Mistress of the Empire (84 page)

The noise from without reached another crescendo as yet another arcane assault battered the wards. Rainbows of fractured light played through the skylights, bathing the chamber in unnatural colors. Mara’s discomfort increased as the priests and officials in attendance began to shuffle feet. Old Frasai of the Tonmargu was trembling outright, perhaps on the point of cracking.

Support arose from an unexpected source, as the Red God’s High Priest pressed to the forefront of temple representatives gathered beneath the imperial dais. ‘Brother,’ he exhorted his wavering fellow priest, ‘we are all Turakamu’s, in the end. Were heaven displeased, we should already be
struck down, and my God is silent within me. Please, proceed with the ceremony.’

The High Priest of Chochocan nodded. He licked sweat from his upper lip and drew a deep breath, and his sonorous voice resumed the next lines of the ritual.

Mara exhaled in relief. At her side, the High Priest of Juran flashed her a look of understanding. ‘Bide, my good Lady Servant. You have allies.’

Mara returned a slight nod. She did have allies; many more than she knew. The magical assault might intensify, but not all of the priests would be easily cowed. The twists and reverses of state politics over the course of centuries had taught them to be canny. If their hold slipped now, if Justin’s wedding did not proceed according to law, and if his subsequent coronation were not to go forward and stand, they understood how greatly the authority of the temples would be ceded to the Assembly. The Sisters of Sibi stood like creatures from the realm of the dead, untroubled by the possibility that the Imperial Palace might collapse upon their heads.

For any portion of heaven’s due influence and power to fall under mortal dominion was a perilous course, one that invited divine displeasure. Then would the gods curse misfortunes upon mankind that could make the wrath of an aroused Assembly seem but the tantrums of children.

Justin’s reply to the next ritual question rang strongly over the din of another attack. Thunder rumbled, a seemingly endless peal. An ornamental bead shook loose from the imperial throne and rattled down the pyramidal steps. The crystal in the skylights cracked, and shards tumbled sparkling in the lamplight to shatter against the marble floor.

No one, thankfully, was in harm’s way.

Mara closed her eyes. Hold, my children, she prayed. Hokanu’s hand tightened over hers.

She returned a half-smile that warmed as Jehilia replied to the priest. The Princess was subdued, demure as befit her station; if she also clung to her new husband, she was still royalty. Her bearing stayed straight as the wicker cages with the ritual marriage birds were raised for the blessing. The reed doors were solemnly cut by the High Priest’s knife.

Mara bit her lip, fighting tears, as the pair of birds inside took wing at their offered freedom. Fly, she willed them, fly up and mate and find happiness.

The omen of the birds at her own first wedding had been unfavorable. With all of her heart, she longed for this one to be different. She and Hokanu might not rule their lives by portents and tradition, but there were elderly priests present who did.

The birds shot aloft just as another bolt of thunder slammed the air. They winged over in alarm and, as one, arrowed up and out, through the gap in the cracked skylight.

‘Thank the gods,’ Hokanu murmured. His hand squeezed Mara’s, while the tears spilled unabashed over her eyelids. She could not hold in her emotion. Neither could she see as two Imperial Whites in ceremonial Force Leaders’ armor stepped forward with the cloak edged in gold and sarcat fur: the mantle of the Emperor of all Tsuranuanni, which they spread over Justin’s shoulders.

Tall as he had grown, the boy looked lost in the garment. Mara wiped her eyes and was struck by a poignant recollection of Ichindar, who had been as slender, and who in the end had been bowed down by the weight of imperial office.

Justin bore up well. He took Jehilia’s hand as if he had been born being gallant to ladies, and led her up the stairs to the dais.

‘His father’s son indeed,’ Hokanu murmured proudly.

Singing acolytes followed the newly wedded couple,
along with the priest of Juran, who bore the jeweled golden cushion that supported the imperial crown. The singing was ragged, cut across and half drowned by the rumble of continuous arcane attack from without.

The blows came much more closely spaced.

A pillar near the rear of the hall cracked with a sound like a whip. Mara started. She forced herself to focus wholly on the tableau that unfolded on the dais. She could not ignore signs of impending peril: that the air was growing warmer. The wooden railing beneath the dais where petitioners came to kneel before their Light of Heaven showed peeling layers of varnish. The stone floor grew hot enough to raise blisters, and courtiers shifted from foot to foot, as the leather of their sandals failed to protect from the growing heat.

‘The cho-ja mages are hard pressed,’ Hokanu murmured in Mara’s ear.

