The Siege of Abythos (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 3) by Phil Tucker

Author:Phil Tucker [Tucker, Phil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Kethe didn't appreciate the sanctity and importance of her new station until she woke on the dawn of her presentation to the Ascendant of the Empire himself.

Music swelled and flowed into her chambers, rousing her from her dreamless slumber into a panic. Sitting up, fistfuls of her sheets in her hands, she stared as her doors were opened and a stream of people began to enter. Had they come to evict her, incarcerate her, indict her for her heresy?

The music grew louder, sublimely played, and, one by one, the thick curtains of her windows were swept aside as the crowd approached, allowing the diluted and delicate light of the rising sun to sweep into her hall. Kethe swallowed tightly, unsure what to do, all instructions vanishing from her mind, leaving her immobile as the servants, officiants and court nobles approached.

There had to be thirty of them, a column of silks and white cloth, gilt scarves that hung past the knees and faces immaculately painted in a style that seemed at once farcical and terrifying. A style, she recalled, that had been popular when this ritual was inscribed in stone.

The Sigean servants reached her bedside, all of them chanting, and without hesitating they drew her sheets away, sliding them smoothly to the floor. Kethe wanted to scoot back against the headboard, but some innate dignity forced her still.

They didn't see her, she realized. They didn't see Kethe Kyferin, but rather a figure, an eidolon, a testament to their faith. They saw Makaria, a Virtue, the Ascendant's blessing made flesh. When they eased her from the bed, took her by the hands and led her to where a great bath had been set up, she felt her resistance dissolve beneath the impersonality of the moment.

She was stripped gently but firmly, and the ceremony of her cleansing was played out by various actors. Golden horns filled with scented water were poured out over her body, flowers were cast into the basin, the chanting continued apace, and always, on and on like some great river, flowed the music, entering her room through the doors and windows.

The water was warm, the oils luxurious, the massaging fingers on her scalp and shoulders expert and relaxing. Not one man gazed at her in a carnal manner. If anything, they seemed to be looking through her. Raised as she had been in privilege and power, she still had trouble accepting this level of veneration, this level of beatification in their eyes.

The urge to cry out, to shake one of the servants, to send a great wave of water splashing out of the basin, shook her. To ruin and strike and bring a drop of her humanity to these proceedings. But what if they carried on, unperturbed, completely undismayed? What if she reduced herself to screaming and thrashing at them, trying to change their expressions, until they wrestled her down and clothed her regardless, sublimely assured of the righteousness of the acts they were performing?

She was led from the basin and toweled dry, and each step was part of a choreographed dance.

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