Please enjoy this first chapter of my latest novel "Califia's Crusade." I hope you enjoy it!
On the isle of California in the year of our Lord 1500, a woman in a hut stared at two helmets and pretended she had a choice. Polished to a mirror shine, the left helmet glinted vividly in the morning sunlight that streamed through the open window. The swirling designs and intricate patterns of its visor and crown were perfectly accented by great golden wings that adorned either side. A purple plume sprouted from the top which would spill down the back of its wearer.
The other helmet was also composed of golden griffinsteel, though finished with a burnished, rustic look. It was adorned by no scrollwork nor intricate etchings of any kind, and was little better than a bucket beaten roughly into the large egg-shape of a head. It was practical, useful, and almost aggressively ugly.
Every young girl on California knew the story of the great exodus. Queen Amaltheia sacrificed herself for the freedom of the Amazons, who were saved from their sinking island home by griffins sent from the Triumvir Goddesses. Amaltheia’s lover, Helena, led them across a vast ocean and a vast continent until finally they came to California, an uninhabited island chain which served as their home for thousands of years.
The queen-elect prepared to commemorate that exodus with a procession of her own. But first, she had to put on her helmet. The woman who surveyed the helmets dearly wanted to don the shining helm and its matching set of decorative armor. Hera herself would envy its queenly majesty, and Aphrodite could not ask for a more beautiful raiment. But it was not Hera or Aphrodite whom her people needed today. They clamored for Athena, the goddess of warfare, craft, and wisdom. The goddess of practicality.
The hide flap door suddenly flipped open and Arianna poked her head in, smiling brightly. She glided past the door with casual grace, her many brightly-colored bracelets clacking as she approached the queen. She wore an elegant deerskin dress with white lace fringe tickling her slender thighs. Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at the queen, a small scar at the left corner of her mouth flexing like a muscle. The queen loved that scar, and loved the lips which now kissed her own.
“This will be a coronation day to remember,” Arianna said, pulling away from the queen and sighing.
“The campaign was memorable enough,” the queen replied ruefully, glaring at the plain burnished helmet. “It should be Malachea who has to wear this dreadful armor.”
“You’ll look marvelous in it,” the young woman said, giving the queen’s shoulders a squeeze. “Our ferocious champion, the bold Hypa- oh!”
The queen turned, raising an eyebrow at her lover’s sudden halt.
“I should call you by your title now, shouldn’t I?” Arianna said.
The queen smiled, a little sad that she might not hear anyone call her by her chosen name for many years. Her mother would have called it a necessary sacrifice.
“Let me hear it first from you, my love,” she said, smiling playfully at Arianna.
“Califia.”
Califia turned and embraced her companion. They shared a long, indulgent kiss.
“If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be scandalously late,” Arianna said, breaking away from the queen’s lips and turning to leave.
“We wouldn’t want any more scandal,” Califia said, pulling on a padded cotton undershirt as she prepared to don the plain burnished thorax. She turned to see Arianna clenching her eyes in embarrassment.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Califia smiled as kindly as she could muster. She wasn’t angry with her lover for invoking the controversy that haunted her election. Arianna left the hut after a small, awkward smile.
Califia tightened the straps of the thorax and opened the drawer where she stored jewelry and gifts. A bearskin-and-turkey-feather headdress lay flat inside, a gift from the Ohlone with whom she had arranged trade during a time of famine many years ago. Next to it sat a few small carved bears and some abalone jewelry— gifts from her daughter Chloe. The queen smiled at the thought of seeing her eight-year-old daughter at the coronation.
Califia had expected to be less exhausted once her whirlwind election campaign ended. The sitting queen had arranged everything and even led the delegation herself. They had started in the south, among those who hardly knew her. They proceeded to hold three-day elections in those regions approving her as the new Califia. The old woman’s presence added considerable weight to her candidacy.
