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 aside 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.

They gave her gloves of the same material to match, and perfectly fitted to her hands. Drawing one on, she flexed and turned her hand, marveling at how strong she felt. When she pulled the glove off, the illusion of strength faded. Her skin tingled lightly, and she frowned. Magic gloves. A magic cloak.

She put the lace scarf on her head, wrapping the ends beneath her chin, and at once her vague headache cleared. She felt alert, brilliant, decisive. When she took it off, she could tell a difference. Would wearing the undergarments make her feel invigorated and tireless?

The women from Mahira watched her, their dark eyes wise and patient.

“I give you my thanks,” Elandra said slowly. “These are precious gifts indeed. I am honored by your kindness.”

The spokeswoman bowed. “They will never wear. They will never soil, although they may be washed,” she said. “They are to assist thee in thy hour of need.”

During the ordeal of the coronation? Or during something else? Elandra wondered, but she did not ask.

“We ask thee to accept our gifts of protection,” the woman continued. “We are but women. Our weapons are only needle and thread, but what we have we give to thee. To help thee in all that is to come.”

“What is to come?” Elandra asked, feeling suddenly cold.

“The emperor wears his armor, spell-forged by the Choven. The empress wears her armor, sewn by the Mahirans. Alike, and yet not.”

Gratitude flooded Elandra. She smiled. “Your concern honors me. I shall not forget the kindness of the women of Mahira. Thank you.”

The women bowed; then the spokeswoman brought forth a small box of cedar and proffered it. “Then, if we have pleased thee, may it also please thee to accept this final token of our respect.”

The topaz grew suddenly hot, too hot to hold. With a gasp, Elandra dropped it, and the gem went tumbling across the bedclothes like a nugget of fire, flashing brightly in the sunlight.

At the foot of her bed, the Mahiran stood holding the small box and ignored the topaz winking brilliantly atop the coverlet.

Nursing her scorched hand, Elandra took the box and broke its seal. As she opened the wooden lid, a heady fragrance of cedar mingled with roses filled her nostrils. The touch of magic drifted against her face, caressing her cheekbones. With wonder, Elandra took out a small pouch sewn of dark green moire silk, lined with velvet the same color. It had a drawstring top and a long cord of braided silk. Her coat of arms had been embroidered on the side with gold thread.

She knew at once what it was for, and drew in her breath sharply. Forgetting dignity, she crawled forward until she could reach the topaz, then slipped it inside the pouch. It was a perfect fit. Delighted, she closed the top, and slipped the looped cord over her head.

She smiled warmly at the Mahirans, feeling more than a little astonished. “How did you know?”

They smiled back.

“Chiara kula na,” the spokeswoman said softly, with reverence. “You were foretold in our legends. Woman of fire.”

Elandra stared at her, thinking of her destiny and wondering why it had not mentioned any of this. “I was foretold?” she echoed in puzzlement. “But—”

The women bowed, putting their fingertips to their foreheads in obeisance. They retreated, backing away from her with a series of deep bows.

“Wait!” Elandra said, scattering gifts in all directions as she scooted out of the tall bed. “I have questions. Please wait.”

“Chiara kula na,” they said in unison, still bowing.

The double doors opened behind them, and they left.

Elandra stood there in her nightgown, her hair flowing down her back, the green jewel pouch hanging from her neck. She felt she stood at the window of some great understanding, only to have a curtain drawn closed, shutting her out.

Frustrated, she tried to make sense of it even as the Mistress of the Bedchamber peeked inside.

“Majesty?” she said hesitantly. “It is time for the preparations.”

The ladies in waiting poured back into the room, and in moments Elandra was surrounded by eager hands pulling and pushing at her in all directions.

“I shall wear those,” she said sharply as some of them examined the gifts. “The cloak, scarf, and gloves should be put away carefully.”

Her attendants curtsied. “Yes, Majesty.”

Already the hairdresser was knocking for admittance, a woman and her assistants had arrived with jewel cases, and the head seamstress rushed in, wringing her hands with an anxiety that cleared from her face as soon she saw that the Mahirans had not brought a coronation gown that would rival hers.

