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Sadness suffused the Empress Tiyana as she sat in the Throne Room of the Gebbi Senafa. She did not sit on the Lion Throne; she would not have the right to do so until her formal coronation ceremony. She did not look forward to that event ... or to any other. Or even to living another day with the onerous weight of the sorrow that pressed down on her like a leaden shroud.
Instead, she sat at the bottom of the steps that led to the dais upon which the Lion Throne rested. The ancient, ornate seat loomed high above her. Its shadow penetrated beneath her skin and darkened her soul.
She imagined that Gebrem was still sitting on the Empire’s throne. But in her mind, the image of her father became as it had been the last time she saw him, lying dead beside his overturned gharri. And she thought of the Lion Throne as a Blood Throne ...
Tiyana shook that image from her mind as she tried to concentrate on the Degen Jassi who were coming one-by-one to affirm their fealty to her. It was a ritual that dated back to the time before the Matile built cities of stone. Was it only yesterday that Tiyana stood by Gebrem’s side while the Degen Jassi paid similar tribute to him after the death of Alemeyu?
That recollection brought a new wave of grief, which Tiyana struggled to suppress. The time for more tears was later. But not now. Not here.
Tiyana did not want to be Empress. Not this way. She would have preferred to be a shamasha if being so would have allowed her father and Keshu to live. But that was not to be. The Empire was in her hands now ... hands that she kept clasped tightly together, so that the Degen Jassi would not see how badly they were trembling.
Her father ...dead.
The man she wanted to become her husband ... dead.
Others close to her had survived the attack. Kyroun ... her Fidi friend, Byallis ... her Matile friend, Yemeya. But the part of her that should have been grateful that they were still alive lay dormant, as though it had died along with Keshu and Gebrem. When she had more time to grieve alone, she would appreciate the good fortune of those who – including herself – had survived. Now, though, she could not.
The voices of those who were offering their allegiance to her seemed to be coming from a great distance, at the end of a long, hollow shaft of emptiness. She could barely hear them well enough to nod her acceptance at the appropriate times. Tiyana wished she could be somewhere – anywhere – else. But she knew tradition compelled her to be where she was now. It was her duty to be there.
She was the Empress ...
Then, for a reason she could not have explained, her attention suddenly focused on Jass Kebessa, a minor member of the Degen Jassi to whom she had previously paid scant, if any, heed. Yet now, as he knelt on one knee before her, bowed his head, and began to recite the ritual words, Tiyana heard him clearly. The internal distance that had muffled the words of others had disappeared.
“Mesfin, my life is yours,” Jass Kebessa intoned, as had all the others who preceded him; as would those who were behind him.
“I pledge you my fidelity,” Jass Kebessa continued. “I will serve you and the Empire well.”
Still on one knee, he raised his head and looked at her.
Why are his eyes shifting, Tiyana wondered. What is the meaning of the drops of sweat standing out on his brow?
Jass Kebessa waited for her to give the nod that would send him on his way. It was taking longer for him to receive the time-honored signal than it had for others. Stinging perspiration crept into his eyes.
A slight touch from Kyroun prodded Tiyana into giving the awaited nod. Jass Kebessa rose, bowed, and made way for the next member of the Degen Jassi to give the Empress her pledge.
And, once again, grief put a distance between Tiyana and the words that would be repeated endlessly that day.