CHAPTER NINE
“Y ou truly are your brother’s sister.” Augustine stated, shaking his head.
She placed the freshly cleaned bowls on the table while he worked on the consistency of the new wax the emperor commissioned. Previous mixtures attained the correct color but could not pick up all the intricacies of the seal.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“I was not expecting Captain Tsenturian’s manservant this morning.”
Truthfully, neither had Petra.
Though he stood by it, Rand’s decision to make her his courier had been impulsive. He was irritated by the councilman and whatever strife rose during the daily assembly meetings. Taken aback by the whole thing, she was oddly thrilled to have been caught in the upheaval of a mighty man’s rash determination.
More specifically, thrilled by the nearness of him in that moment. His features and physique might have been cut from stone by a masterful architect but the burgundy heat from his eyes flooded his body with a burning virility. In one fell swoop, Petra was in awe and overwhelmed by him.
His presence was denser than the surrounding air. All the suppositions and myths she had heard about men of Shivalry were true. He was larger than life, and yet, human. Anger and impatience had not been drowned out by the lofty position he had chosen to endure.
“In the letters my brother wrote, he told me how quickly he advanced, even here.”
Augustine nodded. “He did. I do not have to tell you the countenance of his face and how he was gifted at listening to others. People wanted to tell him about their lives.”
“For as much as he shared with me over the years, I wish I had known of the struggle that led to his death.”
The corner of Augustine’s lip twitched but it did not impact the even turns of the mixing utensil in his hand.
“I know little. He received the attention of one of the ladies-in-waiting. She asked him to be her personal courier, but he turned her down.”
“Who?”
“It’s improper to speak of.”
“Why? I ask about my own.”
“She may be empress. The city speculates who will be chosen but the emperor knows. I should not like to find I gossiped about our new sovereign mere hours before she rises to power.”
Petra folded her hands and pressed down on the divots between her knuckle bones. “Speaking her name when it answers my question is not gossip.”
He looked at her. “Aldney listened when I spoke.”
“I am not my brother.”
“No. Only the ghost of his face is in yours.”
She thought he’d say nothing more. He was testing the viscosity of the wax, and it required his full attention. Besides, she should be happy to know this small piece of the mystery.
But Augustine did say one more thing.
“Melisende.”
Lady Melisende.
The name rung with familiarity and her mind raced to figure out why, though she could not think fast enough. There had been so much talk about all the women who lived in the Mansion of Delicate Petals. At this point, Petra had heard a great deal about all of them and their habits. Theophania lived in near silence. Sunniva admired archery and practiced it secretly. Bisgu doted on the cultivation of plants. And Melisende—Lady Melisende was known for her flights of fancy. One week she lived for breeding rabbits. The next she played instruments like it had been her entire life.
And it had been her name Petra first heard when she stood before all five captains of Shivalry that fateful night. Her name attached to Rand’s.
“Rand is a monastic, and you are a slave to your codpiece. Somewhere between is the man Melisende wants.”
Anger pushed down on her chest.
Does the pattern of life use me for its plaything? The same night I stand before the man who buried my brother, I hear the name of the woman who was involved with Aldney’s death!
Petra ground her teeth. Although the courier’s cloak offered her better food, better housing, more money and a higher standing, she remained insignificant. Her sleeves were not long enough to approach Lady Melisende.
Even if she is made empress, I will not speak her name with devotion. She looked upon my brother as an object to be owned. Just another one of her playthings to be dropped or picked up at her fancy.
Yet, at the same time she cursed the noblewoman, she chided her brother as if her words could reprimand him now.
You couldn’t have dealt with it? You would have lived! Mother and I wouldn’t be in such pain. Was she asking so much? Had she invited you to her bed? Your heart was not hers; intercourse was just another task in the day. You could have closed your eyes when she demanded your embrace and still lived honestly.
Still be alive.
It was true and selfish. For her own comfort, she wanted him to sacrifice his morality. Petra felt she would have done the same; the cause far outweighed the motive.
“Take your lips from between your teeth.”
She blinked back to the present moment and saw Augustine watching her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Aldney is dead. Your memories of him will live on. Save yourself and look no further, Petra.”
“Do you fear what I will find?”
“Yes,” he answered flatly. “Ugliness surrounded your brother before he took his life. I do not think you will find solace in knowing the truth.”
“I know the truth is that he did not kill himself! He turned down Lady Melisende and—”
He struck her mouth. “Silence. Her name does not belong on your tongue. Assist me or make yourself useful elsewhere.”
***
A LL ABLE BODIES OF the city stood upon the street, perched out of windows, and waiting upon balconies. Overhead, the moon radiated an orange luminescence into the dark blue night sky. The wind this night was tipped with frost and seemed to make the stars flicker all the brighter.
Amid the crowds, Petra stood next to Miriam.