In an hour, Elandra had bathed and nibbled at a breakfast she found tasteless. She was powdered and dressed. Her fingertips and the soles of her feet were anointed with oil of myrrh. The Mahiran underthings were so light and filmy she almost felt as though she were wearing nothing, yet new energy flowed through her. She felt refreshed and calmer. After her ordeal last night, she was grateful indeed for this assistance.

Her hair was smoothed down and coiled in a heavy, intricate knot at the base of her neck. Curly tendrils escaped to frame her face. The simple styling was to complement the crown that she would wear later.

Thinking of it, Elandra found her mouth dry and her heart suddenly pounding. She tried to think of something else, anything else in order to quell her rising anxiety.

They made her stand while they carefully lowered the gown over her head. It was made high to the throat, and she could wear her jewel pouch concealed without difficulty. She wished there was time to have the topaz secured to a chain so she could wear it as a pendant, but instinct told her this was a jewel to hide, not to flaunt.

The dress, made of cloth of gold, had always been extremely heavy, especially with its train that swept the floor. But today its weight did not seem so great. She stood patiently while the seamstress pulled at the long sleeves, making sure the wrist points reached Elandra’s knuckles and were not twisted. Then the full sweep of skirts had to be smoothed and the hem checked once again to be sure she could walk without tripping, yet would show no unseemly expanse of ankle.

Next came the jewels she was to wear. A new necklace of rubies had been created in her honor. Elandra examined it without much favor. It looked gaudy and overdone.

“Did the emperor order this made?” she asked.

The woman in charge of the jewels looked suddenly nervous. “Not exactly, Majesty.”

Elandra’s brows lifted. “What exactly do you mean?”

“It is a very fine piece of work,” the woman said, staring at the floor. “The jewels are beautifully matched.”

“Perhaps,” Elandra replied. “Answer my question. Did the emperor order this to be made for me?”

“No, not this necklace. The jeweler thought your Majesty would admire it.”

“I don’t,” Elandra said curtly. She had seen this trick pulled before at her father’s court. A jeweler would fashion something extra and send it in among the rest of the order. If it was accepted, he would then pad the bill accordingly. And he would use its acceptance to solicit more orders. “I do not like it at all,” she said. “I do not wish to wear it. If the emperor did not order it for me, then it may be returned to its maker.”

“But—but, Majesty!” the woman protested nervously. “It’s design was chosen by the emperor.”

“What do you mean?” Elandra demanded. “You speak in riddles. Either he ordered it, or he did not. Are you saying he chose this design, then changed his mind and did not request it to be made?”

“No. It was made to his order. I mean, another was made to his order.”

Elandra looked at the woman in silence. By now, the woman was perspiring and knotting her fingers together.

She looked as though she wished to be swallowed by the floor.

When Elandra said nothing, she gulped and began wringing her hands.

“I’m sorry, Majesty. We thought it would please you. It was made up in garnets first, simple, inexpensive stones, but see how much finer it is with rubies?”

Elandra refused to look at it when the woman held it up. “For whom was the garnet necklace made?” she asked coldly, although already she guessed.

The woman’s face looked bloodless. “The emperor wished to give it as a gift. He often—”

“I see,” Elandra said, her voice like ice. The ladies in waiting watched in bright anticipation. “He often gives baubles such as this to his concubines.”

The woman licked her lips and nodded. “Well, not exactly like it. I mean, the rubies are very fine stones. The jeweler thought that since the emperor had commissioned the design, it could be used—”

“This jeweler thought that her Imperial Majesty the Empress Elandra would be happy wearing the same necklace as a mere concubine,” Elandra said stonily. “This jeweler is a fool.”

“Majesty, forgive—”

“No. Why should I forgive what is a blatant insult?” Elandra said. “Who is this jeweler? What is his name?”

The woman’s eyes darted this way and that, but there was no escape for her. “P-Pelton, of Fountain Street. He does very fine work. He always pleases the—”

“He does not please me. How much did he bribe you to bring this to me?”

The woman gasped, but Elandra held her pinned with a stony gaze.

“No more than the others—” The woman broke off what she was saying and began to cry.”

“Get out,” Elandra said, and turned her back.

