“The crowns are only for state occasions. It is unlikely you will wear it more than a handful of times during our reign. Be grateful we were married before the coronation, because Imperial weddings are one of those occasions.”
“You’re so foresighted.” Sesskia hooked her arm around his elbow. Cederic took a moment to appreciate his wife’s figure, resplendent in her green and gold wedding gown. She wore her beautiful dark blonde hair loose around her shoulders, framing her round face. On impulse, he stroked her hair once, and she glanced his way and smiled. “I hope they call us soon. I’m getting hungry.”
“I fear my appetite has disappeared. Unfortunate, as I understand the feast prepared for us after the coronation is quite lavish.”
“I’ll eat for both of us.” Sesskia sighed and rested her head on his shoulder briefly. “I suppose it’s too late to run.”
“You don’t want to run.”
“Not really, just…it’s hit me recently that this means I’ll live the rest of my life in the open, no more hiding. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. I wouldn’t be able to do it without you.”
“You would not have to do it if not for me.”
“That sounded close to bitter, Cederic. You don’t think I blame you, do you?” She squeezed his arm lightly. “This was the best choice, for us, for everyone. I may not love the idea of being a public figure, but being Empress-Consort doesn’t frighten me. If that makes sense.”
The door opened. “Your Majesties?” An older man with a square face and wispy brown hair entered the room. “They’re ready for you.” He stepped past Cederic and picked up the purple cushion bearing the crown. A younger woman, following behind him, reverently lifted the cushion with the Consort’s crown. The two crossed the room to a second door, almost invisible in its unobtrusiveness, and carried their burdens out.
Cederic caught Sesskia’s eye. She was smiling again, with that look that never failed to make his heart beat faster with love. “Walk with me?”
“Always,” she said.
A spiral staircase rose from the corridor beyond the reception chamber, just broad enough for the two of them to walk side by side. Th’an scrawled on the walls glowed with amber light, casting strange shadows as they passed. Music came faintly to his ear, as well as a distant murmur like an oncoming storm that filtered in from above, making Cederic picture Marloen Hall filled to capacity. Today they would make history, he and Sesskia, first Emperor and Empress-Consort of an Empire that hadn’t existed for centuries, possibly millennia. Sesskia’s hand rested loosely on his arm. She didn’t seem worried at all, and it comforted him. Of all his fears, the one that she might find all this too much, and reject him, was both the least rational and the most terrifying.
They emerged from the staircase and through a narrow door into the grand foyer of Marloen Hall. Crimson drapes fringed with silver tassels shrouded the windowless walls, turning the parquet floor dull and dark and giving the entire room a funereal look. Cederic had attended a number of musical performances there and had never become accustomed to its somberness. It was empty, the main doors closed but guarded by men in Balaenic Army uniforms. They had not been able to find the right garb for Imperial attendants, all of the existing costumes being intended for service directly to Renatha Torenz, so General Tarallan had pressed some of his men into service. Cederic thought it a good symbol, a reminder that even though their fragile new empire as yet had no name, he was Emperor to both Balaenic and Castaviran.
The two soldiers bowed their heads as he and Sesskia approached, respectful but not servile. It was a comforting gesture. He paused before the doors, let out a long breath, and said, “Now, if you please.” The soldiers took hold of the ornate brass handles and pulled the doors open. The music, something grand by one of his less-favorite composers, swelled to full, then cut off, leaving the chord unresolved. It was not a mistake—that was where the phrase ended—but it made Cederic uncomfortable nonetheless, as if the music demanded a response he was powerless to give. The swishing sound of a thousand people turning to look at him and Sesskia filled the space where the music had been. Cederic counted silently to three, then walked forward.
It was the longest walk of his life, longer even than the day he had left the kathana chamber, humiliated by his “old friend” Denril Vorantor. He kept his eyes focused on Veneta, who stood at the center of the dais below, dressed in the honey-gold silks and satins of the most high priestess. It had not been a difficult decision, granting her that rank, though there were likely others as qualified and deserving. Facing years of conflict and antagonism from men and women challenging his decrees, he had wanted to have at least one ally who would support him completely. Not that she would not argue with him if she felt he was growing arrogant, but that was itself a kind of support.
