Shadows: Book One of the Eligia Shala (20 page)

Thick dark hair fell straight to his shoulders; a small ruby encrusted crown sat on his head. Everything below that was white with gold threadwork, including a trailing mantle. Phillip caught Jenevra’s eye, saw her grinning at him. “Nice dress” he mouthed at her. She merely crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out.

The Lord Chamberlain had removed all the brightly colored banners from the Temple, filling it with the white and green floral arrangements instead, far more suitable for a wedding, and much less traumatic on the eyes. The trumpeters had been replaced with lutes and harps, leaving the Temple with a tranquil atmosphere. Jenevra relaxed a little, enjoying the music. If she closed her eyes, it even felt a little like the Temple in the Island; cool stone underfoot, the breezes playing around from open windows, scent of spring blossoms.

Christiana’s arrival was heralded by the new theme from the harps; cascading arpeggios accompanying her as she walked up the aisle slowly with Stephan. Stephan’s solid bulk made Christiana look less Amazonian than usual, and as always, she was breathtakingly beautiful. Her gown was made of the same pure crisp white as Phillip’s outfit, with similar gold threadwork covering the bodice and train. The symbols of the two houses, Marissun and Couressime had been worked and intertwined over the skirt of her gown in oyster thread, making it look almost brocaded. The skirt was very full, emphasizing the waist and bodice. In a totally new departure, Christiana had removed the idea of sleeves completely; leaving her arms and shoulders bare, much to the shock of many ladies in the Temple. Christiana’s hair was loose too today. Pure gold shimmering down past her hips, with only a simple circle of sapphires holding a gauzy veil in place.

The ceremony was a beautiful one. Jenevra had long thought that this was one of the Temple’s finest liturgies, with words of love and commitment that had been spoken for centuries. It helped, she thought, when you knew that the people involved were absolutely in love with each other; you knew the words meant something real to them. The final part of the ceremony was borrowed from the coronation, though, as Phillip raised Christiana to his side as his wife, then replaced her sapphire circlet with a ruby coronet, crowning her as his Empress.

Yet another formal banquet.

“You know, the sooner all this is over, the better,” Rafael Massili complained, patting his not insubstantial girth, currently straining the limits of a purple jacket. “Too much more of this without going to sea and I won’t fit any of my uniforms.”

With weddings and engagements, the order for dinner had changed, and Jenevra was escorted by the Crown Prince of Diruthia, Cieren; a young man she had only met briefly before. His sister, Artela, was Misha’s bride-to-be, although Cieren was not as plain as his sister; in fact some of the younger girls at court were quite smitten with him. Sandy hair was loose to his shoulders, with blue-green eyes set in a fair featured face; Cieren went to great pains to ensure that his appearance was as close to perfect as he could make it. His clothes were impeccably tailored in subtly complimentary colors. His mouth was thin-lipped, and yet somewhat petulant, a combination Jenevra felt strangely unsettling, but put it down to her almost predictable headache and disturbed vision. His manners were pleasant enough though, and they managed to get through the banquet civilly. Cieren was attentive, curiously interested in why she had been away from Court for so long. When he pressed her for answers she did something she rarely did— lied—telling him she had been studying at a convent in a remote part of the world. She was relieved when the usual wedding toasts and speeches made conversation difficult for a while.

As the banquet finished, Jenevra realized she had ignored Prince Cieren for rather a long time, and apologized to him; explaining that she was still a little homesick for the convent, and the ceremony had reminded her of it. He seemed to understand; bowing over her hand and excusing himself to meet with his father, King Corros.

Wandering quietly across to Christiana and Phillip, she congratulated them both warmly. “You two really do look good together,” she smiled, hugging them both. Tall and stately, blonde and dark, dressed in white and gold, they were a perfectly regal image.

“You’re looking particularly lovely yourself, little cousin,” Phillip was breezily cheerful.