It was all perfectly legal– nothing that hadn’t been done before. Her critics, however, crowed that these tactics pre-emptively squeezed out any would-be competitors. A few even wrote formal complaints, but thus far it was only words.
“I was joking about being late,” Arianna chimed, standing near the hide-flap door with her hands on her hips. “You do remember that your coronation is today, right?”
As she stepped out of the hut and into a harsh mid-morning light, Califia shifted her thorax with one hand while she adjusted her left breast with the other. She hated this armor for both its discomfort and its warlike appearance. She resented its necessity but knew in her heart that Basilea was right: little gestures could carry a lot of weight.
A cheer erupted and as her eyes adjusted she realized that her home was practically besieged by well-wishers and supporters. They chanted her title – her name – over and over as they pumped their fists in the air and clapped their hands.
Califia! Califia! Califia! Califia!
She smiled, her cheeks warming as she pushed a few stray braids behind her shoulder. Arianna grinned proudly and clapped, cheering loudest of all. She stopped clapping suddenly, her eyebrows lifting as she turned around and squatted before something which the queen couldn’t see. Suddenly the air filled with the whooshing sound of flapping wings as ravens flew from the small wooden cage which Arianna had opened.
Ravens, Califia thought. How fitting that she would choose the avatar of Artemis, the goddess of sound judgment, to bless this journey.
The crowd parted as the queen stepped forward, forming a perfect promenade route for her march through the village. Behind the cheering crowd she spotted the roofs of other huts, as well as the longhouse and the three steeples of the temple to the Triumvirs. Laboneia had been a good home to her these last four years and, while she still sorely missed Ippaea, which lay on California’s east coast, the people here had made her feel truly blessed to be apart of their community.
Califia clasped congratulatory hands with village leaders, religious elders, and even Tessa, the smith built like a bison who had forged Califia’s armor. After surveying the queen’s armor, she nodded with approval.
The sight of the chariots made the queen gasp. Their cabs were adorned on either side with griffins crafted beautifully from gold wire, standing proud with their wings flared up. The beasts’ heads and wings framed her torso and head perfectly, which Califia realized made it appear as though she were riding the creatures into glorious combat.
The people of Laboneia waved and cheered as the chariot embarked, the two llamas first pulling slowly and then easing into a casual trot. The llamas were wearing their own set of wings as well. Her cheeks were sore from the last two months of forced smiling at campaign events, but today nothing could keep her from grinning like a child with a secret.
The Coronation March was a tradition stretching back into time immemorial, far beyond the current Third Republic and even beyond the distant Age of Tyrants. It was a symbol which endured every new regime, every mass reorganization and small-scale reshuffle. Whenever a new queen was elected, the Coronation March paid tribute to the great migration that brought the foremothers to this land.
Califia was thankful that the elaborate marches of the distant past were now considered antiquated and a direct route was favored both for the sake of the participants and national administration.
After long hours following the winding road which led southwest through several villages, the capital came into view around midday. The great city was easy to spot from a distance; it rose into the air like a mountain, but its terraces became clear as the traveler drew closer. Those bold enough to take their mothering journey to the realm of the Mexhica testified that those people built similar structures out of stone— places of worship and ceremony. A growing faction of Amazon historians believed that the capital had been originally built with a similar sacredness in mind long ago.
The people of Californopolis threw their hands rapturously into the air and cheered as she passed. Some had donned special costumes for the occasion; four large women wore massive crowns of red-dyed griffin feathers while three others wore heavy skirts woven with intricate patterns of multi-colored beads. Most of the celebrants had stripped to the waist and Califia envied them. Her breasts were beginning to ache beneath the heavy thorax.
“I’ve never been to the capital before,” remarked the chariot driver, whom the queen realized looked quite young. Her bare arms were tattooed with many dot patterns which appeared like jeweled bands around her bicep and forearm, with a chain of dots connecting them running along her elbow. Below her lip, slender colored rainbow lines traveled down her chin and disappeared beneath her chestplate. She grinned earnestly, like a child who has learned a new game and Califia guessed that she was no older than nineteen.
