his skull, with long thin plaits, braided with white ribbons and strands of pearls, hanging down his back. Then the Dachen Mura were brought out again, and this time Maia was arrayed entirely in opals and pearls: rings, bracelets, earrings, necklace. He was spared the diadem, because the Ethuverazhid Mura, the imperial crown, awaited him like some monstrous bridegroom.
The edocharei did not hurry. When they released him, and he returned to the outer chamber, the clock on the mantel read nine o’clock.
Three hours, Maia thought, but Chavar demanded his attention before he could decide whether that was too much time or not enough.
Now began another set of rituals, the oath-takings. First were his nohecharei: Cala, Beshelar, Dazhis, Telimezh. They were now bound to him until their deaths, and past, for they would be buried with him—as his father’s nohecharei would be buried with their emperor tomorrow.
Then came the Corazhas. Maia had, he felt, the easy part; he had only to sit in a heavy and uncomfortable chair in the audience chamber that was the first floor of the Alcethmeret, and accept the hands that were held out to him. It was the Corazhas, the Witnesses, who had to remember the long, archaic formulas of the oaths and repeat them without stumbling. Given the length of Varenechibel’s reign, none of them was old enough to have given the oath more than once before.
Nine Witnesses made up the Corazhas, each of them ruler of his own small empire. The Witnesses knelt, and Maia received their oaths and wondered how many of them meant the loyalty they professed, how many of them, like Chavar, were loyal still to Varenechibel’s memory. After them, the Adremaza and the Captain of the Untheileneise Guard swore; the captain, robed and masked and armored as both prelate and knight of Anmura, frightened Maia slightly with his ferocity.
The five princes entered next, and Maia, growing light-headed from nervousness and lack of food, remembered of them only the haunted eyes of the Prince of Thu-Athamar. Maia leaned forward when the prince had given his vow and said, very low, “Neither blame nor guilt belongs to you, so do not hold them so closely.” The prince seemed more startled than reassured, but his look quickly became thoughtful, and he was still frowning slightly, his eyes distant, when the princes filed out.
Maia had been dreading the oaths of the Drazhada only slightly less than the coronation itself. The widow empress; his half sisters Nemriän and Vedero; his half brother Nemolis’s widow and three children; his half brother Ciris’s fiancée; and last in line, Arbelan Drazharan, Varenechibel’s first wife, put aside for barrenness thirty years ago, but never released from her ties to the House Drazhada. Both Csoru and Sheveän, the Princess of the Untheileneise Court, were giving her offended sidelong glances, which Arbelan affected not to see.
Arbelan was in her mid-sixties, a tall, proud woman still, with brilliant blue eyes. Beside her, Csoru looked even more doll-like, while Nemriän and Sheveän seemed callow, petulant girls. Stano Bazhevin, Ciris’s fiancée, was a nonentity, just another white-faced woman in black. Only Vedero held her own.
The Archduchess Vedero Drazhin was a big woman, two inches taller than Maia himself, broad in the shoulder and hip. Her hair was smooth white silk, her eyes the Drazhadeise gray. Her features were strong but good and her presence one of tremendous dignity. Black did not become her, and he could see by the grayness of her face and her red-rimmed eyes that she had been weeping and had scorned to hide the evidence. He liked her the better for it, though he feared from the look she gave him that she did not like him and would not care whether he liked her or not.
The oaths were properly given, and Maia heaved a small, inward sigh of relief. The oaths were no more than a formal deterrent to troublemaking, but they were better than no deterrent at all.
The edocharei did not hurry. When they released him, and he returned to the outer chamber, the clock on the mantel read nine o’clock.
Three hours, Maia thought, but Chavar demanded his attention before he could decide whether that was too much time or not enough.
Now began another set of rituals, the oath-takings. First were his nohecharei: Cala, Beshelar, Dazhis, Telimezh. They were now bound to him until their deaths, and past, for they would be buried with him—as his father’s nohecharei would be buried with their emperor tomorrow.
Then came the Corazhas. Maia had, he felt, the easy part; he had only to sit in a heavy and uncomfortable chair in the audience chamber that was the first floor of the Alcethmeret, and accept the hands that were held out to him. It was the Corazhas, the Witnesses, who had to remember the long, archaic formulas of the oaths and repeat them without stumbling. Given the length of Varenechibel’s reign, none of them was old enough to have given the oath more than once before.
Nine Witnesses made up the Corazhas, each of them ruler of his own small empire. The Witnesses knelt, and Maia received their oaths and wondered how many of them meant the loyalty they professed, how many of them, like Chavar, were loyal still to Varenechibel’s memory. After them, the Adremaza and the Captain of the Untheileneise Guard swore; the captain, robed and masked and armored as both prelate and knight of Anmura, frightened Maia slightly with his ferocity.
The five princes entered next, and Maia, growing light-headed from nervousness and lack of food, remembered of them only the haunted eyes of the Prince of Thu-Athamar. Maia leaned forward when the prince had given his vow and said, very low, “Neither blame nor guilt belongs to you, so do not hold them so closely.” The prince seemed more startled than reassured, but his look quickly became thoughtful, and he was still frowning slightly, his eyes distant, when the princes filed out.
Maia had been dreading the oaths of the Drazhada only slightly less than the coronation itself. The widow empress; his half sisters Nemriän and Vedero; his half brother Nemolis’s widow and three children; his half brother Ciris’s fiancée; and last in line, Arbelan Drazharan, Varenechibel’s first wife, put aside for barrenness thirty years ago, but never released from her ties to the House Drazhada. Both Csoru and Sheveän, the Princess of the Untheileneise Court, were giving her offended sidelong glances, which Arbelan affected not to see.
Arbelan was in her mid-sixties, a tall, proud woman still, with brilliant blue eyes. Beside her, Csoru looked even more doll-like, while Nemriän and Sheveän seemed callow, petulant girls. Stano Bazhevin, Ciris’s fiancée, was a nonentity, just another white-faced woman in black. Only Vedero held her own.
The Archduchess Vedero Drazhin was a big woman, two inches taller than Maia himself, broad in the shoulder and hip. Her hair was smooth white silk, her eyes the Drazhadeise gray. Her features were strong but good and her presence one of tremendous dignity. Black did not become her, and he could see by the grayness of her face and her red-rimmed eyes that she had been weeping and had scorned to hide the evidence. He liked her the better for it, though he feared from the look she gave him that she did not like him and would not care whether he liked her or not.
The oaths were properly given, and Maia heaved a small, inward sigh of relief. The oaths were no more than a formal deterrent to troublemaking, but they were better than no deterrent at all.
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