“Well, I suppose you two are going to be dancing all night. Do I have to dance with you too, Phil? Tradition, you know?”

Catching the cue quickly, Phillip nodded. “I’ll find you a little later. Will you be ready?”

“Always ready. That’s my new motto as Imperial Protector.”

Christiana made a rude snorting noise.

“Excuse me … I think you’ll find I am taking this very seriously, sister dear.” Jenevra said.

“Indeed you are, Jenevra.” Phillip added pompously.

Christiana’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You two are up to something; I can feel it.”

Jenevra danced most of the evening. As Christiana had told her, it was an excellent way to avoid having to talk with people. She danced once with Phillip, during which they managed to confirm their plans for the late evening, a couple with Conall of Lorthia who was becoming fairly attentive, and several between Stephan, Richard, Rafael Massili (who moved surprisingly well for such a big man) and Cieren of Diruthia. The Imperial Captains were conspicuous by their absence, and Jenevra was a little disappointed not to see Captain Manvi: she was beginning to enjoy his friendship too, although the absences of Captains Tessier and Pichot were more than welcome.

She had spoken to Misha just once during the evening. He had come to ask her to dance, but she was already promised to a Baron’s son for that one. Reaching a hand out, he touched her arm gently, a wistful smile on his lips, but they said nothing.

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Half an hour before midnight, Jenevra left the celebration. Phillip wanted her back at midnight and she still had to pack, change and check on the Flight.

Rushing, she stuffed clothes and boots into a bag. With Anna’s help she removed the blue gown and began putting on her formal uniform as Captain of the Shadow Flight. Anna’s eyes were wide as she helped Jenevra squeeze into it. “I know, Anna,” Jenevra agreed. “It wouldn’t have been my choice either. But the Dowager Empress wanted it formal, traditional and distracting. That’s what she’s got.” With a quick final glance in the long mirror, Jenevra swung her swords over her shoulders, pulled her new formal mantle over them, and dashed down to meet the Flight.

The Flight was in their barracks when she arrived, making sure they were packed in preparation for anything. The instructions Brogan had relayed from the princess had been that as of midnight the Flight would be officially on duty, and that meant ready to go at any time. A pack would be kept ready at all times, with spare sets of clothing and supplies, by each member of the Flight. Brogan was busy with a final inspection of everyone’s pack as the princess arrived.

“Ready for inspection, Captain.” Brogan snapped smartly to attention, the rest of the Flight following suit swiftly.

Jenevra strode purposefully into the center of the room swathed in a long black velvet mantle covering her from neck to feet. Most of the Flight was still wearing their gray everyday uniform; an almost exact copy of the clothes Jenevra had worn on leaving the Island; practical and inconspicuous.

Six of the men were in the formal uniform of gray and silver; a brightly burnished mail shirt with an almost silvery gray tabard over it; light gray breeches with highly glossed boots. Jenevra had refused totally to have them wear helmets, on the grounds that she didn’t want their hearing distorted. The small group did not look thrilled at the prospect of a formal performance, despite being proud to have been chosen as Jenevra’s escort.

“Ready?”

Brogan nodded. “Everything’s in place, Captain. Right, line up you men!” He ordered the Honor Guard to form up. “You are representing this Flight,” he barked at them. “You are representing our Princess, our Captain. You will do so with the pride of this Flight upon you. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” The six shouted back in chorus.

Taking his place at the front, Brogan led the formation out behind their young commander.

There was a buzz in the throne room. Just before midnight, Emperor Phillip had called a halt to the dancing and moved to the throne room. He sat, waiting, with Christiana beside him on her newly placed throne. Still dressed in white, the gold and jewels sparkled in the candlelight, enhancing their regal appearance. Both wore their Imperial crowns of gold and ruby.

At midnight, Phillip stood and motioned for silence. The crowd waited for their Emperor’s announcement. King Corros of Diruthia exchanged a weighted glance with Chancellor Menzetti, and nudged his son, Cieren who looked smug.

