As the crowds drew closer to the Emperor’s palace, singing began – a harmonious blend of male and female voices, which, like the instrumental music, had no discernable source. Although the words of the songs celebrated the glories of past centuries, this time they signified more than mere nostalgia for the irretrievable past. This time, they heralded a promise for the future.
The destination of the crowds wending through Khambawe’s streets was the Gebbi Senafa. Its jewel-encrusted doors stood wide open, with the customary contingent of guards absent on this day. The audience chamber of the Palace was large enough to accommodate hundreds of people. Still, even that capacity was too small to hold everyone who wanted to witness the coronation of Jass Gebrem. And in the past, that wouldn’t have mattered.
Far fewer Matile had had even the slightest desire to attend the enthronement of Dardar Alemeyu, whose aged father had died in his sleep. Alemeyu’s ascension to the throne had not been a momentous occasion, and only the elite of Khambawe had appeared at the event. The rest of the populace was neither wanted nor needed at the ceremony, and few of them regretted their exclusion. Alemeyu was not a popular man before or after he became Emperor.
As tradition dictated, only the higher-born and renowned had been permitted entry into the audience chamber to see the crown pass to Alemeyu’s head. Others had to be content with second-hand accounts or street rumors. And the doors of the Gebbi Senafa remained closed.
This time, though, the palace doors were open – not to allow the entrance of the public; but, instead, an exit for the royal entourage who would be part of Gebrem’s enthronement. The coronation would take place not inside the palace, but outside. Khambawe had buzzed like a beehive with chatter about the change in tradition. Never before had such a thing occurred. Then again, never before had a foreigner’s hands been the ones to place the crown on the new Emperor’s head, as would happen on this day ....
After lengthy deliberations over precedent and protocol, the Degen Jassi had decided that everyone throughout the Matile lands who desired to witness the crowning of Jass Gebrem should have the opportunity to do so. To that end, an enormous pavilion had been raised on the grounds in front of the palace. Hundreds of weavers had worked day and night, with the help of the Almovaads’ new magic, to create what amounted to a tapestry large enough to envelop an entire building.
The tapestry was decorated with scenes from the triumph over the Uloans, with the people rendered in the ancient round-faced, large-eyed Matile motif. The cloth, light beige in color, was translucent enough to allow the sunlight to shine through, illuminating the woven scenes and suffusing its interior in an amber glow. Slowly, the pavilion filled with celebrants. On this day, soldiers in glittering accoutrements served as ushers rather than guards.
For all its size, the crowd was relatively subdued. The people gazed somberly at the cloth walls of the pavilion. Surrounded by scenes of the battle that were animated by the motion of the breeze, it was as though the survivors were reliving that night – but bloodlessly, at a distance, with the horror and anguish abridged in black thread against pale cloth.
But there were other sights to see as well.
In the large space left by the gaping palace doors, a platform had been erected. It was hewn from the finest timber; the colors of the rare woods blending like those in a painting. Its polished surface was bare, save for the Lion Throne of the Emperor, which sat within a three-sided canopy that depicted the succession of emperors dating back to Jass Issuri himself. After Jass Gebrem was crowned, his likeness would be woven into the canopy, which was brought out of its storage place in the Palace only during coronations.
Although the platform towered high above the crowd, there were no steps ascending to its surface. Many in the crowd wondered how the heavy throne had been placed there, and how Jass Gebrem and the others who would be involved in the coronation intended to mount the platform in the absence of steps. But no one asked those questions aloud amid the hum of conversation that complemented the sourceless singing and drumming.
Then, abruptly, the music stopped. As though on cue, so did the crowd’s chatter. It was as though the entire population of Khambawe were holding its breath. And all attention focused on the platform.
3
“Are you nervous?”
Tiyana turned and looked at person who had asked the question. It was Byallis, the brown-haired Adept who had helped her to maintain her equilibrium during the manifestation of Oneness that had allowed the Amiyas and Almovaads to combine to defeat the Uloans’ magic.
“Yes,” Tiyana admitted.
She was sitting on a carved, hardwood bench in front of a mirror in the House of Almovaar, formerly the Beit Amiya. Her hair, which had grown to a length below her shoulders, was being re-braided by a Matile Acolyte.
In previous times, a shamasha would have performed such a task. When, in the aftermath of the battle against the Uloans, it had been discovered that many, if not most, of the shamashas were fronting for the tsotsis, the position of shamasha was abolished, and those who had not already left the Beit Amiya were dismissed. Now Acolytes – new recruits from all parts of the Empire who were in the beginning stages of their apprenticeship in Almovaad sorcery – performed menial duties in the House as part of their training to become Initiates.
“So am I,” Byallis said.
They both smiled.
The friendship between them had grown since the night the Uloans had invaded. Because of Tiyana’s changed status, her other friendships – even with Yemeya – had suffered. Tiyana was the only child of the new Emperor. Therefore, she now stood next in line to the Lion