“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” The queen replied, holding her palms out to receive a blessing being offered by a nearby devotee who was extending her arms as she recited a blessing.
“I did not know so many people could live in one place.”
Califia felt briefly as though she were seeing the city for the first time. It was amazing that so many people could live and work side by side, shrugging at their differences and holding fast to that which they held in common. If only the rest of the nation were the same.
Califia’s thoughts turned to her most vocal critic— the Strategos of the Gorgon soldiers. Malachea had been idly chattering for years about campaigning to become the next queen, and rumors swirled that Califia’s campaign infuriated the strategos. The woman’s infernal daughter, Dionysia, had even begun championing her mother’s cause.
The second ramp led to a terrace dotted with a series of interconnected houses which were built by the Califia before her mother. Originally an experiment in communal living space, they were popular in the capital but had not sparked a trend in the rest of their island, save for the deserts in the south where such housing served to bond militia trainees together and help with their cohesion as fighting cohorts. A happy grin spread across her face as she remembered her own time in the barracks — the nights spent endlessly talking as well as the more passionate nights spent not talking.
After passing through several more levels devoted to housing, agoras, food storage, and farming, they arrived at last at the topmost terrace where a massive, tall longhouse sat amid an array of purple, red, yellow, and blue flowers. The palace was a magnificent building; red timbers held up the main structure while austere blanched oak pillars supported the awning of the portico. The roof was composed of dark, tightly-packed dried maize husks and the window shutters adorned with mosaics featuring mighty Californian warriors and their griffins.
The day was growing hot, and the soon-to-be-retired queen and her honor guard stood sheltered in the portico’s shade. Flanking them were delegates of various tribes from across the eastern gulf. The Ohlone delegate gave a courteous nod, her abalone necklace shimmering. She was flanked by four men with bare chests painted with cougar paws and sunbursts along with three bare-breasted women wearing deerskin skirts and feathered hats that looked like hedgehogs. To their right stood their southern neighbors the Tepota’al, led by three matriarchs with headdresses of large turkey feathers and wearing long brightly-dyed robes woven from river reeds and deerskin along with a group of five men covered in swirling dotted black tattoos.
By the time they reached the palace her procession had grown to nearly three hundred women. The bright colors of their costumes along with the various shades of brown and black skin was a pleasing sight in Califia’s eyes. Their joy was intoxicating; she smiled in spite of the armor and the unpleasantness that had surrounded the days leading up to this moment. Malachea will come, she thought to herself. She will accept your installation and that will be the end of it.
Arianna helped Califia step down from the chariot platform and whispered as she passed close, “The Kashaya are here!”
Califia looked upon them; their heads were covered by furred hats with a plume of feathers bursting from the crown, their torsos were covered only by intricate tattoos, and they wore short cotton loincloths decorated with colorful beads in a complicated concentric rhombus pattern. Their leader observed Califia with sharp, watchful eyes from beneath the curly mane of the bison helm. The Kashaya rarely concerned themselves with California. Basilea must have gone out of her way to arrange their presence and thus fortify Califia’s image as a respectable queen.
Califia ran her fingers along the golden wire attached to the hull of her vehicle, marveling at the intricate craftsmanship on display. The swirling patterns tapered and then seemed to explode in a whirlpool of silver and gold.
“This must have taken months,” she said to Arianna. “How did you keep this secret from me?”
Arianna embraced her but Califia barely felt the squeeze beneath her heavy armor.
“It wasn’t difficult; you’ve been busy.”
Califia felt as though a shard of glass sank into her heart. Her muscles stiffened defensively.
“You knew I wanted this,” she whispered, irritated that her lover would choose this moment to start a fight.
Arianna released her and sighed, looking wounded.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, hoisting herself onto one of the passing chariots. Califia wanted to call after her, but Basilea was looking at her expectantly which meant that it was time for the ceremony to begin.