Guards took the woman away. Elandra refused to look at her or listen to her pleas for mercy. She stood, opening the other jewel cases and picking through the offerings. Everything was new. She realized they were all from jewelers like Pelton, eager to establish custom with her by making these gifts.

Elandra knew that any or all of them could have pitfalls such as the one she’d just avoided. How was she to know whether these designs were submitted in honor to please her or to trick her or to insult her? The wisest course was to avoid all of them, yet she could not go forth without jewelry. Although she preferred simple adornment, she must not look like anything less than an empress today. She was still on trial. There were still innumerable mistakes she could make.

“Is this all?” she asked finally.

One of the assistants crept forward, eyes down, standing hunched as though in a permanent half-bow. “Yes, Majesty.”

“But all of this is new.”

“All the jewelers in the city have sent their wares for your selection.”

“I don’t want these,” Elandra said.

Everyone gaped at her, but her mind was already shooting over the possibilities. There was only one way to be safe.

“Bring me Fauvina’s jewels,” she said.

Someone gasped; she could not tell who it was. Consternation broke out.

The Mistress of the Bedchamber approached Elandra worriedly. “Majesty, there is not time to send to the vaults for them, even if they could be found.”

Elandra’s head came up. She glared. “There is time, if you do not dally making objections.”

The woman curtsied. “Majesty, forgive me. I do not object. But what if they cannot be found?”

“Why shouldn’t they be found?” Elandra retorted. “The jewels of the first empress? Are they not honored? Are they not revered? Are they not kept in a special place by the order of the emperor, as all of Fauvina’s things have been preserved? Have them brought at once.”

“Yes, Majesty. But the emperor must give permission—”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I—I—”

“Do as I command,” Elandra said, looking the woman in the eye. The mistress curtsied again, giving way, and turned to snap her fingers.

A half-hour ground slowly by before hastening footsteps could be heard outside. Everyone looked up, but it was only a messenger who came to inform the empress that her presence was awaited.

Elandra met everyone’s anxious eyes, and her stubbornness kicked in. When she wanted, she could be as obstinate as her father, who had once stood alone and undaunted against an entire war council’s wishes to attempt a peace treaty. Albain had refused to cooperate, had refused to withdraw his troops, and had single-handedly driven back the invaders without the support of the allied forces. It was this action that had earned him his reputation of loyalty and valor and brought him to the attention of a grateful emperor.

“Majesty,” the Mistress of the Bedchamber said, “your presence is required.”

Elandra’s chin lifted higher. She sat regally in her chair, unable to do much else in her formidable gown. “The empress is not yet ready.”

The messenger left, and everyone sighed. Elandra sat there, refusing to budge no matter how nervous they got, and waited.

Finally they heard footsteps again outside the door. This time it was a chancellor who came to inquire how much longer the empress might be.

Murmurs at the door; nervous explanations. The mistress glanced over her shoulder at Elandra and murmured further.

Then she came to Elandra’s side and curtsied. “Majesty, the chancellor would like to know—”

“Tell him the empress is not yet ready.”

“But, Majesty, any of these pieces would be most handsome and most suitable. If we had known earlier, we could have had the old jewelry ready. It may be tarnished or too brittle. If it needs a repair, that will surely not please—”

Elandra raised her hand, and the woman fell silent.

No one dared speak after that. They waited, the minutes dragging by. The coronation robes, heavily embroidered and trimmed in white sable, waited on their stand. She might never wear them.

“No one has ever done this,” someone whispered. “To keep him waiting ... who would dare?”

Elandra knew the risk she was taking. The emperor’s temper was always uncertain. He was displeased enough with her already. By now his irritation must be explosive. He could call the whole thing off. She would be dismissed in disgrace, set aside as an abandoned wife, her reputation ruined, no prospect of future marriage to someone else possible.

Her nerve almost failed her. She found herself looking at some of the jewelry spilling from the opened cases. There were some very fine emeralds glowing richly at her. They were of a pleasing cut. The earrings would flatter her. How easy to give in. Why had she started this in the first place? A little fit of pique could cost her everything.

