumped back into the bedchamber with a slam of the door. Five minutes later he reemerged with his breastplate, elbow spikes, and greaves buckled on, his sword hanging from his hip, and his helmet tucked correctly under his left arm. His gauntlets were clutched in his left hand. All his armor was new and beautifully embossed.
The murmurs began again. No one could recall any occasion, no matter how magnificent, when Hovet had worn new armor. The lords stared at him in astonishment, making Hovet red-faced and more short-tempered than usual.
Snapping at the Master of the Bedchamber, he gestured impatiently and disappeared again.
The Master of the Bedchamber clapped his hands for attention. “My lords, please take your places for the robing of his Majesty.”
The courtiers shuffled about. Some could never remember their places and had to be assisted by patient servants. When the line had been correctly reformed, the footmen opened the tall double doors, and the guards on duty saluted and stepped aside.
One by one, the lords in waiting filed into the imperial bedchamber.
In the chambers of state belonging to the empress, the level of anticipation was even higher. Wearing their finest gowns, the ladies in waiting inspected each other’s hair and adjusted lace and necklines, smoothed out wrinkles in the folds of their skirts, complained of how much their new shoes pinched, and laid wagers on how well the coronation robes would look on the empress.
Inside the bedchamber, inside the closed velvet hangings of the bed, Elandra lay curled up beneath the heavy duvet and tried to find her courage. Her dreams still haunted her, vivid and real in her
mind. Horrible dreams that she would never forget. They had been forced on her by the Penestricans, and she did not think she would ever forgive them. She did not believe purification involved meeting Beloth, the shadow god of all destruction. She did not believe she was supposed to be hunted down like bait by things so dreadful her mind could not recall them without shuddering.
While she had been still locked inside her vision, the Magria had walked into her dreams and confronted her.
“Take my hand, Elandra,” she had said, fiercely insistent.
Instead Elandra fled to a dark place, full of gloom and mystery and silence. She crawled into a small crevice hewn from the stone walls. Pressing her back to it, she crouched there, holding her breath to make no sound. The dark god must not find her. She knew he was still hunting, sending his dire creatures questing for her trail. Now and then, although they were far away, she could hear the wailing howl of his hounds. Fear shivered through her, and she curled her knees tight against her chest, pressing her face against them.
But the Magria came after her and bent down. “Take my hand, Elandra,” she said. “Take it!”
Elandra shivered. “No,” she whispered.
“Take it, girl! I have come to help you.”
Elandra did not believe her. The Penestricans gave no one help in their tests. They did not interfere. They only stood aside and judged. Angrily she shook her head.
“Elandra, trust me. I offer you help. I know the way out.”
“Go away,” Elandra said.
“I will help you.”
Again the Magria extended her hand, old and knotted with mutilation scars.
Elandra struck it away. “You will lead him to me. Go away! I am safe here.”
“You cannot stay,” the Magria said. “Those who search can find you here. Come with me, to true safety.”
“No.”
“Elandra, I know the only way out.”
“No, I must find it myself.”
The Magria sighed, and her eyes were sad. “Sometimes, child, you must accept the help of others whether you want it or not. It will be easier if you come with me of your own accord.”
Defiance flared in Elandra, fueled by her fear. “Easier?” she said sharply. “Then it cannot be right. You have taught me that yourself.”
“This is a time of exception to what I have taught you.”
“No!”
“Then I have no choice.”
The Magria lifted her hands to the gloom overhead in silence. When she lowered them a moment later, two more Penestrican dream walkers stood on either side of her.
They closed in on Elandra, who screamed.
The Magria gripped Elandra’s hands in hers, using surprising strength. No matter how much she struggled, Elandra could not pull free. The other dream walkers also took hold of her, and the three of them drew her from her hiding place.
Crying and struggling, she could not escape them. She planted her feet, but the three women were stronger, pushing and propelling her along the stony path.
Ahead, the path lay obscured in mist. Pale light glowed from beyond two looming stone pillars.
Seeing the upright stones, knowing instinctively that they were some kind of gateway, Elandra struggled even harder. “No,” she gasped, managing to get one hand free only to be gripped again. “No, I can’t. I’m not finished.”
Behind her, the hellhounds howled. Chills clawed up her spine. She looked back, and could see the creatures coursing in the distance, closing rapidly. Their eyes glowed red, and their flanks shone with green fire.
“Come!” the Magria said sharply. “There is little time! Do not let them follow us through the gate.”
At the last moment, Elandra could no longer stand against the others. Her fear was too great. Ashamed of her own cowardice, she leaped between the stone pillars ... and found herself sprawled in the sand pit on the Penestrican temple, drenched with sweat and sobbing.
Shivering now in her bed, Elandra curled up tighter. They were only dreams, she told herself, but she did not believe it. The object clutched in her hand told her otherwise.
Uncurling her hand, she forced herself to look at the large topaz. In the gloom within her enclosed bed, it looked dull and lifeless, but she remembered how it had flashed radiantly in the torchlight of the temple. Since Elandra had awakened, it had not left her possession. It had been given to her by a mysterious force, and it symbolized a future she could not as yet claim. In a strange way, to hold it gave her comfort.
