The Usurper's Crown (60 page)

They did not go unannounced. Three days before, a hired messenger had accompanied the hired guards into the Heart of the World bearing a courteous message written on translucent rice paper naming Avanasy, and Ingrid, as messengers from the empress of Isavalta who begged an audience with the emperor of Hung Tse so that they might deliver the empress’s “sagacious and urgent words.” Two days ago, a message sealed in saffron ribbons had been returned, fixing the time for their arrival.

Avanasy was barely able to sleep the night before. Ingrid, awake with her own worries, had seen him pacing the gardens and gone down to join him. They said nothing to each other, only walked side by side across lawns silvered by moonlight. They had not been able to discover any news of Medeoan. Lien had consulted his numerous sources carefully. Cai Yun had taken Ingrid with her, visiting the ladies of several rich and possibly noble families, all of whom had relatives serving or living in the palaces of the Heart, but her discreet questions of these ladies yielded nothing.

Was Medeoan here, incognito? It was possible, but there should be servant’s gossip if that was true. Had she yet to arrive? What could have held her up? Her route should have been more direct than theirs, even with their magical aid.

Had she died? Had she been captured? Was Isavalta now truly in the hands of the Usurper? Ingrid knew the thoughts rang around Avanasy’s head, and she had no answers for him. But first and foremost among them was, is my charge, my student, safe?

To make matters even worse, there was still no word from Peshek.

So they walked, and they held hands, and they looked at the moon reflected in the still garden pools. They held each other close as the night wore away, parting at dawn with a soft kiss to prepare for the day ahead.

Now, the eastern gates of the Heart of the World stood open before them. Soldiers in black lacquered armor with saffron sashes stood rank on rank, some holding colorful pennants, some holding poles tipped by wicked-looking hooked blades or spears. In the center of the martial display stood two … people. Ingrid could not readily identify whether they were male or female, their features were so obscured by a myriad of garish tattoos. The person on the right seemed marked mostly in veins of green and brown. The person on the left had been decorated in sharply angled stripes of silver, gold and copper. They both wore heavy robes of an identical cut and style of wrapping, save that the right-hand person wore a rich emerald robe covered all over with embroidered tortoises, and the left was in what appeared to be cloth of silver with copper trimming.

“The Minister of Earth and the Minister of Metal,” murmured Avanasy to Ingrid. “Two of the Nine Elders. We are indeed honored, and the Heart is indeed suspicious of us.”

The sedan’s bearers halted inside the gate, set their conveyance upon the ground and bowed to the ministers who stood solemnly before them. The ministers did not even nod to acknowledge this gesture, but kept their gazes fixed steadily on Avanasy as he helped Ingrid out of the chair so that they in their turn could stand before these representatives of the emperor and bow. Ingrid held her hands before her as Avanasy had instructed, and bowed no lower than he did, such gestures being serious matters of etiquette here. The ministers bowed in return, in perfect unison with the soldiers who stood guard behind them.

“We have been instructed by the most elevated, the Heart of the Sun and Earth, to say that you are welcome to the Heart of the World on behalf of your Mistress and his Sister Empress, Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradovosh,” said the Minister of Metal.

“Please return our thanks to his Reverent Majesty,” returned Avanasy. They had not yet straightened up and Ingrid was beginning to feel the strain in her back. “For the grace of this welcome and his willingness to receive these humble messengers.”

The pleasantries having been delivered, it was all right to stand straight again. The two ministers turned gracefully and the guards parted for them. In perfect step, they walked through the great gates. Ingrid glanced at Avanasy with raised brows. He just gestured for her to walk beside him and together they entered the Heart of the World.

Until that moment, Ingrid had been feeling fairly comfortable with what was happening to her. Now, with the great palace spread before her and the impassive soldiers in their black-and-saffron armor escorting them up the expanse of stone, she suddenly a fraud; a rough, country girl done up in borrowed silks, a caricature in a bad pantomime. Her mouth had gone dry and she had the unaccountable desire to hike up her skirts and run. It occurred to her that this was exactly the effect this splendid vista was supposed to inspire. The thought did nothing to put the strength back in her spine.