“Esteemed guests, friends,” Phillip opened his arms towards the room in a welcoming gesture. “Many things have changed in these last few days. The Empress who guided us through darker days has entrusted her care to me. We begin on a new path together; a path that will lead us into a bright, safe future for all citizens of this Empire.” He paused to let spontaneous applause die. “My friends, we cannot cling to the past. Much as I revere the history that has made our Empire strong, there are traditions we cling to for no reason other than that they have always been there. Tradition that supports us and has purpose and reason is a good thing; but tradition that has no real purpose stifles us, holds us back from becoming even greater.” There was a ripple of applause, mainly from the younger nobles, but most people were wondering what Phillip was leading up to.

“In times past, the Empire has known strong armies and leaders. But there was also a time when the Emperor had his own personal guard, a unit primarily his to order and use for anything he saw fit. This group did not require the sanction of the Imperial Council and, at times, that caused bloody conflict within the Empire; mainly due to the over ambitious nature of the leaders.” Phillip took a deep breath, steadying himself before continuing strongly. “The Empire needs that group now; not as before, not led by ambition-driven warmongers, but led by a commander whose loyalty is unquestioned.” Taking a pace forward to the edge of the dais, Phillip signaled the guards to swing the massive bronze throne room doors open. “Tonight, I am re-creating the Imperial Protector’s Flight, henceforth to be known as the Shadow Flight.”

As the room began to buzz with whispered conversation, seven men marched into the room, Brogan in front, carrying a jeweled sword upright in front of him; the other six formed in two lines with Jenevra’s black cloaked and hooded figure walking in the midst of them.

Stopping in perfect unison before the throne, all six men dropped to one knee, heads bowed in front of their Emperor. The black cloaked figure remained standing as Brogan took a pace forward to kneel on the step of the dais. Holding the ruby hilted sword across his palms, he offered it up to Phillip. “The Spirit Sword of the Shadow Flight is yours, my Lord Emperor,” he declaimed in the ringing tones that carried across the practice fields.

Chancellor Menzetti’s eyes had narrowed at this statement. By presenting the Spirit Sword of the Flight to the Emperor they were announcing that this was truly Phillip’s unit to command: that they would answer to their Emperor and no-one else; not even to the High Commander of the Imperial War Host. Ancient custom required a Spirit Sword to be created for each new Flight. It embodied the fighting spirit of all who joined, and was held much as a talisman by the soldiers of any Flight. It was always held by the commander of the Flight; mainly for ceremonial use, although you would never find a commander on the battlefield without it strapped across his back. For the sword to be broken or lost would mean the end of the Flight. This presentation was an unforeseen complication, but Menzetti was sure he could find a way to circumvent it in time.

Excited chatter could be heard all around the room now, as Phillip held up his hand again for silence. “I accept the Spirit Sword of the Shadow Flight,” he intoned formally. “And I call upon the new Imperial Protector to accept its care as my chosen representative, and new commander of the Flight.”

Brogan stood to one side as Jenevra, still hooded and cloaked, ascended the dais to the step below Phillip.

“In keeping with ancient tradition, the Imperial Protector is a member of the Imperial family. My choice for this role was clear.” Phillip’s voice carried to all corners.

Jenevra knelt on the step below Phillip.

“Do you accept the responsibilities and duties of Imperial Protector?”

“With my honor, and my life.”

“Do you accept the commission of the Shadow Flight?”

“With my honor, and my life.”

“Do you accept the Oath of Death?”

“With my honor, and my life.”

Phillip laid the sword across Jenevra’s hands. “Then rise as my spirit in this Flight, Saphila Jenevra Couressime, Protector of the Marissime Empire.”

