The warrior or the courtier. Wearing armour to her father’s coronation would be affront to tradition and the pride of jealous men. The dress was conciliatory – proof that the upstart Saranal had not completely forgotten her place.
Her father would prefer she don the dress. Soothe the feathers of a Golden Court ruffled by his wary acceptance of peace overtures from the Tressian Republic. The panelled gown was entirely beautiful, crafted from Ithna’jîm silk, and radiant with a magic of a type not practised in the sprawling kingdoms of Empire.
The armour bore old memories of rash decisions poorly made. Its presence beneath the last night of full moon would sour events.
Chimes broke out high above. Ninth bell, calling the heir to the sanctum.
The warrior or the courtier. As Empress, she’d one day have to be both. Today, the path was clear. She reached for the gown.
Brash trumpets split the air. Melanna began her descent of the long, marble stair towards the grassy mound and the triad of birch trees. Anticipation shivered bare skin at the base of her neck, quickened by the air’s crisp, sweet scent. Only the stoniest heart roamed the cloister’s open skies and felt nothing.
Beneath the largest tree, a simple stone block sat bathed in moonlight. The first altar at which the Goddess’ praises were intoned, or so legend told. Simple too was the circlet atop it. The first Emperor, Hadar Saran, had died in the Sceadotha’s dungeons, but the crown endured. Flesh withered and blood faded, Emperors came and went, but the crown abided. It was the Empire.
And it was all Melanna had ever desired. The crown, and what it meant for her to wear it.
A knot of Immortals stood on the root-woven path to the sunken sanctum gate, resplendent in emerald silks and golden scales; swords drawn against those who would disturb the meditations of the Emperor-to-be. Nearer, on the shore of the pool that made an island of the sanctum mound, a ring of temple wardens, garbed in brilliant white, and their long spears held at guard.
Melanna pressed on, neither too hurriedly nor too slow. She strove to ignore the murmurs and widening eyes from balconies set in concentric tiers above the cloister. Kings, princes and clan chiefs called from across the league-strewn Empire to acclaim one among their number more equal than the rest. Men of Rhaled, Corvant, Britonis, Silsaria and others. Representatives of the Gwyraya Hadar, the great kingdoms of Empire, and the client realms under their sway. In garb and feature, they were as varied as fallen leaves in autumn. But women had no place here, save as servants or celebrants.
Certainly not as heir.
How many murmured with awe at her splendour? How many with disgust because she wore her sword at her back, the woven links of its belt crosswise at right shoulder to left hip? Melanna stifled a smile. She hadn’t left the warrior behind entirely. Better to remind her peers who she really was. That despite the soft promise offered by silk and the gossamer chains binding her hair, she was their equal. No, their better.
The chimes of tenth bell swept the courtyard. Conversation fell silent. The bare branches of the birch trees rippled gently in the cool breeze.
A second fanfare heralded Melanna’s arrival at the base of the stair. Head bowed in respect, she awaited the high priestess’ approach.
White robes brilliant in the moonlight, the old woman made stately procession over the narrow latticework bridge. Wardens crossed spears behind her, barring Melanna’s final approach to the sanctum mound.
“Why have you come?”
The priestess’ words were ritual. Scowl and unfavourable tone were not. Disgust that the heir was a woman, or because that woman bore a sword?
“To guide my Emperor out of Dark, and into Ashana’s light.” Melanna let her voice blossom, acoustics folding echoes beneath the words. “As a daughter will one day do for me.”
Fresh murmur broke out on the balconies. To the Golden Court, the Dark was ritual and history. An enemy overcome long ago, first by Ashana’s radiant sister, and once again – in the form of the Sceadotha – by Hadar Saran’s allies. But Melanna had walked within it. She’d carried the Goddess’ fire against it. And at the end, she’d failed.
None of the sourness left the priestess’ tone, but she persevered. “May the Goddess walk with you in the Dark.”
She stepped aside. Spears parted.
Melanna crossed the bridge. She gave ritual bow to the Immortals, and their golden wall split apart before her coming. Beyond, the stone pathway diverged, the upper fork arriving at altar and crown, the lower at the sanctum’s birchwood gate. Offering a bow to the former, Melanna took the latter, passing beneath the woven arch.
Once the double leaves of the gateway were behind, and Melanna deep in the sanctum’s gloom, she allowed the mask of unconcern to slip and her stride to quicken. The soft, damp fragrance of soil thickened as breathing shallowed. White crystals glimmered in the root-woven ceiling, shaping passageways and revealing shimmering insects scurrying across loose soil.
At last, the passageway widened into a broad chamber, dominated by a statue of Ashana – though the likeness little matched that of the Goddess who had guided Melanna since girlhood. Two Immortals flanked the Goddess. And before the statue, Kai Saran, Prince of the Silver Kingdom of Rhaled and scion of Emperors past, stood in silent contemplation, eyes closed and expression unreadable above a neat, greying beard.
Melanna knelt. “My prince. You are called to coronation.”
He spoke without turning. “And who calls me?”
“The one…” She swallowed to ease a throat suddenly parched. “The one who will follow.”
Though the words were part of the ritual, they felt impudent. Presumptive. Had her father felt thus addressing her grandsire? How would she feel to one day be reminded that her fate was to die so that another might rule? Proud, or resentful? What governed her father’s humours? They’d argued too often about this day for Melanna to be sure. She was the one to break tradition, but he’d made it possible. He’d be as notorious as she if affairs went ill.
“And will you serve me until that day? Will you guard my life with your own?”
“To my dying breath, my prince.”
Dark robes whispered against emerald-set golden scales. Dark eyes met hers. Expression rigid, he bore down, a mountain to her willow. The slight limp, a reminder of wounds that should have taken his life, little besmirched his grandeur. He swept back the dark folds of his woollen cloak and drew Melanna to her feet. Cheeks the colour of weathered teak cracked a smile. Then, uncaring he did so in full view of his Immortals, he drew her into an embrace.
“I shan’t ask you to obey, for I know you won’t,” he whispered. “But wherever the path leads from here, know that I am proud.”
Melanna sighed as her worries melted away. “Thank you, Father.”
“My prince,” he corrected. “Ritual must be observed.”
She pulled free and bobbed a rare curtsey. “Yes, my prince.”
“Better.” His lips twitched a smile. “Dagan? I am called to coronation. Announce me.”
The leftmost Immortal offered a deep bow and strode towards the passageway.
“Tell me,” said Melanna’s father. “How appalled are my peers?”
“Does it matter?” she replied bitterly. “They’re swine. Those who sneered to see me with a sword would gladly have entertained me without my gown.”