Tassin’s ladies-in-waiting dressed her in a white satin gown, its bodice adorned with intricate patterns of seed pearls and its gossamer sleeves sewn with tiny diamonds. Her silken tresses were teased into glossy bangs and swept up into a regal coif sparkling with jewelled pins and fine gold chains. Diamonds flashed on her fingers, wrists and neck. Teardrop pearls dripped from her earlobes, and the diamond-studded silver mesh pinned to the back of her hair fell around her neck like a rain-dewed cobweb. Her ladies praised her beauty, but were forced to rub berry juice onto her cheeks and lips, reminding her of a lamb being prepared for slaughter.
For ten days, the kingdom had mourned its King’s death, none more than Tassin. Her father had lain in state, mourners filing past to pay their last respects. He had been interred in the royal tomb beside his wife, and Tassin was alone, an orphan at seventeen, barely of age. Pervor watched over her with the fervour of a broody hen, dogging her footsteps with unending advice. Her principal lady-in-waiting offered a plump, motherly shoulder on which to weep, and it was often damp. Now, ten days after the funeral, Tassin’s coronation was about to take place in her father’s throne room.
The priests and nobles awaited her in the long, banner-hung throne room with its high roof and polished slate floor. Battle trophies, coats of arms and suits of armour told the tale of her ancestors’ glory days. The three rulers of the neighbouring kingdoms raked her with cold, calculating eyes when she entered. They were there to vie for her hand in marriage, and her extreme youth and beauty clearly pleased them. She was not the prize, though. They wanted to annex her kingdom for the duration of the marriage and profit from it. Her father’s last words echoed in her mind as she was led towards the throne, hardly aware of the courtiers who bowed as she passed.
For Tassin, the ceremony was a blur of droning speeches and tuneless hymns. She held the things that were placed in her hands, not caring what they were, and repeated the words she was asked to, all the while remembering her father’s gaunt, tired face. As the cold weight of the crown settled upon her brow, she vowed to obey her father’s last wish. The eyes of the three kings crawled over her like slugs. Everywhere she looked, she met calculating gazes, plotting, weighing, seeking her mettle. She raised her chin in proud defiance of their judgement, and the scheming eyes slid away with cunning glints. Even at her coronation, enemies surrounded her. Her life was poised to plunge into a dark sea of intrigue and plots, and the prospect terrified her.
The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin Page 3