The uncanny stillness made it hard for him to keep a measured pace. Even his boots were quiet on the red velvet carpet. Sesskia’s gown rustled, barely audibly. Her hand gripping his forearm was the only sign she was not as inwardly placid as she appeared to be. She hated being the center of attention—well, she’d said it, that was no longer an option. What might have happened if they had not fallen in love? Would he still be here, pacing this interminable aisle alone? The idea of facing this challenge without her support filled him with horror.
The aisle ended at the dais steps, seven of them, shallow and broad and glossy with varnish. Cederic released Sesskia, who squeezed his hand in brief reassurance. It would be her turn to ascend soon enough. Keeping the same slow pace, he strode up the steps and stopped at the dais’s edge, some fifteen feet from Veneta. She was expressionless, her eyes fixed on his.
“Who comes before God at this time, in this place?” she exclaimed. The exquisite acoustics of Marloen Hall, honed by carefully placed th’an, carried her voice to its farthest reaches.
“Cederic Aleynten,” he replied, his deeper voice reverberating off the walls.
“Speak your will, Cederic Aleynten,” Veneta said.
“I come before God to claim the right of rule to the Empire of Castavir and Balaen.” It was an awkward phrase, but they hadn’t had time to come up with a name for the new empire, and Cederic felt it would be off-putting to the people to impose a new name to go along with a new country, with all the other impositions.
“Step forward, Cederic Aleynten, and be judged of God.”
Cederic walked forward and went to one knee before Veneta. He had knelt like this before Renatha Torenz and burned with fury at having to do so. He did not consider himself a particularly religious man, but he believed in God, and resented the madwoman’s usurpation of divinity. Now, kneeling in front of the most high priestess, he felt unexpected peace tug at his heart. Whatever his reservations, he was confident God knew the sincerity of his desires.
“Cederic Aleynten,” Veneta said, “you who would be Emperor, do you judge yourself worthy of this honor?”
“I have served the Empire all the days of my life,” Cederic said, “as mage, priest, Sai, and Kilios. I have never sought recognition for its own sake, but have sacrificed my own needs for those of the Empire. So far as I may humbly divine, I am worthy of the Imperial crown.”
“God recognizes your claims and acknowledges the truth thereof.” Veneta raised her head. “If anyone would dispute the right of Cederic Aleynten to lay claim to the Empire of Castavir and Balaen, speak now.”
Silence. With his back to the audience, Cederic couldn’t help but feel their eyes like daggers boring into him. If someone chose to speak up, he didn’t know what he’d do. They hadn’t planned for that contingency, choosing instead to pack Marloen Hall with men and women who were Cederic’s loyal supporters. He closed his eyes, praying for no interruptions. Nothing happened.
He felt Veneta’s hand rest atop his head, and opened his eyes. “Cederic Aleynten,” she said, “will you take oath before this company as Emperor?”
He swallowed to moisten his dry mouth. “I will.”
“Do you swear to
fill the office of Emperor to the utmost of your ability?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to uphold the laws of the Empire without fear or favor, granting justice to all who come before you?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to serve the Empire for all the days of your life?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to put the needs of the Empire above your own?”
“I so swear.”
Veneta removed her hand. “God hears your oath, and is satisfied.” She turned away, and when she turned back, she had the Imperial crown in her hands. “Cederic Aleynten, as God’s voice and with the witnesses of those present, I crown you Emperor of Castavir and Balaen. May your reign be long and just.”
The crown was heavier than it looked, weighing down his head so he bowed before Veneta. He continued to kneel as spontaneous cheering and shouting broke out throughout the hall, afraid he might stagger if he tried to stand immediately. A long and just reign. He’d settle for one that outlasted the defeat of Renatha Torenz.