As a universal gasp went up in the room, Jenevra stood upright, throwing the black mantle back over her shoulders and turning to face the shocked audience. Standing proud and straight, she shimmered before them like an avenging angel. The cloak she wore had a white satin lining, draping behind her shoulders now like folded wings. A short tunic of white silk lay beneath a tightly fitting tunic of gleaming mail without neck or arms reaching to mid-thigh. Strapped over this was a white enameled breastplate, shaped to match the low cut of the tunic and mail shirt and embossed with a gold working of the Emperor’s crest. White soft boots reached to just below the knee, with matching enameled greaves around the shins; hair caught up simply by a white metal clasp at the top of her head. The pair of swords she carried on her back had been polished to gleaming perfection.

Taking her position to the right of the Imperial thrones, Jenevra rested both hands on the hilt of the Spirit Sword, placing its point on the ground. She faced the room with a clear, unwavering gaze as Brogan joined the Honor Guard, dropping to one knee in salute to their Emperor and their Commander. Every other Imperial guardsman in the throne room snapped to attention, saluting the new officer.

From the far end of the room Raik Rabenaldt, High Commander of the Imperial War Host, led his Captains forward to salute their Emperor and to greet their newest colleague. Captains Manvi, Pichot and Tessier had all been highly amused at the idea of Jenevra’s installation as Imperial Protector; right up until the Emperor had announced the full extent of the powers he was giving her. Even so, the revealing uniform wasn’t convincing them of any seriousness in the appointment, and they approached the dais with little idea of what had truly just happened. Raik Rabenaldt, on the other hand, was acutely concerned, saluting Phillip grim-faced: he had expected to be able to have some control over the princess’s wilder excesses. As he noted the rather satisfied look on his Emperor’s face, Raik realized belatedly that Phillip hadn’t been tricked into this by Jenevra; he was a more than willing partner … if not more than that.

“Your Imperial Majesty!” King Corros of Diruthia stood forward, bowing before Phillip. “As we congratulate your wisdom in re-instituting a fine old tradition, are we to assume that the tradition of announcing the marriages of all the remaining Imperial family is also being continued tonight?”

Stephan and Richard choked. They hadn’t remembered that tradition either.

Corros looked around the throne room, hands spread out in supplication. “Surely, Your Imperial Majesty will be signing the betrothals of all your cousins? I’m sure none of us would wish to see our lovely new Imperial Protector anywhere else, but tradition and duty call for her marriage.”

Phillip and Jenevra glanced at Chancellor Menzetti whose jaws were tightly clenched, but otherwise was showing no sign of stress. Turning his attention back to the swaggering King in front of him, Phillip stood forward on the edge of the dais, no trace of levity in his tone or stance. “Your Majesty, King Corros, you have heard me here pledge to sweep away pointless traditions. I require the service of my cousins at this time; their first duty is to me. They will make marriages when it suits my purposes, and not before.”

“Father!” Prince Cieren stepped forward angrily.

Corros stopped his protest with one raised hand. “My Lord Emperor.” He bowed again. He remembered seeing that same look on Reiff Marissun’s face and there was no arguing with it. Glaring pointedly at Chancellor Menzetti, the King of Diruthia stalked back to his place seething with anger that his promised alliance was not to be.

Jenevra stood behind Phillip, calm and poised; her gaze focused on the back of the room near the doors where Graea Menzetti was standing, leaning on the arm of a tall, gray-haired man whom Jenevra recognized immediately. He made the same gesture that Lady Menzetti had made, reminding Jenevra to focus on the present. Jenevra bowed her head just slightly in assent.

Suddenly another voice spoke out. “My Lord Emperor. The position of Imperial Protector is too important to have someone so untried in the position. Challenges have always been permitted, in order to ensure the best … man … for the job. I challenge the princess’s right to be Imperial Protector!”

Cries of outrage mingled with scattered applause as Mikhail Dhorani stood forward, auburn curls scraped back into a small braid, two crossed leather scabbards across his back. Eyes locked intently on Jenevra’s, he strode to the center of the room before appealing once more to Phillip. “Your Imperial Majesty, I demand the right to try for the Imperial Protectorship.”