“Greetings, our queen! May your reign bring prosperity and happiness to our land and the lands beyond!”
The retiring queen gracefully stepped forward, spreading her arms and smiling amiably. Califia hugged her friend warmly and although she had exchanged many embraces before this day, the woman felt strangely small and frail in her arms now. It was as though her body knew that she would be Califia no longer; from that day forward she would be called Basilea, a title which meant honored matron in the old tongue. She had served Califia’s mother during her time as queen in years past, protecting the island as polemarkos during the Cochimi War. Those days were defined by famine, plague and conflict; the women from that age had a hardness about them, a solid edge that only the harshest conditions forge.
“She’s not here yet, but she’ll come,” Basilea whispered into Califia’s ear. “Don’t worry.”
The queen released Basilea and proceeded to greet the esteemed visitors, who each offered a blessing. Music rang out from within the palace, filling the air with hopeful melodies and playful tunes. The two guards who stood on either side of the building’s large double doors pulled at the gigantic handles and they swung them open with the ease of a child pushing a ball downhill. It was a trick of engineering, a series of pulleys and networked gears, but even the queen couldn’t help but look on with wonder.
The vast open space within the palace was filled with hip-high tables covered with broad platters of various foods. In the center, a flat circular dais had been erected for the ceremony, and above their heads stood a long, winding balcony supported by oaken columns covered in relief carvings of Californian folk tales. The walls were covered with bright bead and shell mosaics, and every niche featured several sculpted heads of the Califias who had come before. Basilea’s likeness, its clay still shiny and unpainted, was kissed by the sunlight streaming in from opened roof panels.
Kyria, a sandy brown woman in colorful flowing robes patterned after the flowers of spring greeted Califia at the doorway, bowing gracefully and with far more theater than necessary. Her green eyes sparkled beneath her hairdo, an intricate inter-woven tower atop her head. Once more Califia wondered where Kyria’s mother had found the man with whom she had produced such a beautiful and elegant creature.
“My queen, just as the chefs have created many wonders for your palate, I have prepared a feast for your ears and eyes.” She smoothly took several shuffling steps to the side and held out her willowy arm toward the harpists and percussionists on the dais, who continued playing their lively, festive tune as Califia strode into the grand hall.
Basilea leaned close as she walked beside Califia.
“Kyria is a bit… enthusiastic, but I think you’ll come to appreciate her passion for all things musical and theatrical.”
Califia smiled at the fact that Basilea, so erudite and austere, had nonetheless given bombastic Kyria charge of royal entertainment.
“I like her enthusiasm,” the queen replied, smiling toward the court entertainer. “She and I worked together some years ago arranging entertainment for harvesters.”
“Ah, yes.” Basilea closed her eyes for a moment and massaged her temple with her fingers. “I had forgotten that you know each other. That will help; I have yet to find a person who can resist her passion for the performing arts.”
“Even Malachea?”
The corners of Basilea’s lips curled up in a mischievous half-smile.
“Actually, the two of them became quite… entangled after the festival of Persephone last spring.”
Califia felt her cheeks become warm at the thought. A hard-ass bitch like Malachea falling into the arms of a gentle, artsy woman like Kyria? It seemed impossible; if anyone but Basilea had just told her she would have accused them of lying. Even as queen, the old woman always seemed terribly well-informed about such affairs.
Arianna appeared suddenly at Califia’s side, sliding a spiced abalone into her mouth and pausing a few moments to admire the iridescent inner shell. “By Athena’s bones, have you ever seen a party so lovely?”
“Blasphemy doesn’t become you, dear,” Basilea said, plucking buttered slices of potato from a nearby platter and daintily placing them in her mouth.