She had nothing else to reassure her. Until now, she had believed the Penestricans to be her friends. She no longer trusted them.
The bed hangings were pulled back with an abrupt scrape of the rings across the rod. The Mistress of the Bedchamber stood peering in at her.
“Majesty, it is morning,” she said.
Elandra frowned. Of course it was. Did the woman not understand that Elandra had returned from the temple less than an hour ago?
Dragged forth from the sand pit and hastily revived. Sponged down and comforted with empty words. Given something sweet to drink that had cleared her head and put strength back into her limbs.
And how long would that potion last ? Elandra had no faith in it either. For all their work, she still felt hollow and strange inside, displaced as though she had traveled too fast from too far away.
Sunlight blazed in through the windows, bringing life to the silk and velvet gowns worn by the ladies in waiting. They came in, giggling and staring at her, looking eager and giddy.
She stared back in dismay, feeling unready to deal with any of them.
The Mistress of the Bedchamber curtsied low. “Majesty, the delegation from Mahira has arrived. They await an audience with you.”
Elandra’s frown deepened. Pushing back her tangle of long hair, she sat up on one elbow. “I don’t understand. I cannot have visitors now.”
“But these are Mahirans,” the woman said insistently. Her eyes were large with excitement. “It is a great honor, to wear garments sewn and blessed by—”
“Yes, I know,” Elandra said. She knew all too well how fine and costly such raiment was. Her bridal robe had been Mahiran and exquisite. It had never been worn.
A superstitious shiver passed through her. If the Mahirans had brought her a new gown, would that mean she would never be crowned?
Immediately she forced such thoughts away. She could not go on like this, afraid even of her own shadow.
Lifting her chin, she sat up in bed. “Let them enter.”
But first the ladies crowded around her, pulling her hair back into braided order. One draped a dressing robe of costly silk around her shoulders. Another brought her a gossamer-thin veil.
Only then did the doors open, and the women from Mahira enter. They came in a procession, solemn and formal. Dark-skinned and liquid-eyed, they wore vestments of plain, undyed flax and raw silk. Their ebony curls were braided through with little ropes of gold beads. Gold rings adorned their ears and noses. Although female, they wore loose-fitting trousers and tight-fitting vests over their tunics. The elderly members of their contingent walked at the front of the line, straight-backed and proud, their eyes flashing as they looked here and there. The younger women walked at the rear, bearing the sealed boxes that contained their gifts. With every step, their gold ankle bracelets tinkled a soft melody.
Halting at the foot of Elandra’s bed, the women bowed deeply in unison. The oldest one, her hair liberally streaked with white although her dark skin remained smooth and youthful, stepped forward as spokeswoman. She made a graceful gesture of obeisance.
“You may speak,” Elandra said.
“Gracious one, we come to make a gift in honor of this rare occasion.” The woman spoke slowly, as though Lingua was difficult for her. Her voice was a melodious contralto, her accent exotic and rich. “May it please thee to gaze upon our humble offering. And then perhaps to accept it.”
Elandra inclined her head.
The woman stepped asid
e with a gesture at the others, who came forward with the boxes. With eager chatter, the ladies in waiting also surged forward to see.
The Mahirans stopped and stared at them.
Elandra snapped her fingers, and the chatter stopped. She glanced at the Mistress of the Bedchamber. “I will see these gifts alone. Dismiss the ladies for now.”
The mistress curtsied and shooed the others out quickly, her expression giving away nothing. With the doors closed after the last one, the Mahirans seemed to relax.
They turned back to Elandra and bowed.
“Proceed,” she said.
One by one the boxes were opened, giving off a slight fragrance of sweet lavender and something unidentifiable. Elandra could feel little currents of energy released as each seal was broken. Magic filled the room. For a moment she was afraid, but the air turned warm and gentle. She could smell more scents rising to combine with the lavender: frangipani, roses, jasmine—the fragrances of home. Inhaling deeply, she let her eyes close briefly, and her fear melted away. In her hand, the topaz grew warm, and, drawing strength and comfort from it, she relaxed.
Opening her eyes, she sat forward with anticipation. These garments, whatever they were, would be exquisite.
The first gift was a long scarf of delicate lace, the pattern intricate and lovely. Holding it up to the light, Elandra spread it across her fingers and knew immediately how it would look draped over her hair. She smiled, and the women smiled back.
“Chiara kula na,” they said softly.
It sounded like a benediction. Elandra inclined her head.
One by one, the other offerings were brought forth. Undergarments of the finest silk, embroidered with white silk thread in intricate patterns. An undergown of silk gauze so light and sheer that in the sunlight it almost seemed to disappear. A cloak of amber-colored wool, spun so soft and fine it draped fluidly in her hands. She could put her thumb and forefinger together to form an O and draw the cloak through it, yet when she put it around her shoulders she could feel its warmth. She felt safe and protected in it, and was loathe to pull it off again.
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