After what seemed an age of walking and watching the spreading scarlet-and-emerald palace with its great golden tower approach, they reached the beautifully lacquered doors. Yet more soldiers bowed before the two ministers who led them, and then drew the doors open to allow them admittance to a great pillared hallway hung with elegant paintings executed on pale paper.

Ingrid worked hard to keep her mouth closed before the splendor that opened before her as she stepped across the threshold. As soon as her thin-soled shoes touched the polished floor, however, the air swam in front of Ingrid’s eyes, and the whole world changed.

The palace was full of ghosts.

Gaunt and gray, they lined the corridor, watching all the passersby with their blank eyes. Some were bloody, some held their mouths slack, some bore burns or brands on their shadowy flesh. Some were blank-eyed maidens who wept bloody tears and wiped them away with their long, black hair. If she could have heard their wailing, Ingrid was certain she would have been deaf in an instant.

Ingrid felt she could not breathe for the press of them. If the ministers could see them, they gave no sign as they continued serenely down the wide hall. The ghosts reached out to them as they passed, some beseeching, some cursing and crying, others kneeling in respect or desperate humility; Ingrid could not tell.

Avanasy’s hand brushed hers, and Ingrid jerked her gaze sideways to look at him. His face was straight ahead, but his eyes flickered.

What is it?
he was asking. She must have hesitated without being aware of it, or her distress must show in her features.

“Ghosts.” She breathed the word in English, hoping no one heard her speak.

Avanasy sucked in a breath, but did not look at her. They could not afford any conversation right now, especially not any that could be perceived as secret. Ingrid struggled to school her features into a calm blank, but she could not tell if she succeeded at all.

In truth, she could barely see her way because her gaze kept getting caught by the lonely, empty eyes of the dead. They seemed barely aware of her, and relief at this realization almost buckled her knees. All their attention was on the ministers. Watching them in their shuddering, pitiful crying, mouthing their pain in an attempt to shout it, Ingrid suddenly understood what had moved Grace to make her promises to the drowned sailor lost in the grip of Lake Superior, and this was worse, hundreds of times worse, because there were so many more dead.

All Ingrid’s attention being taken up by the crowds of dead, she barely noticed that they had reached the end of the corridor, or that the interior gates had opened onto a grand room that was even more opulent than the corridor they had just passed down, with pillars of semiprecious stone and elaborately enameled statues of stern and beautiful beings she could not take for anything but gods standing guard with their weapons raised. But again, these were all things she barely noticed, for the dead were here too. Some of these were soldiers standing around the base of the dais, rank on rank of ghostly troops ready, it seemed, to defend the young man in the saffron robe who sat at the top of the curving steps next to an older man robed completely in white. Others of the dead were old men, young men and boys, some as young as three or four, each of whom wore a robe identical to that of the young man sitting on the dais. In attendance with them were dozens of women, their robes and elaborately done hair heavy with ornamentation. None of these cried as did the ghosts in the corridor. These whispered among themselves, pointing to the ministers, and to Avanasy, and to Ingrid. Some looked concerned. Some merely shook their heads.

The two ministers mounted the steps halfway up the dais and turned to face Ingrid and Avanasy. It was only then that she saw there was another minister already there. This one was robed and marked in white with gulls, and snow geese the prominent motif for the decoration. This, Ingrid assumed, must be the Minister of the North.

She only had a bare moment to note all this before she remembered what she was supposed to be doing at this time. Both she and Avanasy knelt and pressed their hands and foreheads against the cool, silky-smooth floor. Under her breath, Ingrid counted to thirty. Part of her was sorry the time was so short. Huddled facedown like this, she could not see a single one of the pale, attentive dead.

But, beside her she heard the rustle of silk as Avanasy stood, and so she had to stand herself. The ghosts around them all looked stern or disdainful, and Ingrid felt herself withering under their blank-eyed attention.

As she had been told would happen, the emperor made a series of elaborate signs to the old man in white who was the Imperial Voice. As he did, all the ghosts filling the great chamber stilled themselves and seemed to strain to listen.

“We extend our welcome and hospitality to the messengers who have come at the word of my Sister Empress, Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradovosh of Eternal Isavalta, and I am now well disposed to hear the missive they carry.”

