Shadow War - Deborah Chester [102]
The doors ahead of her swung open without warning, making her start.
“Majesty?” a chancellor said, peering in.
At that moment she could not recall his name.
“All is well?” he asked.
She found herself consumed with nervousness. Wordlessly she nodded her head.
He smiled and bowed to her. “It is time.”
Before her, standing over near the head of the stairs, a small herald filled his lungs and bawled, “Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Elandra!”
Trumpets flourished, and Elandra walked forward to the head of the stairs.
The dignitaries stood below her, arranged in order of rank at the foot of the white marble stairs and beyond. A crimson carpet ran down the exact center of the stairs, like a stain of blood. It blurred before her, and Elandra wondered how she would ever walk down so many steps in these cumbersome robes without losing her balance.
Then to her left came a slight commotion. Elandra turned her head and saw Kostimon walking toward her.
He was resplendent in gold armor, embossed with a scene from his most famous battle. His long-sleeved tunic worn under the breastplate was of cloth of gold, and he wore a ruby earring in his left ear. A ruby and gold diadem glittered from among his white curls, and his rings flashed as he stretched out his hand to her.
Breathless at this honor, especially when she thought she would have to walk alone to the temple like a mere consort, Elandra reached out and let him grip her hand hard in his. She was trembling as she sank into a deep curtsy at his feet.
“Rise, little one,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
She gazed up at him through her tears and wanted to fling her arms around his neck in joy and relief. He was treating her as a wife. In this, her first public appearance, Kostimon had chosen to honor her in full standing. She was forgiven.
“Rise,” he said, sounding amused. “This is your day. You cannot spend it at my feet.”
But her emotional reaction had pleased him. She heard it in his voice.
Gracefully she rose to her feet, her hand still clasped in his, and watched his eyes widen as he took in the sight of her. She saw admiration and—for the first time—a stirring of desire.
He smiled. “Magnificent.”
There was no time for her to answer, even if she could have spoken.
The emperor tucked her hand inside his arm and led her down the staircase with the ease of a man who had done this countless times before. The trumpets resounded around them. The drums rolled on and on. Sunlight was shining down fully on the staircase through a window in the domed roof. Elandra felt as though she was descending through music and light, a magical creature without a body.
She had never been so happy.
The courtiers and dignitaries, resplendent in native dress from every province, bowed and curtsied as they passed. Elandra wished desperately to see her father’s craggy face among the throng, but the sea of faces blurred together. She could not concentrate, could not focus. Her only solid piece of reality was Kostimon’s shoulder brushing against hers and the firm grip of his hand.
Outside, the frosty air struck her face, and she found it exhilarating. Kostimon frowned and suddenly looked like an old man as he waited for an attendant to fit a cloak around his shoulders and fuss with the folds.
“It’s a damnably long walk,” he grumbled.
She gazed out across the endless parade ground where the lines of soldiers and cavalry stood at perfect attention. The crimson carpet stretched the entire distance across it, leading all the way to the Temple of Gault at the far end. She could have floated the distance, but Kostimon was an old man.
Concern touched her. She turned to him, but he was frowning and paid her no attention.
A chariot of gold festooned with flowers and drawn by four white horses rolled up at the foot of the palace steps. It looked old-fashioned and quaint. Seeing