“It’s only blasphemy if your heart is motivated by ill intent toward the gods,” Ariana sang, smirking with the confidence of someone who joined a theology omadha two months before and was therefore now an expert on all things divine. Basilea’s brows furrowed and Califia felt her own eyes glaze over at the prospect of a debate. She deftly backed out of the conversation before opening arguments.
She drifted between tables for a spell sampling various styles of steamed and flash-boiled shrimp, bundles of sweet and spicy peppers, and a pot of soup composed of turkey, maize, and diced potatoes. As she prepared to give the Ohlone a special greeting, suddenly she heard a familiar cry.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
She turned to see her daughter Chloe running toward her in tears. She rested one knee on the ground and Chloe nearly knocked her down with a ferocious embrace.
“Please don’t do it, mommy,” her daughter whimpered between sobs. “Please don’t be the queen.”
Califia picked up her daughter and walked to a remote spot far beneath the balcony where they could speak uninterrupted.
“Why are you afraid?”
“They call you a tyrant, mommy. Krysta and Tayelli said you’re a tyrant and promised that their mommies would stop you.”
Califia’s breath stopped for a moment. She closed her eyes and silently cursed the bitter adults who had been muttering within earshot of their own daughters. Chloe threw her arms around Califia’s neck and squeezed tightly.
“I would be so sad if you died, mommy.”
“I’m not going to die, my love.” She backed out of the girl’s embrace, squeezing her shoulders. “The strategoses will protect me. And I don’t think anyone would dare to challenge Chloe the bold.”
She tapped Chloe’s nose and the child smiled at her mom’s bravado, loosing a tiny giggle as Califia playfully put her fist over her heart and bowed solemnly. She gave the girl a sudden tickle and the giggles suddenly multiplied into a great cloud of laughter.
“Did you tell the caretakers about this?”
Chloe nodded.
“They made them apologize.”
Califia squared her daughter’s shoulders and looked her in the eye.
“There is always a space between what people say and what they will actually do. A griffin is not troubled by the threats of a turkey.”
The girl giggled again, wiping her tears and drying her hand upon the bright purple dress she wore for the occasion. She reached out and tapped Califia’s burnished armor.
“You look funny, mommy.”
Califia smiled and her heart warmed.
“Oh really?”
“Like a big fat beetle!” Chloe giggled.
“How dare you speak this way to the queen?” She bellowed in a mocking tone. “You must suffer for this insult!”
Califia hoisted her into the air with one hand while the other deftly attacked each of her tickle spots. They walked back to the assembly hand in hand until Chloe spotted some children playing on the other side of the palace and sprinted to join them. It pained her heart to see her daughter leave so quickly but she was glad that she could help the girl overcome her fears.
Now if only Malachea would show up and help me overcome my own fears.
Califia easily rejoined the festivities and was in the middle of a discussion when the air was suddenly pierced with the clanging of palace alarm bells. Through one of the many open windows the queen spotted a large cloud of dust just past the city gates. Her heart thumped in her ears as everyone in the room gathered by the windows and stared, some curious and others panic-stricken, at the distant mystery.
Califia absently wondered if the anxiety that now coursed through her veins was comparable to what the Cochimi felt when the fury of the Californian Amazons bore down upon them during the reign of her mother. Basilea had punished the mainlanders for trespassing on sacred Californian ground but her later reign as queen had been peaceful. It was known, however, that some among the approaching Gorgons desired to reignite that conflict and win the glory which they had been previously denied by being born too late.
“Our noble strategos of the Gorgons blesses our gathering with her presence,” Basilea announced, loud enough to be clearly heard over the ringing bells. As the gathered crowd politely chuckled, Califia saw the old woman whisper into the ear of a nearby page who sprinted toward the stairs and then ascended by leaping them two at a time. After a few more peals, the bells ceased their ringing.
“Always so dramatic,” Strategos Aleksandra said, shaking her head and grinning with admiration. “Kass would be proud.”