Thunder slammed again, rocking the chamber. Priests reached out to steady their colleagues, and more than one of the High Ones presiding on the dais looked frightened. They held to their purpose, grimly.

Mara watched as the priest of Lashima, Goddess of Wisdom, stepped forward to anoint her son’s temples with oil. His vestments were knocked askew, and his hands shook. Much of the holy oil spilled on the intricate border of Justin’s mantle. Jehilia was on the verge of panic, her hand locked white around her husband’s. The priest of Baracan came next and presented Justin with the ancient golden sword of the Emperor, which would be brought forth again only when another Emperor was crowned. Justin put out his hand and rested it upon the sacred blade, and Mara, anguished, could see his young fingers trembling.

She must not think of failure! Annoyed with herself, she raised her chin and risked a glance back. The cho-ja mages stood by the door, no longer towering with their
magnificent wings raised high. Now, they crouched on the floor, incanting counter-spells with a buzz that was like a dissonance beneath the rumbling booms of outside blows. The insectoids’ strength was great, but the powers of the united Assembly were more than even they could stand off indefinitely. No matter how greatly they were provoked or threatened, their stance had been made emphatically clear. Chakaha still ruled them. Under no circumstances would they use their magic to attack.

When at last the ward failed, the Assembly would be freed to exercise the extent of their wrath upon the convocation in the audience chamber.

Strangely, Mara felt no fear. Too much had been risked, and too much lost. As if the part of herself that had known consternation at the prospect of horrible death had been seared out by degrees since the events that had harrowed her in Thuril, she was beyond acknowledging risk. In her rock-deep state of confidence, she seemed to radiate unearthly power.

Even Hokanu regarded her with the beginnings of awe. She barely noted. She stepped back from the front rank participants in Justin’s coronation, saying quickly, ‘Praise our new Light of Heaven for me, when the crown is at last in place.’

Her husband showed surprise, even yet taken aback by Mara’s poise, though he had thought he understood all there was to know of her character. ‘What are you going to do?’ His voice was falsely firm; even he must acknowledge that the mages who defended them were failing.

Mara gave him a firm look. ‘Subterfuge,’ she murmured. ‘What else is left?’

He bowed to her. ‘Good Servant.’ And then he stared in amazement as she walked to the back of the hall. He would remember her in this moment, he resolved, and cherish
her unflagging spirit, even as the spells of the Assembly burst the wards and all of them became consumed by arcane fires.

Mara did nothing extraordinary. She reached the arched doors of the hall and bowed her respect to each of the cho-ja mages. They were too hard pressed to acknowledge beyond the merest flick of a forelimb. Then she paused by the portals and touched the wrists of the two imperial heralds who stood stationed at either side.

She conferred briefly with them. Hokanu, watching, was mystified. What was she doing? Her glance flashed up, met his: watch the ceremony, she seemed to chide.

He gave her a half-shrug and faced forward.

The earth rocked. On the dais, the priests’ incantation went raggedly out of rhythm, and yet, stubbornly, they persisted. Sparks shot across the closed screens. The wards were breached. They were failing. The next hard blow would shatter all protections.

The coronation was nearly completed. ‘Hail!’ cried the priests. They bowed, as the floor shook in thunderous report. ‘Hail!’ The crown was raised up by the High Priest of Chochocan. He frantically mouthed the blessing.

Lightning flashed. A stone fell from the domed skylight and struck the agate flooring with a crash. The crown slipped from the priest’s nerveless fingers and dropped crookedly to rest upon Justin’s red head.

The act was accomplished. The heir to the Acoma, child of a slave, wore the sacred imperial regalia of Tsuranuanni, and no power short of heaven could rescind his anointed authority.

‘Hail!’ shouted the priests in convocation. ‘Hail, Justin, ninety-two times Emperor, and new-made Light of Heaven!’

The words tangled with an annihilating crash of thunder and Mara’s shout to the heralds: ‘Now!’

Glittering gold in their ceremonial tabards, and pressed by a howling gust of air, the officials moved. They stepped to the great doors even as the cho-ja mages crumpled, grasped the rings, and threw wide the doors.

Against an onrushing wall of Black Robes, they performed their bows in perfect mirror image. ‘Hail to the new Light of Heaven!’ they rang out in unison. White-faced, but inarguably firm, they straightened and the one with the most imposing voice qualified. ‘Great Ones of the Assembly, hear me! You are hereby summoned to the Imperial Court.’

The lead ranks of Black Robes stumbled and rocked to a stop.

