Authors: Deborah Chester
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.