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The silence inside the pavilion had stretched from moments to many minutes. Anticipation – but not yet impatience – hung like a low cloud over the vast assemblage of people who awaited the coronation.
Along with the other surviving members of the White Gull’s crew, Captain Pel Muldure stood in a place of honor at the forefront of the crowd, along with the Matile who had fought valiantly against the Uloans. Lyann was, as always, at his side.
Muldure was resplendent in full Matile regalia: embroidered tunic and trousers, and a white chamma with sea-green stripes. A leather band studded with silver held his hair in place. If he was still brooding over the destruction of his ship and further loss of crew members, neither his eyes nor his demeanor showed it.
Lyann had eschewed Matile clothing, saying it was uncomfortably confining. She was clad in a shirt and breeches made to her specifications by Matile seamstresses. Her only concession to the culture of her new locale was a single strand of multicolored beads woven into a lock of her unbraided hair.
Her well of patience wasn’t as deep as that of the others.
“When is this thing going to get started?” she grumbled.
“When they’re ready,” Muldure said.
“Or when the Seer decides to pull the strings,” Lyann snorted.
“Don’t say that!” a voice admonished sharply.
Both Muldure and Lyann turned to the source of the comment. It was Herrin Junn, formerly one of the rowdiest and most profane seafarers Muldure had ever come across. Now, Junn’s burly body was wrapped in the blue robes of a Believer. The forces that had vanquished the Uloans had also shaken Junn’s lifelong cynicism and, like several other White Gull crew members, he had pledged himself to the Almovaads.
Lyann found Junn’s new piety amusing. For Muldure, however, it was insufferable.
“The Seer does not rule this place,” Junn said. “He merely advises.”
“Of course,” said Muldure. “And the White Gull’s sitting at anchor out in the harbor, waiting to take us home.”
Junn’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed into a thin line of disapproval.
“Do not mock the Seer!” he hissed.
Lyann’s sharp elbow to the ribs suppressed the sardonic retort that came to Muldure’s mind. He expressed his annoyance with a scowl instead.
Suddenly, the air above the platform shimmered like a pulse of heat on a sun-scorched savanna. And a bang loud as a thunderclap caused everyone in the pavilion to close their eyes and cover their ears. Many cried out in surprise and, in more than a few cases, fear. Some even fell to the ground. When the echo subsided and the people opened their eyes again, the platform was no longer empty.
Mouths agape in wonder, the crowd gazed at the glory of the people of power among the Matile and the Almovaads. This was a feat of sorcery that easily matched, or surpassed, anything the ashuma of the storied past could have accomplished.
Gebrem was the center of the assemblage. He had materialized in front of the throne that was about to become his. Gebrem’s demeanor was solemn, a reflection of his mood. Never in his life had he imagined that he would succeed his cousin, Dardar Alemeyu. Now, he knew the reality of the responsibilities that rested on an Emperor’s shoulders. For all the lifelong abrasiveness of their relationship, he wished Alemeyu were still alive.
The royal chamma that had enveloped Alemeyu was now wrapped around Gebrem’s own gaunt frame. His head, with its mass of graying braids, remained bare. The Crown of Issuri would weigh upon it soon enough.
For the moment, the Crown rested atop a waist-high pillar of crystal in front of Kyroun, who stood at Gebrem’s side. The Seer’s unbraided white hair stirred in the gentle breeze that billowed the sides of the pavilion like a ship’s sails. Draped over Kyroun’s Fidi robes was a chamma dyed a blue so dark it was almost black. It was as though the Seer was cloaked in a segment of starless night sky.
The Kyroun held the transformed abi, symbol of the status of Leba. The shining rod remained smooth, bereft of the symbols of vanished Matile gods. The Degen Jassi had earlier agreed that Kyroun would become Leba in Gebrem’s stead. A few traditionalists had objected, arguing that no one who was not of Matile blood had ever before been Leba. When Gebrem pointed out that Kyroun was indeed of Matile blood, however distant, because of his ancestor, Yekunu, the critics had fallen silent. Besides, this Leba would be the servitor and interlocutor for one god rather than many. That, too, was a break from tradition.
