Shadow War (29 page)

This time the pain
made him grunt. Sien pressed his lips hard together to maintain his control.

“Speak!” he gasped
out.

But the shadow
said nothing.

Sien could feel
its invasive coldness, its strength. He struggled to maintain mastery. To
command Tirhin’s shadow was far from easy. It possessed a will of its own,
colored by the personality of its owner. It fought him every time.

“Speak! I command
it.”

The shadow said, “The
healer has come, but he fears the taint of the
shyrieas.
He fears many
things.”

“Does he foresee?”

“No. He has no
visions. He is busy making mischief.”

“As I bade him?”

“Yes.”

Sien almost
smiled. He was pleased, but he could not indulge in his emotions now while he
fought to hold this shadow.

“Stay,” he
commanded. “Tell me.”

“The slave has
been accused and taken away. He will be silenced.”

“Good. No one
believed him?”

“He made his
accusations only to the healer,” the shadow said, and tugged against him.

Sien grunted,
straining to hold it. “Stay. Tell me more.”

“The servants are
afraid. They will send word soon to the palace, asking for help.”

“Will Tirhin
recover?”

“Unknown. Without
him, I shall die.”

“Will the healer
treat him?”

“No. The healer is
afraid.”

“Then I must take action.”

“Free me,” the
shadow said.

“Not while you are
useful.”

“I must return,”
the shadow said, and wrenched away.

It vanished
quicker than thought, and Sien was left in a huddle on the floor, chilled and
clammy from his efforts.

Slowly, breathing
hard, he let the spell dissolve. His strength seemed to ebb with it, but he
finally forced himself to his feet.

Swaying and
shivering, he wiped the sweat from his face and pulled on his robes. He had
done enough for now, he thought in satisfaction. Everything was proceeding to
plan.

The prince had
been too arrogant, too headstrong before. Now, after this lesson the
shyrieas
had taught him, he would be more malleable. It was a hard lesson
to learn, but Sien had been patient enough with him. It was time Tirhin learned
who truly ruled this empire.

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.

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.