Veneta made a little “get up” motion with her hand, shielded behind his body so no one else could see it. He smiled, rose, and turned to face the crowd. That only made the cheering redouble. His eye fell on Sesskia, waiting at the foot of the dais, smiling broadly. The ceremony wasn’t over yet.
He let the cheering go on for a few seconds longer, then gestured to request their silence. When stillness once again lay over the assembly, he said, “An Emperor’s strength is in the hands of his Consort. Sesskia of Balaen, join me.”
Sesskia strode up the steps, raising her skirts to avoid tripping over them, and knelt gracefully at his feet. “Sesskia,” Cederic said, and to his astonishment found himself tearing up. He cleared his throat. “Sesskia, do you judge yourself worthy of the honor of Empress-Consort?”
“I have risked my life in the service of Balaen and Castavir,” Sesskia said in a clear, ringing voice. “I want our countries to live together in peace. I want this Empire to flourish. In all humility, I believe I am worthy of the honor of Empress-Consort.”
“As God’s representative, the Emperor accepts your claim. Will you swear oath before this company as Empress-Consort?”
“I will.”
Cederic laid his hand atop her head. “Do you swear to fill the office of Empress-Consort to the utmost of your ability?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to support the Emperor in all his doings, all the days of your life?”
“I so swear.” She smiled at Cederic, and he almost forgot what came next.
“Do you swear to uphold the laws of the Empire without fear or favor, granting justice to all who come before you?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to serve the Empire for all the days of your life?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to put the needs of the Empire above your own?”
“I so swear.”
“As God’s representative, the Emperor accepts your oath.” He removed his hand and half-turned to take the Consort’s crown from Veneta. “Sesskia of Balaen, as Emperor and with the witnesses of those present, I crown you Empress-Consort of Castavir and Balaen. May your reign be long and just.”
The crown seemed not to weigh on Sesskia as it had on him; she continued to smile at him as the cheering recommenced. Cederic thought it might be louder for his wife than it had been for him. The years ahead would be difficult, and he was fully aware he would not be popular, so it was just as well one of them would be. He offered her his hand and helped her rise and face the audience. “And so it begins,” he murmured.
“It still doesn’t feel quite real,” she murmured back. “You’d think the cheering would be enough. Or the weight of the crown.”
So she did feel it. “It is a first step, the first of thousands. Someday I imagine we will wake to the realization of what we have sworn this day.”
“The sooner, the better.” Sesskia gripped his hand more tightly. “We don’t have to wear these things throughout the meal, do we?”
“I am certain Sai Amaleten will want them whisked away for safekeeping.” Cederic guided Sesskia down the stairs and, hand in hand, they proceeded up the aisle. This time they waved and smiled at the crowd, though Sesskia did it more easily than he did. It would likely be years before he felt comfortable enough to really smile in public.
The crowd bulged and swayed as people moved to follow them, though no one ventured onto the ribbon of carpet that unrolled straight as a furrow from the dais to the doors. The Balaenic soldiers who stood sentry at the doors headed toward them, gesturing at the people to stay back. Cederic put his left arm around Sesskia and limbered up his fingers in preparation for fending overeager subjects off. It would look bad for him to turn magic on his people, but worse for them to be mobbed.
Someone stepped onto the carpet as if pushed by those behind him. Cederic registered the knife as it began its descent. Without thinking, he put himself between it and Sesskia, raising his hand to work the mind-moving pouvra on the man even though he knew no gestures were needed. That extra second was all it took for the knife to plunge into his chest.
Cold agony shot through him. He opened his mouth to shout a warning and heard a pained, wordless cry emerge instead. The man raised the knife for another blow, and Cederic tried once again to work the mind-moving pouvra, but it slipped away as if oiled. Dazed, he saw the knife glitter oddly before falling to the ground. Two men, the soldiers, tackled the assailant. They went down in a pile, but slowly, as if time no longer had meaning.
Cederic realized he was on the floor. The carpet was not as soft as it looked. Sesskia had hold of the front of his embroidered tunic, her mouth opening and closing as slowly as the soldiers had fallen. She looked like a fish, a beautiful blonde fish. He tried to tell her this—she would find it funny—but his mouth wouldn’t respond.