Jesters and musicians had ceased their tunes and antics. Dozens of dancers held elegant positions, as if momentarily transformed into statues. The emperor’s white elk stood, flanked by imperial guards, the customary saddle removed and a long white blanket of silk and cashmere replacing it. The ends were held up by all the ladies-in-waiting.
Each of them attired in white, one would be asked to step back from the elk and mount it before the emperor placed a red stole around her shoulders.
From the imperial palace, preceded and followed by an entourage of male servants holding three-tiered candelabras, Emperor Cyprian would process down the thirteen marble steps in utter silence. Only when he selected his queen would the golden pheasant, kept in a cage of silver and red jade, be brought forth. The satin ribbon tied around its beak would be pulled off and the bird’s song herald the beginning of a new regime.
All the Cloistered City waited in silence, poised on the tip of a momentous occasion.
Cyprian should have chosen an empress ten years ago. Ascending the throne at a young age, leniency had been granted to him. A boy, only recently made a man, bereft of his father from a terrible illness, could not be expected to handle an empress and the consorts that would come in her wake. However, leniency morphed into latency. Other countries assumed Vale was weak. There were years of sporadic skirmishes and battles, and he was advised to wait for peace.
Now he would disrupt it.
For as many delighted faces as there were throughout the sea of bodies, there were tense expressions, too. Next to Petra, Miriam was one of them.
Of all the ladies-in-waiting, one was the daughter of Bessarabiah. She was a gift from the country, an offering of peace at the time. In these recent months, however, her true purpose was made known. She was the link between Vale and Bessarabiah, aligning the countries for further conquering of the Bohemian Islands. If Lady Sunniva was not Cyprian’s empress, Bessarabiah would aim their arrows at Vale.
Miriam’s grandchildren lived in Vale’s outlying towns. Her husband’s grave was there as well.
The Benign Mother-of-State would not appear tonight. There were rumors she had not risen from her bed, stricken with who her son might select. It might not be long before a new heir was conceived; the end of her reign neared.
An unseen bell tolled. All heads turned.
The bronze doors of the emperor’s palace swung inwards, and Cyprian stepped forward. The servants with candles flanked him. Clad entirely in formal black robes, edged with crimson and gold thread, the glow of the candles reflected in the dense fabric. His shoes glistened with precious stones and rings covered his fingers.
In defiance of his father’s rule, Cyprian did not wear his hair tied in a knot at the top of his head. Instead, he chose to reinstate the hair of his grandfather’s time, closely shaved to offset a long, braided beard, oiled and glossy for this auspicious night.
In the same sentence, his cruelty and benevolence had been praised by his people. In heated, hushed conversations, his decisions and failure to act were condemned. Many said he was chosen by the Heavens, sanctified by the Ancients. Petra was criminal to think that if he was not dressed so lavishly, Cyprian looked like any other man.
The unseen bell tolled again, and he stopped at the bottom of the steps. The first captain of Shivalry moved ahead of him. Captain Two and Rand maneuvered their mounts smoothly to stand at his right and left. The fourth and fifth came behind their ruler. Now Cyprian moved the white elk towards the beautiful women, like something out of a fable about innocence and fertility.
A cough or sneeze at this moment, the feeble cry of a child, or an old man clearing his throat meant death. The mouths of the ladies-in-waiting trembled but not one would release a sigh. There was only the sound of the emperor’s robes and his servants’ steps trailing him.
Tradition dictated that his chosen bride be singled out by him stepping on the train of her gown. However, many wondered if Cyprian might adopt the method of his grandfather and pull his empress from the others by grasping her hair.
He did neither.
Painstakingly, Cyprian circled the women. Behind each one he paused and then moved on. The white garment covering the elk shook from nervous, unsteady hands. Several of the women shut their eyes and sucked their lips over their teeth. Meanwhile their ruler stalked them three times around.
From the corner of her eye, Petra saw Miriam wipe tears away and when Cyprian stopped behind Lady Theophania, she staggered. For fear she might make a sound, Petra hugged the old woman close.
Not Bessarabiah’s daughter! He flouted their gift.
Sunniva fainted. Cyprian placed his hands around Theophania’s long neck.
In a clear, loud voice he acclaimed, “Look upon your empress, people of Vale!”
The white cloth was dropped. Servants rushed to place Theophania atop the elk and the emperor draped a long red stole over her shoulders.
Shouts and cheers loud enough to disturb the dead erupted. Six men carried the golden pheasant forth. In-between the bars of its cage, Cyprian slipped his hand and freed its beak. A brazen squawk shot upwards, like the blare of a reed flute played incorrectly. Sharp and distinct, it sounded less like the pleasant call of a duck and more like the harrowing sound of a crow.
Aggressive. Proud and brash.
A call to arms. A battle cry. Let Bessarabiah come; Vale was not afraid.