Shadow War - Deborah Chester [96]
Halting at the foot of Elandra’s bed, the women bowed deeply in unison. The oldest one, her hair liberally streaked with white although her dark skin remained smooth and youthful, stepped forward as spokeswoman. She made a graceful gesture of obeisance.
“You may speak,” Elandra said.
“Gracious one, we come to make a gift in honor of this rare occasion.” The woman spoke slowly, as though Lingua was difficult for her. Her voice was a melodious contralto, her accent exotic and rich. “May it please thee to gaze upon our humble offering. And then perhaps to accept it.”
Elandra inclined her head.
The woman stepped aside with a gesture at the others, who came forward with the boxes. With eager chatter, the ladies in waiting also surged forward to see.
The Mahirans stopped and stared at them.
Elandra snapped her fingers, and the chatter stopped. She glanced at the Mistress of the Bedchamber. “I will see these gifts alone. Dismiss the ladies for now.”
The mistress curtsied and shooed the others out quickly, her expression giving away nothing. With the doors closed after the last one, the Mahirans seemed to relax.
They turned back to Elandra and bowed.
“Proceed,” she said.
One by one the boxes were opened, giving off a slight fragrance of sweet lavender and something unidentifiable. Elandra could feel little currents of energy released as each seal was broken. Magic filled the room. For a moment she was afraid, but the air turned warm and gentle. She could smell more scents rising to combine with the lavender: frangipani, roses, jasmine—the fragrances of home. Inhaling deeply, she let her eyes close briefly, and her fear melted away. In her hand, the topaz grew warm, and, drawing strength and comfort from it, she relaxed.
Opening her eyes, she sat forward with anticipation. These garments, whatever they were, would be exquisite.
The first gift was a long scarf of delicate lace, the pattern intricate and lovely. Holding it up to the light, Elandra spread it across her fingers and knew immediately how it would look draped over her hair. She smiled, and the women smiled back.
“Chiara kula na,” they said softly.
It sounded like a benediction. Elandra inclined her head.
One by one, the other offerings were brought forth. Undergarments of the finest silk, embroidered with white silk thread in intricate patterns. An undergown of silk gauze so light and sheer that in the sunlight it almost seemed to disappear. A cloak of amber-colored wool, spun so soft and fine it draped fluidly in her hands. She could put her thumb and forefinger together to form an O and draw the cloak through it, yet when she put it around her shoulders she could feel its warmth. She felt safe and protected in it, and was loathe to pull it off again.
They gave her gloves of the same material to match, and perfectly fitted to her hands. Drawing one on, she flexed and turned her hand, marveling at how strong she felt. When she pulled the glove off, the illusion of strength faded. Her skin tingled lightly, and she frowned. Magic gloves. A magic cloak.
She put the lace scarf on her head, wrapping the ends beneath her chin, and at once her vague headache cleared. She felt alert, brilliant, decisive. When she took it off, she could tell a difference. Would wearing the undergarments make her feel invigorated and tireless?
The women from Mahira watched her, their dark eyes wise and patient.