‘Summoned?’ shrieked a stupefied Motecha. Soot streaked his habit, and his red face sparkled with sweat. ‘By whom?’

The imperial heralds were well versed in maintaining poise in the face of intransigent courtiers. They performed impeccable bows. ‘By the Light of Heaven, Great One.’

‘What!’ Sevean shoved forward, his colleagues crowding on his heels.

The heralds held to their dignity. From the dais, beside the high priests, the imperial Seneschal called out, ‘Justin! Ninety-two times Emperor!’

Motecha spluttered. Sevean looked pole-axed. Hochopepa was for once in his life left speechless, and even the austere Shimone never thought to press the issue with magic, as every other man and woman in the hall bowed before their ultimate monarch.

Between the slowly rising forms of two utterly spent Chakaha mages, Mara smothered exultation. The heralds had handled themselves admirably. Their confidence had seemed so unimpeachable that even the Great Ones had not yet thought to question the implicit inference: that the defenses of her allies were not spent unto exhaustion, and
that protective wards had not in fact collapsed, but had been dropped deliberately.

‘We have no power left,’ the Chakaha mage to Mara’s left murmured in a near-inaudible frequency.

Mara waved a placating hand. ‘The Great Game,’ she murmured. ‘Now we must all play, or die.’

The Black Robes gaped.

Flanking the entrance to the audience hall, Imperial Whites in gold-edged armor stood at smart attention. Nowhere were warriors in Acoma or Shinzawai colors in evidence, as the magicians had expected to find.

They had anticipated the aftermath of struggle, with triumphant soldiers guarding their claimant until such time as the losers swore fealty. That was how disputed successions had been resolved in the past. But the Good Servant had not used compulsion to achieve her triumph. None rushed forward to hurl themselves in prostration and beg the mercy of the Black Robes, pleading for a reversal of Mara’s usurpation of authority. Quite the contrary, the magicians at the forefront noticed that any discomfort on the faces that greeted them stemmed instead from their own precipitous arrival. Everyone present seemed involved in conspiracy with the end Mara had achieved.

Drums thundered in tattoo, drowning Motecha’s shout for silence. He waved his raised hands to no avail, while colleagues on either side looked disgruntled by the flourish of trumpets and horns that sounded over the city in a peal not heard since the death of Ichindar. The notes even drowned the thudding of rocks from the siege engines.

Not far behind the leading magicians, Hochopepa leaned over to speak to Shimone. ‘Servants must have been creeping in here making preparations for hours.’

Though his words were intended to be private, Sevean overheard. ‘You imply a great deal of planning.’

Shimone treated his colleague to a gaze that masked
contempt. ‘Of all rulers in the Nations, Mara of the Acoma has never achieved
anything
without a plan.’

The fanfare rang away, leaving silence. ‘You are summoned,’ the imperial heralds repeated, stepping back to clear the entrance. A long corridor opened between the ranking courtiers and officials who waited inside. A glowering Motecha hastened ahead, the rest of the magicians crowding at his heels. All stared. The panoply of personages gathered at the head of the hall formed an impressive sight.

At the base of the imperial dais, the High Priests and Priestesses of the Twenty Gods of the Higher Heaven and Twenty Gods of the Lower Heaven stood in full regalia. Only at the coronation or the death of an Emperor would such a convocation be called for.

High, curved headdresses framed their faces, sparkling with lacquerwork, precious stones, and rare metal. Attendant upon each was a pair of acolytes, bearing the ceremonial badges of office each prelate was entitled to display. These, too, were gem-studded or adorned with metal bands and silk streamers. Only the Sisters of Sibi were plain; their black, featureless appearance in ominous contrast to the panoply of plumage and finery. The community of temples was represented in its entirety. A delegation of one hundred and twenty from the holy orders of every significant divinity in the Empire made an impressive sight.

The Great Ones gave way to reluctant awe.

Hochopepa sidled closer to Fumita and Shimone in reaction to this emphatic demonstration of temple support for Mara’s intrigues. While no single priest could rival any magician in raw power, the High Father Superiors of Turakamu and Jastur, as well as the Sisters of Sibi, commanded respect, even from Great Ones. Spellcraft had preserved the audience hall intact, despite the Assembly’s mightiest conjury. Hochopepa was not so irreverent
toward the will of heaven that he discounted the force of divine favor.

Caution, he decided, was called for.

