Shadow War - Deborah Chester [49]
Even the coronation ceremony itself had to be conducted differently. There was some problem with the Vindi-cant priesthood over the matter of the wording. Elandra, beset with seamstresses fitting her for her coronation robes, had not yet learned the words of her own oaths because she kept getting revisions. Her political tutor, Miles Milgard, stamped in and out of her chambers regularly, trying to teach her history or inform her of the current state of alliances and trade agreements while she stood on a cushioned stool like a mannequin, with four seamstresses surrounding her, pinning and stitching as fast as they could.
Her gown was fashioned entirely from cloth of gold, its stiff heavy folds reaching to the floor and extending behind her in a train that pulled at her shoulders. Over it she would wear the robes, so heavily embroidered with gold thread and trimmed with rare white sable from Trau that they were too stiff for her to sit in. The robes and gown combined weighed almost as much as she. Every morning she had to don a bulky contraption fashion of thin plate metal and practice walking back and forth in it. It was crucial that she be able to move gracefully in her first and most important public appearance. She had to be able to curtsy in the robes without falling, and she would have to kneel and rise to her feet without assistance. Then there was the crown to manage as well, and she would be given a scepter to hold aloft—without wavering—as she recited her oath.
At night, too weary for restful sleep, she often dreamed that she was climbing a thousand steps with a tremendous burden on her back. She climbed and climbed forever, until her legs and back were aching, yet the steps never ended.
How amazing it was to think that just over a year ago, she was an insignificant girl in her father’s household, working as a menial in her half-sister’s service, assigned to run errands and do stitchery.
Even now, when she tried to think back to her wedding day, the memory was clouded in a haze. She had been so nervous she thought she would faint. Heavily veiled and richly gowned, she had gone into the temple on the arm of her beaming father. Vindicant priests had chanted over her and the emperor. She and Kostimon held hands, and the high priest tied a silk cord around their wrists. Then had come the blessing, and the drink of sacramental wine. Past that, she had only vague recollections of sitting for hours under the suffocating veil while the feasting went on. She’d been too terrified to eat or drink all day, but Kostimon had been kind to her.
He had come to her chamber and unveiled her. For a long time he had stood gazing at her, as though to drink in her beauty. He had been old and strange in his festive clothes of imperial purple, a tasseled cap on his head. His skin was creased and weathered, but not as much as she expected. He looked no older than a man of seventy, instead of nine hundred years more. His eyes were yellow and very wise. They twinkled at her before he smiled. Only then did she relax and begin to feel that she would survive.
“You are very lovely my dear,” he had said to her. “Exquisite, in an unusual way, and a little like someone I loved long, long ago. If the gods are kind to us, perhaps I will