Shadow War Part 23

It had nothing more to tell him. Disappointed, Sien released it.

The shadow sailed across the floor and vanished beneath the door as though it had never been.

But already another appeared to take its place. Pet.i.te and slender, it flitted back and forth, darting about the sanctuary as though reluctant to join. Finally, however, it came to Sien and merged into him.

"Tell me," he commanded.

"She survived the poisoned smoke."

Rage scorched the edges of Sien's concentration. He held it away, however, refusing to let the spell disintegrate at this stage.

"Was she injured?"

"No."

"Tell me more."

"The women have begun the purification ceremony. It goes ill."

His interest quickened. "How ill? Why? What has happened?"

"She has visions."

"That is the purpose of the ceremony."

"Visions beyond her ability. She sees too far."

Sien smiled to himself. He liked this. "Can they bring her back?"

"She must come of her own accord."

"Has she the strength?"

"They worry, master. Anas is blamed. She is no longer deputy."

Sien had little interest in Anas. If the Magria lost her second-in-command it might be useful in the future, but on the whole it was of little significance to him.

"Can you ensure the girl does not return from purification?"

"I promise nothing, master."

"Try!" he urged.

"I will try."

The shadow fled him then, darting all around frantically before it finally found the way out.

Sien moaned aloud. His strength was waning. Great droplets of sweat poured from his forehead, but he was not yet finished. He struggled to hold the spell.

The third shadow came to him, lean and cold. It flowed into the room and sprawled long across the floor until it joined with his.

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. shyrieas. He fears many things." 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 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. 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 ma.s.sing 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 G.o.d'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 ma.s.sive 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 impa.s.sive 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sageways 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 a.s.sisted 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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.