But she had started it, and she would finish it. If she did anything less, she would be branded as weak. Her authority, what little she possessed now, would crumble entirely. She would never be taken seriously again. She had been insulted, whether through some scheme of the jeweler or whether through someone at the palace or whether through the desires of Kostimon himself she did not know, but she would not let an insult go unchallenged. No one of Albain blood could.

Again, footsteps came to the door. This time it was one of her guardsmen, a trifle breathless as though he had been running. He handed the Mistress of the Bedchamber a leather box, bowed, and retreated.

The mistress, looking stern with disapproval, carried the box to Elandra. It was dusty and spotted with age. The leather had rotted away in places. Elandra was shocked, for she had truly expected Fauvina’s things to be better cared for than this.

As the box was unlocked and opened, Elandra swallowed hard. She supposed the mistress was right about the jewels being brittle and tarnished. She would look tawdry wearing them. She didn’t even know if they were beautiful or horrid. She should have never backed herself into a corner like this.

In silence the mistress turned the box around so that Elandra might see the contents for herself.

A muted glitter came from the depths of the box.

“Draw back the curtains,” Elandra commanded.

The ladies did so, letting more sunlight into the room. Elandra reached in and pulled out a bracelet. It was heavy and dark.

As she turned it over, the sunlight filled the gems with life so that they blazed in her hand. Elandra gasped.

Rows and rows of small, square-cut gemstones filled the wide bracelet. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, topazes, amethysts, spinels, citrines, and peridots all flashed together in a radiance of color. Dropping the bracelet in her lap, she drew out the heavy necklace with both hands. It was a large collar, studded with the same array of stones as the bracelet, that stretched from shoulder to shoulder and dropped to a wide V in the center. The settings were gold and very ancient, but nothing had broken. Normally she would never have chosen pieces with so many colors, but they did not clash, and they would look magnificent against her cloth-of-gold dress.

These, she knew without being told, were the true imperial jewels. No empress since Fauvina had worn them. But their diversity clearly symbolized the many provinces that had forged the empire. Elandra felt a shiver pass through her, as though she felt the dead woman’s approval pass through the jewelry to her. She had been right to insist on this. She knew it in her bones.

There was silence around her. Elandra stopped admiring the jewelry long enough to glance at her ladies with an open challenge in her eyes.

“I am late,” she said. “Attend me with these final touches.”

Her command galvanized them into action. The necklace was fastened for her, as was the bracelet. She found rings to match. They were slightly too large for her tapering fingers, but she slipped them on anyway. The long earrings swayed heavily against her neck.

Elandra rose to her feet, and they brought her a mirror. She saw herself, pale-faced, a little shadowed beneath the eyes, but a glittering, magnificent stranger. She had feared the clothes and the jewelry would overwhelm her, but instead for the first time she saw her own beauty, saw how perfectly these colors and the richness of these clothes brought her looks to life. Even her hair subdued much more than usual, and coiled at her neck so that the crown would fit easily on her head, made her look different—more mature, more intelligent, more lovely than she could have ever guessed.

Startled, she stared at herself in wonder. While she was still gazing, the ladies brought forth the coronation robes and settled them on her slim shoulders. The heavy gold embroidery on the robes glittered in the sunlight. The fur trim looked regal.

She saw all the power and privilege of her position represented tangibly for her. Elandra felt stunned, light-headed, almost foolish. Then she rallied, thinking of her father, thinking of her mother, whom she had never known, yet who had somehow reached out through the visions of last night to help her.

Mother, give me strength this day, she prayed. Guide my steps. Help me to act and live with honor, as befits this responsibility I have been awarded.

A rustle around her brought her from her thoughts. She saw the ladies-in-waiting dropping one by one into deep curtsies around her. Elandra’s heart quickened, and her eyes suddenly blurred with tears. She wanted to tell them of her gratitude; she wanted to promise them that she would strive never to abuse her position. She wanted to say so many things, yet she could say nothing.

She was an empress. She must get used to people kneeling before her.

Turning with a slow, perfect sweep as she had been taught to manage the tremendous weight of her garments, Elandra accepted her gloves and a small parchment scroll containing the blessings of Gault. She started forward, walking against the drag of her train and robes behind her.

