Shadow War (32 page)

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.

By nightfall, the
ceremonies were at last finished, and the feasting could begin. As the
processional returned from its long circuit through the city, Elandra forced
herself to keep waving to the cheering citizens although her arms were aching.
The crown was nearly as heavy as her dress, and her neck felt stiff from having
supported it all day. But she could not complain. She had been cheered
everywhere, and all the warlords of the provinces had knelt to swear allegiance
to her, even her father—looking both gruff and intensely proud. The
processional had taken her down the Street of Triumph, a broad avenue paved
with white marble that gleamed radiantly in the sunshine and even at dusk still
glowed pale and softly white.

The street ran
straight through the heart of the city, all the way out to the harbor. On
either side of it stood the famed Arches of Kostimon, mighty stone edifices
carved with descriptions of the emperor’s many triumphs over his enemies.
Statues of the emperor on horseback stood atop the arches, a double row of
bronze figures that stretched on endlessly, symbolizing the infinite reign of
this incredible man.

Coming back up the
avenue in her open litter, Elandra looked at its breadth and its beauty, all
extolling the achievements of her husband. Beside her, Kostimon looked tired
but still bright-eyed. He clearly reveled in the cheers and adulation. She saw
how much energy he drew from the crowds and the noise. Above all things,
Kostimon loved being emperor.

Ahead rose the
towering granite walls of the palace compound. Enormous bronze gates with great
embossed spikes on their panels creaked open, and the processional streamed
back inside with the cheers of the people still resounding.

Turning her head
to see everything, Elandra considered the palace to be a city within a city,
for it was filled with temples as well as a complex of meeting halls, council
chambers, storehouses, granaries, and treasuries. This was the very heart of
the empire, the center of the power and might of Kostimon’s reign.

Involuntarily she
glanced at her husband’s profile. He had created all this from nothing. He had
held it against those who would wrest it from him. He had truly wrought a
profound achievement.

Kostimon tipped
his crown to the back of his head and scratched his curls. “It’s cold when the
sun goes down.”

She smiled at his
complaints and dared give his arm an excited squeeze. “I am constantly filled
with renewed admiration and pride at what you have done in your lifetime.”

Surprise crossed
his face. “What is this? Praise from my newly exalted wife?”

“Yes.”

“And what favor
are you trying to wheedle from me in exchange for these compliments?”

His sudden
cynicism dimmed her happiness. More quietly, she said, “There is no favor. I
meant what I said sincerely.”

“Ah. There will be
too many compliments tonight, too many flowery speeches, too much hot air. If I
leave the banqueting early tonight, my dear, don’t be put out.” He gave her a
twisted smile. “You see, I have done this sort of thing too many times to find
it quite as exciting as you do.”

She drew back to
her side of the litter. Her face felt stiff. Proudly she forced her voice to be
composed and even. “Yes, of course,” she replied. “I understand perfectly.”

The boundaries had
been clearly drawn for her. She might be sovereign, but she was not his equal
and never would be. And for all his smiles and little acts of kindness, he had
only been humoring her today. She could not expect such treatment to continue.
She could not expect anything to change.

Except that she
was empress in her own right. And as long as she did not cross wills with him,
she could do what she pleased and command what she pleased.

She held that to
her, and refused to let his mood spoil hers.

“I am sorry you
are so fatigued,” she said formally. “Thank you for this day. It has been
wonderful. I shall never forget it.”

“The golden riches
of my empire are yours,” he replied.