Avanasy had considered long and hard what he would need to say at this moment. Even so, Ingrid saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Fear took her, because the ghosts saw it too, and they whispered to each other, pointing and smiling cruelly behind their hands.

Despite that flicker, and despite what Ingrid knew he would have to say next, Avanasy’s voice rang out clear and steady.

“Esteemed and Reverent Majesty, I must speak to you with slow and reluctant words. I must speak of treachery and the usurpation of rightful power. I must also speak of a danger to both the Heart of the World and Eternal Isavalta.”

None of the audience, living or dead, moved for a moment. Then the emperor made his signs to the Voice.

“This prologue is indeed grave. Let us hear your words.”

So, Avanasy told them. He told them what he knew about Kacha’s treachery and his plans for war. He told them rather more than he knew about the rallying of the loyal Lords Master, raising their own armies to fight the usurper. With an utterly straight face, he told them about the empress being escorted across the borders by her loyal followers to take council with her brother emperor and how she desired to speak with him about how their powers could be combined for the protection and prosperity of not only their realms, but of the right order of the world.

All this time, Ingrid watched the ghosts. They stood still as he spoke of Kacha. At first, Ingrid thought they were listening attentively, but then, she saw how their pale faces were set. Bored. The dead heard Avanasy’s dire warnings, and they were bored. When he spoke of the loyal nobles of Isavalta rallying to the cause of their mistress, the dead smirked and whispered back and forth to each other. Ingrid imagined she heard the rustle of ethereal voices. When Avanasy spoke of the empress being escorted by her followers, the ghosts began to laugh. They were not merry laughs, for their faces were hard and cruel. Their hollow eyes squinted, and would have rolled, she was sure, if they had orbs still in their sockets. They pointed at Avanasy, and they mouthed silent jeers. It was all Ingrid could do to stand rigid among the crowd of taunting dead, their hands waving in gestures of mockery, the jibes she could not hear passing back and forth between them. Her ears burned with anger, shame, and the reflexive effort of straining to hear what could never become audible to her.

Her fists and jaw clenched; she could not help it. She forced her eyes to look ahead of her, to focus on the living who stood on the dais, the one place in the great room that was free of the jeering ghosts. It was only then she noticed that the Minister of Earth was staring straight at her.

Ingrid, unable to endure another searching presence, dropped her own gaze to the floor, studying the polished boards at her feet. But she knew they were there, the ghosts, the ministers, the emperor, the Voice. They knew something was wrong with her, and by extension with Avanasy. She could not stand steady in the face of the mockery of the dead and the inquiry of the living, and her failure was ruining all of Avanasy’s careful planning.

Ingrid forced her head up in time to see that the ghosts had sobered, and were again straining toward their emperor, who was, in turn, signaling his Voice as to what was to be said next. The Minister of Earth, however, still had his (her?) gaze pinned to Ingrid. She made herself watch the emperor and his Voice.

“We are most concerned by what you have told us. You may be assured that we will be at once deploying members of our personal guard to watch the roads down the peninsula so that the empress may be properly greeted and escorted when she arrives in Hung Tse. In the meantime, you will be given quarters where you may rest and take refreshment while we consider what else may be done regarding these most serious tidings.”

Avanasy bowed, and barely in time, Ingrid remembered to do the same. Four servants who had gone unnoticed by Ingrid, the living lost among the dead, stepped sedately forward and bowed to them. Avanasy nodded in acknowledgment, and they followed the quartet out of the throne room. All the way, Ingrid could feel the eyes of the living and the dead staring at her back.

Returning to the hallways was agony. At least the haunts in the throne room had seemed composed, as if they accepted their fate. The dead who lingered in the corridors were in torment. Tears and blood both streaked their faces and hands. They wailed to heavens that seemed to have long ago ceased to hear them, and reached out to the living who never could. Some, to Ingrid’s horror, seemed to realize she could see them, and they fell on their knees, reaching up to her, mouthing their pleas. She wanted so much to shrink against Avanasy, to have him shield her from the desperate, tortured spirits, but she could not. There were living beings in the corridor. Men, mostly, in fine robes, or soldiers in armor, going to and fro about their own business, but most definitely taking note of the two foreigners and their escort. She could not show such overt weakness yet, but neither could she repress the tremors seizing hold of her.