The double doors were thrown open, and a herald’s cry went before her into the passageway, echoed again and again by each herald on station within the palace. In the distance, she heard a long drumroll begin.

Chancellors in their fur-trimmed robes, carrying their staffs of office, hovered about, bowing deeply to her, then gesturing which direction for her to turn. Looking neither right nor left, her unveiled face solemn as she met the stares, Elandra walked through another set of open doors into a small chamber containing two gilded chairs and nothing else.

The doors were closed behind her, and she stood there in unexpected solitude.

She recalled that Miles Milgard was supposed to wait here with her. He had promised to give her some final coaching with her vows. Now he was gone forever. She frowned, thinking of his unexpected treachery. Never would she have suspected him capable of such villainy. She had trusted him, admired his mind, appreciated his patience. How could he have tried to kill her?

She told herself she must be wary of everyone. Trust was a precious commodity, to be handed out sparingly. Whether she wished it or not, she had enemies. She must always be on her guard, and she must never take anyone for granted again.

A piece of paper lay folded on one of the chairs. Elandra stared at it a moment, wondering if it was another trap. Finally she picked it up and unfolded it.

The writing was Kostimon’s:

 

Ela,

Have courage this day, little one. Remember always that you are a queen. You must believe it in your heart before others will believe it. You must set the example if they are to follow.

I await you in the temple.

Kostimon

 

Reading the brief note, Elandra felt her eyes fill with tears. Even now, he was kind. Even if he was displeased with her for being late, he had taken the trouble to leave her a few words of encouragement. She smiled to herself, folding the little note away as though it were precious. In that moment she loved him.

The doors ahead of her swung open without warning, making her start.

“Majesty?” a chancellor said, peering in.

At that moment she could not recall his name.

“All is well?” he asked.

She found herself consumed with nervousness. Wordlessly she nodded her head.

He smiled and bowed to her. “It is time.”

Before her, standing over near the head of the stairs, a small herald filled his lungs and bawled, “Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Elandra!”

Trumpets flourished, and Elandra walked forward to the head of the stairs.

The dignitaries stood below her, arranged in order of rank at the foot of the white marble stairs and beyond. A crimson carpet ran down the exact center of the stairs, like a stain of blood. It blurred before her, and Elandra wondered how she would ever walk down so many steps in these cumbersome robes without losing her balance.

Then to her left came a slight commotion. Elandra turned her head and saw Kostimon walking toward her.

He was resplendent in gold armor, embossed with a scene from his most famous battle. His long-sleeved tunic worn under the breastplate was of cloth of gold, and he wore a ruby earring in his left ear. A ruby and gold diadem glittered from among his white curls, and his rings flashed as he stretched out his hand to her.

Breathless at this honor, especially when she thought she would have to walk alone to the temple like a mere consort, Elandra reached out and let him grip her hand hard in his. She was trembling as she sank into a deep curtsy at his feet.

“Rise, little one,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

She gazed up at him through her tears and wanted to fling her arms around his neck in joy and relief. He was treating her as a wife. In this, her first public appearance, Kostimon had chosen to honor her in full standing. She was forgiven.

“Rise,” he said, sounding amused. “This is your day. You cannot spend it at my feet.”

But her emotional reaction had pleased him. She heard it in his voice.

Gracefully she rose to her feet, her hand still clasped in his, and watched his eyes widen as he took in the sight of her. She saw admiration and—for the first time—a stirring of desire.

He smiled. “Magnificent.”

There was no time for her to answer, even if she could have spoken.

The emperor tucked her hand inside his arm and led her down the staircase with the ease of a man who had done this countless times before. The trumpets resounded around them. The drums rolled on and on. Sunlight was shining down fully on the staircase through a window in the domed roof. Elandra felt as though she was descending through music and light, a magical creature without a body.

She had never been so happy.

The courtiers and dignitaries, resplendent in native dress from every province, bowed and curtsied as they passed. Elandra wished desperately to see her father’s craggy face among the throng, but the sea of faces blurred together. She could not concentrate, could not focus. Her only solid piece of reality was Kostimon’s shoulder brushing against hers and the firm grip of his hand.