Tiyana was at Gebrem’s other side. Already, her bearing was that of an Empress. Gone was the insecure Vessel of Nama-kwah who had feared for the future and longed for the past. Now, Tiyana almost never thought about Nama-kwah; nor did she miss the fleeting contacts she had experienced with the goddess when she was an Amiya. Her new relationship with Almovaar was constant, a reassuring anchor at the center of her being. Her magical strength was no longer ephemeral; it flowed through her as naturally as her blood.
The rest of the Degen Jassi shared the platform with the Leba and the imperial pair of father and daughter. The ranks of the ruling class had been thinned after the slaughter the Uloans had inflicted. Many of those who would have shared the splendor of Gebrem’s coronation this day were buried in the City of the Dead.
In contrast, the Imba Jassi were almost fully represented. Only a few of them had been in Khambawe when the Uloans had invaded, and they now outnumbered their city-dwelling counterparts. What this change would mean in the future was yet to be decided.
Although the raiment of the rulers of the outlying lands could not match that of the Degen Jassi, the bearing of the rustic lords was just as dignified. Still, they, too, harbored apprehensions. Under the loose rule of earlier Emperors, the Imba Jassi had enjoyed tacit independence. With a new ruler whose power was strengthened by that of the Almovaads, how long would this level of autonomy last?
That question would be answered at another time. For the glory of this day reflected as much on the Imba Jassi as it was on the people of the city.
A lone drummer occupied a corner of the platform. He was clad in the garb of the primeval Matile, harkening back to the time before the first Leba harnessed the power of ashuma. The skin of a lion cloaked the drummer’s lean frame, and ornaments made from lions’ teeth and claws adorned his arms, legs, and hair.
His drum, called the Negarit, was ancient, made before the time of Jass Issuri and handed down through countless generations. It was huge; the drummer could not have circled it with both his arms. A patina of age coated its dark wood, obscuring hints of figures and symbols carved by the hands of long-dead tribal craftsmen. Only during coronations was the Negarit removed from its place of honor in the Palace, and only the descendants of the first drummer were allowed to play it.
But when the drummer, whose name was Wolde as was that of all his ancestors, struck the Negarit’s surface with the ebony sticks in his hands, the sound was clear and resonant, as though the drum had been carved that very morning.
As Wolde’s arcanely amplified beat echoed throughout the pavilion and far beyond, Kyroun began to recite the long list of Emperors and Empresses of Matile Mala, names only now known to him.
“Issuri,” he began. “Tebede. Mangasha. Tsegaye. Hailam. Bekele ....”
These were names most Matile knew as well as their own. Names of pride, names of power. Names of those who had lifted the Matile Mara Empire to its greatest glory; names of those whose folly had led to its downfall. And, finally, the name of the one who would be entrusted to renew the Empire’s greatness:
“Dardar Asfaw Gebrem.”
The Seer and the crowd fell silent. Gebrem raised his arms, and a soft glow suffused the Crown and Sword of Issuri. Then both royal objects rose from the pedestal and floated toward Gebrem. Gently, the Crown settled onto Gebrem’s head. And the Sword drifted into his waiting hands.
Gebrem raised the Sword high above his head and held it steady. The glow from both the Crown and Sword enveloped him, transforming him into an incandescent icon and suffusing everyone else with him on the platform. As he stood before his people, the new Emperor overshadowed even Kyroun. It was as though Gebrem personified the Matile’s imminent return to the greatness of the past in the aftermath of their near-obliteration.
A spontaneous cheer rose from the crowd: a cacophony of chants and ululations that originated back in the time when the Matile herded cattle and fought clan wars and dreamed of something more, something beyond the confines of their fields and pastures. Caught up in their hosts’ fervor, the Fidi joined the celebration, adding victory songs from their own lands to the tapestry of triumph.
As waves of approbation continued to wash over him, the Emperor Gebrem locked eyes with Kyroun. The Degen and Imba Jassi had met several times, well in advance of the coronation, to discuss what should be done during its immediate aftermath. Alternatives had been discussed. Plans had been made. Tasks had been assigned.
“Now, my friend, our work truly begins,” Gebrem said.
Kyroun nodded.