Incense swirled on the air. The polished marble floor sparkled with dust from cracked plaster and powdered glass from the shattered skylight. Such signs of violence could not divert the magicians from noting further details on their approach to the high dais: two empty reed cages festooned with ribbons of imperial white. The carpet beneath the imperial thrones lay heaped with veils, lately removed from the bride in ritual order, according to the time-honored rites of a Tsurani state marriage ceremony.

As the dismayed delegation of Great Ones reached the supplicants’ rail beneath, an imperial herald struck the floor three times with a bronze-shod staff, crying out, ‘Justin, ninety-two times Emperor!’

The gold-armored royal honor guard knelt in homage as a boy in shining robes arose from the throne. The gathered nobles dropped to their knees. The boy did not look cowed; his shoulders were straight and his chin high despite the weight of his golden armor and the massive crown of state with its topaz stones and fretwork. At his side arose Jehilia, Princess no longer, but Empress in her own right, the diamond-set circlet of office fitted over her bridal headdress. As the magicians drew to a halt, Justin held out his hand to his Lady. She arose and stood beside him.

Motecha went white. Around him some magicians bowed from the waist in the obeisance a Great One traditionally offered the Light of Heaven. Shimone, Fumita, and Hochopepa were among the first to give the Emperor and his bride due acknowledgment, while still other Black Robes deliberated in stupefaction.

Motecha found his voice. ‘What mummery is this?’

The High Priest of Juran advanced in stiff displeasure. ‘We come to honor the new Light of Heaven, Great
One.’ Pointedly he added, ‘As is every man’s proper duty.’

Sevean cried, ‘Upon what claim does this … boy presume to rule the Empire?’ He stabbed a finger at Justin, but his eyes sought out the Lady Mara, who had moved to the base of the dais among the priests, in robes as fine as her son’s.

She did not deign to answer, but allowed the High Priest of Juran speech in her place: ‘Justin is of the blood imperial, his adoption into Ichindar’s family formalised when his mother was named Servant of the Empire.’ With that, the priest bowed in respect toward Mara. ‘He is the chosen husband of the Empress Jehilia – Ichindar’s direct blood heir – and the marriage just completed was sanctioned by the Imperial Consort, Lady Tamara. All has been done according to the laws of man and the higher Law of Heaven. If somewhat hurried, the wedding abided strictly by custom.’

One of the most fervent traditionalists, Lord Setark of the Ukudabi, made his way in the wake of the Great Ones through the double doors, which remained open. He and his army had been sequestered inside the city, prepared to aid Jiro should the Omechan fail in their attack upon the walls. He overheard the priest’s recitation of protocols with disfavor and raised a contentious shout. ‘The High Council never ratified this choice!’

Priests and magicians faced one another in uneasy confrontation. Redoubled tension charged the atmosphere at Lord Setark’s outburst, and now the lines were drawn: acknowledge Justin as the new Light of Heaven, or resort to force of arms as the strongest nobles contended through bloodshed to seize power.

With the walls under assault by the Omechan, the catastrophe of the latter decision would be immediately felt. And the staid majority of magicians were still reluctant
to become embroiled in politics. They were not of the Great Game of the Council; they were above it.

Akani stepped to the fore, the swirl of his black robe the only movement in the frozen tableau. He took stance beside Motecha and raised his orator’s voice. ‘Your call for ratification is a moot point, I fear. According to record, the High Council was disbanded by the ninety-first Light of Heaven and, despite repeated petitions, was
never again reconvened.
’

The High Priest of Chochocan swept into a bow as polite as it was firm. ‘The forms have been observed. The succession is established. Justin of the Acoma is ninety-second Light of Heaven, and the gods themselves are his judge. His ascension to the golden throne will stand, and the temples will cast out for heresy anyone who dares disrupt his rule.’ He looked squarely at Motecha as he said, ‘Even if such were a Great One.’

Motecha’s glower deepened. ‘You dare!’

Then a voice that grated upon the ears like a cry of pain said, ‘Do not oppose us, Great One.’

The timid cringed, while the boldest turned toward the shrouded figure of the most senior Sister of Sibi, whose speech echoed from the depths of her cowl. No light would ever reveal her features – it was held the Sisters embraced death within themselves when they joined their Goddess’s order. ‘Would you have us unleash our Mad Dancers in your City of Magicians?’

Many nobles shuddered at the mention of those warriors who served death, whose mere touch was fatal, as they leaped and gyrated until exhaustion claimed their lives.

The High Priest of Jastur struck his metal breastplate with his gauntlet. ‘And will you face my warrior priests? We have little to fear in your magic, Great One, when our god is invoked as our shield. Can you face our blessed war hammers with impunity as we smash the walls of your city?’