Outside, the frosty air struck her face, and she found it exhilarating. Kostimon frowned and suddenly looked like an old man as he waited for an attendant to fit a cloak around his shoulders and fuss with the folds.

“It’s a damnably long walk,” he grumbled.

She gazed out across the endless parade ground where the lines of soldiers and cavalry stood at perfect attention. The crimson carpet stretched the entire distance across it, leading all the way to the Temple of Gault at the far end. She could have floated the distance, but Kostimon was an old man.

Concern touched her. She turned to him, but he was frowning and paid her no attention.

A chariot of gold festooned with flowers and drawn by four white horses rolled up at the foot of the palace steps. It looked old-fashioned and quaint. Seeing it, Elandra had to smile.

Kostimon glared at her, and just in time she managed not to laugh.

“How delightful,” she said, and he relaxed.

“Come,” he said, and led her to it.

Every time the restive horses shifted, the chariot rolled.

Moreover, it was supported by only two wheels and looked very unstable. Elandra did not think she could climb onto it with what she was wearing. If she fell flat on her face, it would be a poor omen indeed.

Grooms struggled to hold the horses still. The officials and dignitaries stood solemnly nearby, and the very woodenness of their faces told Elandra that they considered this as poor an idea as she did. The emperor stepped aboard, making the chariot dip and roll slightly. He spoke to the driver, then waved to her.

Elandra’s heart sank. She still did not understand how she was to get on, much less where she was supposed to stand with her voluminous skirts. The driver and the emperor filled the chariot.

But then another one rolled up before her, and she understood that she was to ride by herself.

“If it please your Majesty,” a man said to her.

Elandra turned and saw a young man with dark hair and beautiful eyes bowing to her. He was dressed in dark blue velvet, with a jaunty cap atop his head. She recognized him at once.

“Prince Tirhin,” she said in acknowledgement, wary of him. She curtsied very slightly, and her mind flashed back to that tall, bedraggled slave who belonged to this man. What had become of his attempts to lay charges of treason against his highness?

Nothing, apparently, for the prince was here and the slave was not to be seen.

“I am glad to see you looking well,” she said politely.

But the prince looked far from well. He was terribly pale, with a strained, exhausted cast to his features. His eyes were haunted, bearing a burden that made her glance away. He moved stiffly, as though his body ached, but with extreme courtesy he held the chariot steady and handed her into it.

She managed, barely avoiding losing her balance by grabbing onto the side. The prince stepped up beside her, his legs crushing her full skirts as he took the reins.

They drove forward, following the emperor’s chariot at a slow trot, flowered garlands swinging from the sides and trailing out behind them. The prince concentrated on his driving, and said nothing to her at all.

Glancing at his grim profile, Elandra felt pity for him. What must he feel, this man who had spent his life expecting to inherit the throne and who now was forced to attend her, the unexpected usurper?

Kostimon had dropped hints that she might marry Tirhin some day. Elandra glanced at him again, wondering. He was older than she by several years, but not too old. He was very handsome, giving her an idea of what Kostimon had looked like when he was young. Tirhin dressed better than his father, had more polished manners, seemed more broadly educated. He was a modern man, while Kostimon clung to so many strange and old-fashioned ideas. When Kostimon was gone, a marriage between her and Tirhin would make a good alliance, would seal the throne and the empire for both of them.

But there was a coldness about Tirhin, something hidden or lacking, that she could not define.

She tried to imagine herself in his arms, and could not.

The next time she glanced at the prince, she caught him eyeing her in return. She looked away at once and thereafter gazed only at the long rows of soldiers saluting her with flashing swords.

When they reached the temple steps, she stepped off the chariot with a graceful ease that was due more to luck than her own agility, and rejoined the emperor.

Kostimon glanced past her at the prince with steel in his eyes. For an instant his expression indicated displeasure with Tirhin, and Elandra caught her breath. So he did know about the plot.

She wondered if she dared mention the slave, but this was not the time.

To the fanfare of trumpets, she set her hand on Kostimon’s arm, and both of them turned their backs on Prince Tirhin to climb the steps into the sanctum for her holy vows and investiture.