Califia smiled and nodded politely, though she had quite forgotten she had been speaking with the strategos of the central regions Ipíos and Jorgya. The queen hoped this woman was right, that this late arrival with a large retinue of Gorgon soldiers was nothing more than a tantrum.
“Excuse me, please,” Califia said and Aleksandra nodded amiably and took a sip from her brown ceramic cup. Most of the attendees were already meandering back to the tables and she caught a few snippets of idle conversation on her short journey. A few were discussing whether Isikyai was superior to the way of Omu and whether the two could even be compared, while others marveled at some item of food and speculated about its ingredients. No one seemed concerned. Good.
“Don’t fall for it,” Basilea said as Califia came within earshot. “If she launched a coup, she would only make herself the tyrant.”
“I’m not sure she will see it that way.” Califia took a deep breath and felt the ground beneath her solidify.
“I have known Malachea since she was a baby; she values her honor above everything – even victory itself.” Basilea’s voice held steady, which gave Califia some comfort. “Killing you would be cheating.”
Malachea was easy to spot. She stood nearly a head taller than Califia and her muscles bulged beneath her armor with the definition and bulk of one who imposed diligent discipline over her body. She possessed an easy, natural confidence – a swagger, a proud posture – that others had imitated but only the strategos of the Gorgons had managed to truly capture.
Califia donned her most welcoming grin as her stomach tied itself into a hard knot. As the column of armored soldiers came to a stop before her, she spread her arms as she greeted them.
“Welcome to the celebration, my friends.”
Malachea removed her helmet and nestled it in the crook of her elbow, displaying her beard tattoo, which was patterned like a thorny bramble. She bowed her head and smiled with a confidence that the queen did not like at all.
“I apologize for our tardiness… Califia. We arrived late because we were acquiring a coronation gift.”
“We are happy to receive you, Strategos,” Califia said diplomatically, “and all we ask is that you refrain from bringing any implements of war into the royal palace.”
“We happily submit ourselves to tradition, my queen,” Malachea glanced quickly at Basilea as if the title was meant for her. “We shall leave our axes, shields, spears, swords, staves, bows, and daggers by the fountain.”
“And your armor,” Basilea said, sounding almost offended that she even needed to say so. Califia held her breath; several members of Malachea’s cohort looked indignant at the idea of removing their armor. Basilea continued, “How else will you dance?”
Some light laughter, as well as a series of hand-signaled commands from Malachea herself, convinced Califia that the danger hand passed. For now. The gorgons removed their helmets, revealing their beard tattoos which marked them as elite warriors. Some were intricate, others followed geometric patterns, and some were just a mass of black ink.
The warriors revealed flowing wine red sleeveless gowns as they removed their armor. They had come prepared. The queen envied them, thinking of how such dresses would beautifully frame the tattoos that graced her arms and breasts. The image of Athena that graced her left bicep would look especially grand.
Cheers erupted from a few corners of the great hall as Malachea entered, throwing her massive arms wide as she received the greetings. How the queen envied the strategos and her very comfortable-looking gown. Her skin felt suddenly hot, though she couldn’t be sure whether it was from genuine discomfort or from envy.
“Forget about her,” Basilea reassured her. “Let’s go talk with the Ohlone and the Kashaya while we have a chance.”
The queen was once more thankful that Basilea was there to guide her. The Ohlone delegation, three women and a man wearing turkey feather crowns and intricately beaded loincloths, smiled as the two women approached. They chatted about the events in their homeland, how a flock of sparrows flitted through their camp during a coming-of-age ceremony— an omen of a prosperous year.
The Kashaya were similarly happy to talk about their many herds of bison that grazed throughout their lands and the mighty hunts which their chiefs organized to feed the people. California had its own bison herds, though they hunted them from the backs of griffins when they had need of their meat and hides.
As the party continued, the queen and Basilea gradually drifted apart. Califia spoke with one of the musicians who played a flute which she bragged about carving from a fallen sequoia. After a few boring discussions with some arkozhas and a strategos, the queen tried to enjoy a few restorative moments of peace.