His head was so heavy, probably because of the crown…but no, it lay on the floor some distance away. It must have fallen off when the knife struck him. If it was damaged, Veneta would never let him forget it. Cederic blinked slowly as the crown grew fuzzy in his vision. He smelled blood. A lot of blood. Sesskia was covered in it—oh, no, had the assailant hurt her too? He tried to sit upright, grabbed Sesskia’s wrist, but his fingers were as numb as his mouth. His chest burned, his heart beat erratically. I’m dying, he thought. He tried to keep his eyes open, feeling madly as if in closing them, he might never open them again, but they were as heavy as the crown, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
He came to himself in a dry, cool room filled with the oily smell of a lot of magic all in one place. Opening his eyes turned out to be difficult, so he let his ears and nose build up a picture for him. He was in bed, not one that was familiar to him, and the pillow felt rough, so he wasn’t anywhere luxurious. The smell of magic meant this was probably a thanest, possibly the Firtha thanest, though why was he in a thanest instead of at Marloen Hall?
He forced his eyes open and raised his head from the pillow. Sesskia sat next to his bed, her eyes and nose reddened and her hands clasped in her lap. Blood soaked the front of the green and gold gown, its coppery scent faded behind the smell of magic. Terror struck him, made his heart lurch. She jerked, startled, as he moved. “Sesskia,” he croaked, “are you all right?”
Her eyes widened, then filled with tears. “Am I all right?” she sobbed. “Cederic, you nearly died! That man—I should have stopped him, I can’t forgive myself—”
“Sesskia, don’t cry,” Cederic said, aghast. He lifted his hand—it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds—and clasped her interlocked ones. “Don’t cry.”
She drew a shuddering breath and blinked tears away. “I’m sorry. It’s just…they told me you would recover, but there was so much blood. I did my best with the healing pouvrin, the healers said they saved your life, the pouvrin did, but I—” She breathed in again. “You’re still weak. I shouldn’t upset y
ou.”
Cederic let his head fall back onto the pillow. It, too, felt as if it were made of lead. “I do not remember an attack. My last memory is of raising you to your feet and accepting the accolades of the crowd.”
“Some raving bastard tried to kill you, halfway up the aisle,” Sesskia said. “I don’t know if he was after you or me, because you put yourself between me and the knife, but he…I made him drop the knife, and the guards killed him.”
Cederic closed his eyes again and let her words sweep over him. He felt so tired. That made sense, if he’d been stabbed and then healed. For once it was he who took injury, and not Sesskia. Gratitude carried him off into sleep again.
The Big Blow-up (18 Teretar)
Lady Radryntor’s cook was indifferent at best, producing bland meals heavy with fish and other seafood. Cederic had been born far inland, and fish had not been part of his boyhood diet. Even in Colosse, where the chefs had been excellent, they had rarely cooked fish, and those only river trout. Shrimp had been a delightful discovery three and a half weeks ago. Now he was tired of it. Steak, that would be wonderful, or even a simple baked potato with butter.
He dutifully forked up another bite of shrimp in cream sauce, grateful for the self-control that kept even the slightest hint of distaste off his face. To his left, Lady Radryntor dug in happily, making the little humming sound she did when she was eating something she enjoyed. Cederic was certain she had no idea she did it. He appreciated it because it made her seem human, an ordinary woman and not the hardened bigot she actually was. He needed to deal with her fairly, and the humming made it easier. Easier, but not effortless.
Lady Radryntor’s hostility to his cause grew daily. It took every ounce of conciliatory civility he possessed to keep her placated, keep her energies turned toward preventing her people from clashing with the Balaenics. He was increasingly convinced it was an exercise in futility. When they first arrived in Pfulerre, his presence had done much to soothe tensions between Lethess and Pfulerre, but Lady Radryntor’s bigotry had infected the populace. Cederic feared the day when he would have to call on the Balaenic Army to put down a riot. That would only make matters worse.
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