Finally.
“How many wardens?” Ashlyn asked.
“Pardon me?”
“The western lords—how many soldiers arrived with them?”
The steward consulted his ledger. Hesitated. “I’m sorry, my queen, but I only have a record of the lords themselves. They rode into the city alone.”
Strange. Perhaps they had ridden ahead to arrive in time for her coronation, but Ashlyn wasn’t going to ignore alternative possibilities. Wallace had promised his men by today; if he didn’t deliver them, there was a reason.
“Ask Hayden and Shoshone to come in here,” she told the steward.
The widows entered the room a moment later. Both of them were wearing their black armor and a plain sharkskin-leather mask that hid everything except their eyes.
“Cedar Wallace hasn’t brought his wardens into the city, just his vassal lords from the Gorgon Valley,” Ashlyn told them. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“What do you think he’s planning?” Hayden asked.
“If he’s going to challenge me, now would be the time. If I’m killed or deposed before I’m officially coronated, it’ll be far easier for Wallace to take power afterward.”
“Wouldn’t he have brought his wardens into the city if he was planning to rebel?”
“Not necessarily,” Ashlyn said. “They wouldn’t have been allowed inside the castle, and my wardens control all the vital positions within Floodhaven. Even if they had the numbers, they wouldn’t have the advantage. But if they stay outside the city, I can’t control them at all. As for lords—they’re all welcome inside Castle Malgrave tonight. Wallace knows that.”
Ashlyn chewed on her lip, her mind rattling through her options. She could have Wallace arrested right away, but that would turn his vassals against her and possibly start a civil war. She couldn’t risk that this close to the summer solstice.
“My queen,” Shoshone said, “if you suspect an assassination plot, we should postpone the ceremony.”
“If I’m too vulnerable to attend my own coronation, nobody will sail to war for me. We just need to increase security. How many widows are stationed on the walls above the courtyard right now?”
“One hundred, my queen,” Shoshone said.
“Bring half of them down into the crowd. I want a widow within sword’s reach of any lord who claims allegiance to Cedar Wallace.”
“That will make the nobles nervous,” Hayden said.
“I want them nervous. If Wallace sees an opening tonight, I believe he’ll take it. The best way to avoid violence is to design a single, inevitable outcome.”
“Bringing half the widows off that wall leaves the entrances and exits to the courtyard vulnerable,” Shoshone warned. “As it is, most of the castle hallways and corridors are unguarded right now.”
Ashlyn chewed her lip. Shoshone was right. “Who else can we trust?”
“We could call Carlyle Llayawin off the city walls and into the castle,” Hayden said. “I trust him and his men.”
“No, if Wallace’s wardens aren’t accounted for, Carlyle needs to stay on the walls,” Ashlyn said. Carlyle had spent years training to defend Floodhaven. He could stave off an attack of thousands with a few hundred under his command.
“Who, then?”
There was a silence. She needed Carlyle on the walls, but he could spare some wardens.
“Carlyle stays on the walls,” Ashlyn said eventually. “But send word to him that I need fifty of his best archers back at the castle to guard the courtyard.”
“Yes, my queen,” Shoshone said.
“Shoshone,” Ashlyn said. “Which of your widows is the best shot with a sling?”
“Me,” Shoshone answered with no arrogance or pride.
“If I give the order, you will put a shot through Wallace’s head. Understood?”
“Definitely, my queen.”
“Good.”
Ashlyn was prepared to make an example out of Cedar Wallace if he forced her hand.
“I’ll make the preparations at once,” Shoshone said, bowing and leaving the room.
When she was gone, Hayden took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Do you have the thread?”
“Right here,” Ashlyn said, tapping her left wrist. “Thumb-knife, too.”
“Good.” Hayden scanned the room as if she might find Cedar Wallace hiding behind one of the curtains.
“It’s all right, Hayden. I know the risks, I’ve prepared as much as possible. The only thing left to do is put on the mask and go down there.”
Just like every warden wore a mask into battle, every Almiran king and queen was given a mask at their coronation, which they would then wear when they held court. Silas used to joke that the custom was invented so royalty could send someone else to handle court matters for them.
The best sculptor in Floodhaven had locked himself inside his studio and spent a month creating Ashlyn’s mask according to her instructions. Most Malgraves, her father included, chose an eagle’s visage. A mixture of tradition and practicality—that way their wardens didn’t have to carve new battle masks.
