Shadow War - Deborah Chester [58]
She could defy him. She could refuse to proceed further. She could ruin her father, destroy the long-range plans of the Penestricians, walk away from an empire teetering on the edge of civil war and chaos. She could retreat to a Penestrican stronghold and live out her days in silence.
And wasn’t that what the Vindicants were praying for? Wouldn’t that hand everything to Tirhin on a platter?
She frowned, feeling more confused than ever. She did not know the prince, did not know if he was a good man or a bad one. He was handsome, certainly, but that did not mark a man’s worth. How could she judge his merits, or decide the course of his future? Who had given her the right to decide anything? She was alone, with no one to advise her. At least no one she trusted.
She went on pacing, feeling pinned under the direct scrutiny of the gods, and could not determine what she should do.
Chapter Eight
All during the morning her entourage surrounded her like magpies, coming and going in excitement, chattering constantly. There was an atmosphere of great expectancy among her ladies, who knew nothing of the truth. Rumors flew in all directions, but the throne room had been locked—even her private passage was now barred—with guards at the door. The people who had witnessed the scene in the throne room had all vanished, including Chancellor Wilst, without explanation.
Elandra knew what had happened to them. Or at least she guessed.
It angered her that her husband would silence people, even good, useful people like the chancellor, with such untoward finality. While she would have commanded their promise to not speak of what they had witnessed, Kostimon simply used execution to silence them. Like a barbarian, he treated death and mutilation casually. People were completely expendable, in his view. It was the side of his personality that terrified her.
She said little while her ladies chattered. She had a headache, and she felt nervous and tired. Then her tutor came in, with yet another version of her coronation oath.
“At last!” he said in excitement, waving the sheaf of papers. “There has been an agreement within the priesthood. Lord Sien has graciously conceded one point which the emperor wanted most particularly. All can proceed now.”
Elandra looked at Milgard coldly. It was tempting to tell him that his efforts were for naught. She was only to be a consort after all. Everything would have to be changed back to the original ceremonies and protocol. She wondered when the emperor would deign to inform his chancellors. Probably at the last moment, just to watch them sweat and bustle.
Then her own bitterness dismayed her anew. She tried to shake herself into a better frame of mind.
“Now, Majesty,” Milgard said eagerly. He pulled over a footstool and stood on it beside her. She stood on her cushion like a statue, arms extended while the seamstresses made finite adjustments to the fitting gown she wore over her clothing. “Let us begin. It will occupy your mind while you stand here being stuck with pins. Repeat after me—”
“No,” Elandra said suddenly.
Her head was splitting. The room was too hot and too full of people. She could bear no more of this.
Gesturing the seamstresses aside, she stepped down off her cushion and shrugged off the fitting gown.
“I wish my cloak and veil,” she said.
Looks of consternation flashed about her. “Majesty,” Milgard stammered, “there is little time to learn what you must say. Tomorrow the eyes of the empire will be upon you. It is important that you speak well. Rehearsal is—”
Elandra snapped her fingers, and one of the ladies hastened to throw her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders. Elandra pulled up the hood and fastened her veil into place.
“Majesty, please,” Milgard said, looking distraught. He ran his long, ink-stained fingers through his graying hair.
“Not now,” she said tonelessly. “I wish to go for a walk.”
The ladies put down needlework and other activities in immediate compliance. They