“Quite the spectacle,” Malachea remarked, appearing suddenly at Califia’s side.
“It is no crime to celebrate an achievement,” Califia retorted, rolling her eyes as Malachea grabbed some more food.
“An unannounced lightning campaign with no challenger,” Malachea examined a cluster of spiced shrimp. “Some would say that such an achievement does not warrant a party this extravagant.”
Malachea popped the shrimp cluster into her mouth and turned to take her leave. She nearly collided with Kyria, who had been approaching the queen. The two paused awkwardly and their expressions soured. Kyria fixed the Gorgon strategos with a glare that Califia believed would have frozen an erupting volcano and Malachea pursed her lips in turn and gave a heavy sigh. Malachea moved on and Kyria affixed a smile.
“My queen, the Ohlone would like to favor your reign with a dance.”
“Yes, I…” Califia tried to clear her mind. The thought of the rude, brash Malachea resting in the arms of gentle and bubbly Kyria was too vast an equation for her to even conceive, much less hope to solve.
“Are you feeling okay?”
Califia nodded.
“I am only too happy to receive their blessing.”
Once she had quieted the musicians and cleared the dais of furniture, the dance began. The largest of them, a man whose height and bulk would rival a bear, began a low and intense chant as the dancers hit drums in time as they stepped across their elevated dance space. Some held feathered fans and tasseled scepters, waving them in patterns that expanded and contracted as the steady rhythm grew louder or softer. Califia noticed three or four couples taking the dance as an opportunity to slip away for more intimate relations in one of the many furnished rooms attached to the great hall. She smiled as she imagined taking Ariana’s hand and leading her into one of the abandoned rooms, their bodies pulsing to the rhythm of the Ohlone chant.
The Tepota’al, not satisfied being outshone by their northern neighbors, insisted on performing a dance afterward. She naturally assented. The people of the coastal mountains celebrated a much more vigorous dance complete with battle whoops and acrobatic flips. The Kashaya performed next, blessing the gathering with a stomping, galloping dance meant to invoke the spirit of the bison. The Californians in the assembly clapped and talked to one another excitedly until Kyria at last commanded their silence, leading Califia onto the dais gently but firmly by the elbow.
“It is time for the coronation!” The mistress of entertainment announced, turning once more to the queen and smiling supportively. Basilea ascended the three steps to the top of the dais with the graceful ease of one well-practiced in poise and regal command. The gray hair braided and gathered on top of her head looked like a snowy crown.
“Eight years ago, I stood on this platform and swore an oath to protect this nation and its people at any cost, even with my own life,” Basilea spoke with conviction and her voice resonated through the palace. “Before you stands she who will continue in my stead. Today she swears the same oath and submits her life to its demands.”
From her belt, Basilea removed a dagger with a black sheath. Its hilt was likewise black, but shiny from centuries of handling. Basilea held it aloft for everyone to lay eyes upon; the room filled with a revered silence as each woman reflected upon the blade’s meaning and history. Califia thought of Amaltheia who conjured it, sitting miserably in a prison cell on the island their people once ruled until tricked into defeat by their crafty enemies. In a desperate act of self control and determination, she had plunged that dagger into her own heart so that her people, Califia’s people, might be saved from subjugation and slavery.
Basilea held the dagger’s sheath with both hands and angled the hilt toward Califia. This part of the ritual she knew well and had practiced; she grabbed the proffered hilt and unveiled the gleaming blade, pointing its tip toward the heavens for a few moments as it shimmered. She placed her left hand upon its broad pommel and rotated the weapon until its point hovered over her own heart.
“Will you serve the Amazons, placing their desires, their needs, their futures above your own, even at the cost of your own life?”
Califia held the blade steady and took a calming breath before responding.
“I will.”
“Kneel before your people.”
Califia knelt, still holding the dagger toward her heart. Basilea turned to the assembly.