Ashlyn would let her wardens keep their eagles, but decided to go her own way with the mask.
It was made from a block of Papyrian cedar that was painted white and carved into the shape of a Ghost Moth’s face—oval eyes, gentle snout. A complicated scale pattern that reminded Ashlyn of a cracked-open honeycomb. The twin tendrils dropped from the snout and grazed her collarbones. They were festooned with silver rings and small circular mirrors that caught the light and sent it cascading around the room.
The sculptor had urged Ashlyn to let him sculpt something less troubling. Almirans carved their nameless gods into all shapes and animals, but almost never dragons. While only the most zealous worshippers clung to the belief that dragons and demons had roamed Terra before the gods and warm-blooded animals, honoring the great lizards was rare to the point of being vulgar. Ashlyn didn’t care. She needed to show Almira that she was an independent queen who would not submit to the shackles of expectation and tradition. And she needed to begin convincing them the great lizards weren’t their enemies. This was the start of that effort.
Plus, she had loved Ghost Moths for her entire life, and one of them had given her the thread on her wrist. Any other mask would have been a betrayal.
Ashlyn donned her mask. The spires of her hair slipped through small holes bored into the sides of the cedar, which smelled alive and fresh. The wood was shaped perfectly to her face. The sculptor may not have liked her design choice, but he had done excellent work.
The lords of Almira would all be wearing their masks at the coronation, too. It was tradition.
Ashlyn waited in the bedchamber so Carlyle’s men had time to get into position. As midnight approached, an out-of-breath widow arrived at the door and spoke in Hayden’s ear.
“We’re set?” Ashlyn asked.
Hayden nodded.
Ashlyn took one deep breath in. Let it out.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
Out of habit, Ashlyn counted the stairs on her way down to the seaside courtyard. One thousand and fifty-eight. The trip from tower to sea was one of longest journeys you could make in Castle Malgrave, but it felt like mere moments to Ashlyn, whose head was swimming with anticipation.
The four high lords of Almira stood at the lip of a stone platform that overlooked the seaside courtyard. At the far end of the lawn a set of marble steps descended into the Soul Sea. Between the high lords and the water, there were seven large bonfires scattered across the lawn. Each bonfire was ringed by six human-sized mud totems wreathed in eagle feathers. Each totem also had enough sapphires pressed into the surface to buy ten vats of dragon oil. Ashlyn thought it was a shame to waste such wealth on useless decoration.
And, of course, there were hundreds of masked lords and ladies. The nobility of Almira.
It was extremely rare for all of the small lords to gather in Floodhaven at
the same time. Under normal circumstances, nobles were frequently summoned to the capital, but always in small groups. The journeys were justified by the pretext of delivering tax payments or updating the Malgraves on their local needs, but the real reason was to keep the lords of Almira in a nearly constant state of movement, which made it more difficult to develop secret allegiances or spark rebellions in their homeland.
The system had worked for her father, but he’d never tried to invade Balaria. Ashlyn needed the lords to unite behind her.
They mingled with each other, drinking from long-necked wine bottles specifically designed for masquerades. Some of these small lords ruled over little more than a crossroads and a crumbling holdfast, others controlled multiple cities and thousands of acres of land. But all their webs of allegiance eventually led to one of the high lords, and then to her.
Among the sea of animal masks, Ashlyn located a group of wolves toward the back. These were the fifty lords who had arrived today and gone straight to Wallace’s villa. Unlike the other guests, who had chosen silk garments for the warm evening, each wolf was wearing a heavy cloak across his shoulders. Strange. But Ashlyn took comfort in the fact that there was a widow standing near each wolf, as she’d ordered.
Everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were doing and looked up when Ashlyn appeared. Kira would have known each lord and lady by their mask alone—she was always keeping track of the latest fashions amongst the nobility. Ashlyn had always thought it was an impractical type of information to memorize, but in that moment, the value of seeing behind a person’s mask became clear.
To her surprise, she found herself desperately wishing that her sister was by her side.
Ashlyn scanned the ramparts above the courtyard, where the silhouettes of her widows and Carlyle’s eagle-masked wardens filled the space between each crenellation. With so many soldiers up there, and with such a powerful height advantage, she couldn’t imagine that Cedar Wallace would try something.