Motecha felt as any ordinary Tsurani would in his position; beliefs ingrained since childhood were not absolutely dispelled by the sureties of his authority. In an effort to conciliate, he said, ‘We do not argue the legitimacy of Emperor Justin.’ Irritation edged his manner as, in concession to this point, he bent his aged back in the bow he withheld earlier. He straightened up and leveled an accusatory finger at the Lady who stood at the foot of the dais, and whose actions had escaped all restraint. ‘Lady Mara of the Acoma,’ he intoned, ‘you have flouted tradition until your actions are a stink in the nostrils of our ancestors. You have hidden behind your office, misused public opinion, and caused confusion in the Assembly’s ranks, all for the purpose of breaking our edict against waging war upon the Anasati. Your armies attacked on the Plain of Nashika, and Lord Jiro died at the hand of your husband. I name you guilty, and as Great One of the Empire, I am mandated to do that which the Assembly has voted best for the Nations! Our kind are outside the law! Your son shall be Emperor, may he live long and rule wisely, but you shall not be left at large to stand as his regent!’

‘Who would you appoint in Mara’s place?’ Shimone called out acerbically. ‘The Omechan?’

The comment was ignored. Unopposed by his colleagues, Motecha raised his arm high. Green energies sparked around his fist, and he chanted in a harsh language known only by the magicians.

Hochopepa and Shimone flinched at his utterance, and Akani stepped quickly away. Fumita cried out, ‘No!’

Motecha continued his incantation, secure in his right as a Black Robe.

Lady Mara turned pale, but did not flinch or flee. The lights of Motecha’s gathering spell flickered across her face and caught sparks of reflection in her eyes. Calmly, she murmured something inaudible to the bystanders.

Motecha’s lip curled as he called out in contempt between phrases, ‘Prayer will not save you, Lady! Neither can these priests, whatever powers they may have wielded in warding this hall against our entry! The gods themselves might save you, but they are the only power capable.’

‘The priests had no part in the warding!’ Mara retorted clearly. ‘You may hurl your spells at me, Motecha, but hear warning. Your magic shall harm none, least of all me.’

Motecha’s features pinched with fury. The Lady was not even afraid! Her end would be painful, he vowed, as he drew breath to snap off the phrase that would release his gathered death spell. The retribution Lady Mara had more than earned would sear her to a husk where she stood.

Mara closed her eyes, shaken at last by the immediacy of her peril.

‘No!’ intoned a voice with a resonance that held nothing human. Its tone shot chills through every person present. On either side of Mara, unseen where they crouched behind the enveloping vestments of the priests, two figures reared erect. Their bodies were patterned in intricate colors, and with a clap of disturbed air, they extended twelve feet of iridescent wings aloft. The majesty of the cho-ja mages made the most costly imperial raiment seem tawdry by comparison.

‘The Lady Mara shall not be harmed!’ the creatures cried in unison. ‘She is under the protection of the mages of Chakaha!’

Fumita cried out, speech wrenched from him in stupefied recognition. ‘The Forbidden! Daughter, what have you done?’

Motecha stood frozen; the powers he had summoned crackled and dissipated into air, the spell incomplete as his concentration was disrupted by shock. Other magicians blanched as the significance of the creatures before them registered.

‘Lady Mara is blameless,’ contradicted the cho-ja mages,
their oratory locked in a fluting two-part harmony. ‘It was by your own deed, magicians, that the ancient pact was breached, for until you destroyed a hive our Queens within the Empire stayed bound to the requirements of the treaty. Never once were magical arts employed or outside aid given to Mara, until you broke the covenant! The blame lies with you! It was cho-ja arts that protected this hall. In those lands outside imperial borders, human, our arts have grown and flourished. In protection and preservation, you are not our equal. If we choose, the magicians of Chakaha can ward Lady Mara from your death spells for the rest of her life.’

As one, the Black Robes hesitated. Never in history had any human not gifted with magic dared to defy the Assembly, and never with a plot so devious: to lure the magicians themselves into destroying the very treaty their predecessors had forged.

No Black Robe could doubt the abilities of the cho-ja mages; their kind could not lie. By their word, they held means to thwart the most destructive of spells the Great Ones could conjure. Each candidate for the Assembly had studied the old texts; not one who achieved his master’s robe failed to understand the significance of the markings on a cho-ja magician. The complexity of their patterns grew with the ascendance of their mastery; the pair who allied with Lady Mara were old in their art, and powerful beyond imagining.