“Will you, the people of California, accept and encourage your queen as she contributes her talent, energy, and indeed her very life on your behalf?”
“We will.” The crowd replied, the resonance of the palace transforming their spoken assent into an enthusiastic roar.
Basilea stretched her hands toward the sky and enthusiastically spoke the words that her own predecessor, the mother of the new Califia, had spoken on her behalf twelve years before.
“Rejoice, my people! A new queen has come to serve us, to invigorate us where we have grown stagnant, to enrich us where we have grown poor, to enlighten us where our minds have grown dark!” She turned toward Califia, whose knee was beginning to throb. “Arise, O queen, and put away the weapon that guaranteed our freedom so many years ago!”
Califia rose to her feet and took the sheath from Basilea, sliding the dagger smoothly back inside. She tied the weapon into her belt and gazed regally upon her people who looked back with a mixture of reverence, respect, and open skepticism.
“My queen,” Kyria interjected, beaming with joy and anticipation, “I humbly request the honor of being the first to present you with a coronation gift.”
“Will you require use of this platform?” Califia asked.
“You know me too well,” Kyria blushed a little and gestured for the actors whom Califia had noticed were standing near the far walls in outlandishly plumed costumes.
One of the actors was queen of the turkeys and the other was queen of the hawks. The narrator explained that there was a great war between them and the performers began slashing at each other, the hawks wielding polearms adorned with curved talon-like blades and the turkeys armed with great feathered shields. They fought constantly until the land was too ravaged for either party to find food. At last they learned that they must cease fighting one another and work together in order to survive.
Califia was enjoying the story until it transformed into a ham-handed attempt at a metaphor of reconciliation. Damn you, Kyria. She glanced at Malachea, who was rolling her eyes. The turkey and hawk embraced to tepid applause.
Afterward, several Omadhas presented gifts – the harvesters brought a gold sickle representing their hope of abundant yields during Califia’s reign, the fishers of Amaltheia brought an intricately molded goblet with a salmon stem and rapid ocean currents surrounding the central cup, and the hatchery sent a circlet composed of griffin feathers and light, silvery eggshell steel.
After each gift, she glanced at Malachea to see if the Gorgons were ready to present whatever they had brought for her. They had been so vocal about opposing her queenship that she wasn’t expecting anything, but Malachea had made it clear that something would be given. Califia shivered to think what it might be.
The Kashaya presented a wooden dagger carved from oak. As the queen held the curved dagger aloft for everyone to see, she saw that Malachea was whispering commands to her daughter, Dionysia. Whatever it is, it will be here soon.
Malachea stepped forward. Califia felt as though the tension in the room threatened to crush them all. She pushed visions of a bloody coup out of her mind.
“There are some who have scurrilously whispered that our new Califia is unsuited to the work of protecting our land, of protecting us.”
You were behind those whispers, Califia thought, hoping her seething anger was not visible in her expression.
“Our gift is an opportunity to prove those doubters wrong and demonstrate your unwavering commitment to our safety and security.”
She held up her hand and two of her Gorgons appeared at the large open doors at the entrance. As they stepped inside, Califia saw that they were flanking a third figure — someone dressed in a strange dark red robe which matched no style Califia had never seen. Both arms and legs were shackled and their head was covered by a dark woven sack.
“We apprehended an intruder this morning wandering the southern shores of Droserós, perhaps an enemy scout sent to spy our land for invasion. Because the griffins were locked away, he was spared the horrific death which their beaks and talons bring.”
She pulled the bag off of his head and a brown-skinned man blinked and looked about, his mouth agape. He had bushy eyebrows and neatly-trimmed beard, and he spoke a few words in a strange language wholly unfamiliar to Califia’s ears.
“Our gift to you, great queen,” Malachea received a wide-bladed axe from one of the guards flanking the prisoner and immediately proffered it to Califia, “is the honor of performing this man’s execution.”