The Resurrectionist of Caligo by Wendy Trimboli && Alicia Zaloga

Author:Wendy Trimboli && Alicia Zaloga
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Angry Robot

19

Sibylla’s gown of silver satin, quilted with white pearls, had been constructed for this occasion. As she stepped outside, her bodice refracted the sunlight like a crystal chandelier. One of the queen’s Black Stallions escorted her to the main dais where she climbed the stairs to eager applause from the crowd. Families had arrived as early as dawn with their children, baskets of food, and small metal dishes to collect the falling ash. Afterward, they’d take the dishes home to display on their mantels, a blessing of bounty from the queen herself.

Sibylla stood at the queen’s right while Crown Prince Elfred, in a silver-embroidered dress uniform, stood on the queen’s left. The remaining royal family members had boxed seats on the palace’s terrace. Myrcnian guards lined the main thoroughfare to keep the crowd from blocking the entry. No more people would be allowed inside the gates until the emperor’s parade concluded its tour at the front of Malmouth Palace. Sibylla’s fingers twitched nervously. She focused on not flinging ink-bees into the crowd, even though she considered her role here as entertainer.

Murmurs spread from the back of the throng forward. A general excitement settled in the air. Around the edges of the courtyard, palace servants prepared for the queen’s signature recreation of King Roderick’s Great Geese Feast by readying their matches to strike candlewicks. Applause trickled toward Sibylla before cheers at the back of the courtyard erupted with the emperor’s arrival.

Six pale horses of a special breed from Arenbough drew the emperor’s carriage, a reminder of Khalishka’s recent annexation of the slender coastal country. The small retinue of foreign soldiers outshone its Myrcnian escort, riding in a staggered formation on wide, pitchblack horses. Clad in calf-length black coats, they drew their slightly curved, guardless blades in salute. As they halted before the queen, the unified snap of their swords being sheathed into wooden scabbards silenced the crowd.

Sibylla concentrated on breathing steadily as she waited for the emperor to exit his carriage. Her nerves won out and a small ink-bee slinked off her fingertips. She expected a bear of a man, with a thick beard and fingernails like claws, not the sleek and lithesome figure that jumped from the carriage. How unfamiliar he looked, in the traditional Khalishkan military dress uniform, without crown or sash. Instead of the jewels and ribbons favored by Myrcnian royals, Emperor Timur kept a pair of fighting knives sheathed in a timber box on one hip and a silver pistol on his right. He wore his thick, black hair in a topknot, and a wellmanicured short beard that obscured his age, although Sibylla knew he was five years her senior. He was neither the tallest nor the shortest man, and hurried to the dais as if bored by the affair already.

He vaulted up the stairs and affectionately shook hands with the queen. Sibylla wondered if the exact measure of their greeting had been arranged in advance. He took position at the queen’s right, holding his hands stiff behind his back.

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