Linkon Pommol subtly gestured for her to step forward. His thin frame was unmistakable, even with his turtle-shaped mask on. She’d chosen him as the speaker for her coronation. Ashlyn would have preferred an Atlas Coast lord with whom she had a stronger relationship—but the speaker had to be a high lord in order to hold authority with the nobility. Ashlyn was already planning to buck most traditions in Almira, but this was one that she needed to abide by. She moved to the edge of the platform so that everyone could see her.
“Lords and ladies of Almira,” Linkon said, “I present the rightful heir to King Hertzog Malgrave. Queen Ashlyn Malgrave!”
It looked like an invisible wave crashed down over the people below as they fell to their knees and lowered their heads.
“All of you speak for Almira,” Linkon continued. “Your voices are the voices of her farmers and her blacksmiths, her carpenters and butchers, her hunters and weavers, her wardens and men-at-arms. Speak now, on their behalf.”
With eerie unison, the court of Almira began to chant. “Ashlyn Malgrave, we give you our castles. We give you our homes. We give you our rivers and our valleys and our forests. They are yours now. We ask that you watch over our shores and honor the nameless gods. That you guard the lives of our children. That you protect us from the demons that rule the darkness.”
Ashlyn straightened her back and spoke loudly, knowing the mask would muffle her voice. “I accept your castles and homes. I accept your rivers and valleys and forests. And I accept the burden of protecting your shores and your children. I will honor the nameless gods, and defend you against the demons in the dark.” Beneath the mask, Ashlyn cringed. That line was another tradition she had to abide by. “I will not fail you.”
“Ashlyn Malgrave,” the courtyard spoke in unison, “we name you our queen.”
Ashlyn bowed, deep and low. It was supposed to be the last time she ever bowed to anyone. “Rise, Almira,” she said.
It was customary for the new ruler to address their subjects—usually with vague promises of honor and riches and glorious victories in the years to come. Ashlyn, on the other hand, needed to justify the army she was gathering. She cleared her throat again.
“I ascend the throne of Almira during a difficult time,” Ashlyn said, keeping her voice loud and clear. “The death of my father was a tragic loss. And earlier this spring, the treacherous Balarians stole my sister from her bedroom and took her across the Soul Sea where she lies imprisoned behind their borders.”
Some of the smaller lords—whose lands were so remote they’d been unable to keep up with current events—gasped and cursed at this news.
“There has been unrest and bloodshed in Mudwall,” Ashlyn continued over the noise. “And Elden Grealor, high lord of the Dainwood, was killed in his own city. His sons squabble over the right to rule while other smaller factions have risen to sow the seeds of discord and chaos through the countryside.”
Ashlyn saw no reason to identify the Jaguar Army by name, but they were definitely the ones fomenting unrest in the villages of the Dainwood. It was a problem, but like so many things, it would have to wait.
“My lords, this divided Almira is not who we are. We are stronger than this!”
There was a ripple of agreement.
“I have given Balaria a choice,” Ashlyn said. “Either return my sister to her rightful home a week before the midsummer solstice, or face the wrath of Almira.” She licked her lips. “My lords, you have brought your most ferocious warriors with you to celebrate my cor onation. And surely you have noticed the fleet of ships that sits in Floodhaven harbor. If the emperor of Balaria does not heed my warning, I ask that you and your wardens sail to war with me!”
Some lords cheered and cried out happily. Others looked more hesitant. Ashlyn knew that most would follow their high lord’s lead. It was time to put her work to the test.
“Lord Linkon,” Ashlyn asked, motioning to the skinny lord. “What say you?”
Linkon turned to face the crowd below the platform, so they could hear.
“I will gladly ride to war to avenge the kidnapping of Kira Malgrave!”
His turtle-masked vassals howled support.
“Lord Korbon?”
“I support you with all of my heart, and all of my swords!” he growled from behind his goat’s mask. Since nobody could see his nervous eyes and twitchy nose, Korbon managed to rally more cheering than Linkon.
“Lord Brock.” Ashlyn motioned to the high lord, who was leaning against a wooden cane to keep himself upright. “Do I have your support?”
Yulnar Brock straightened up as best he could—badger mask rising a few inches.
“As all of you can see, I am nearly too fat to ride a wench, let alone ride to war.”
The crowd laughed.
“But I have eleven sons. All of them strong and powerful and stuffed full of fire, instead of gout, like their father.” He paused to catch his breath. “Each of my sons have promised me that their boots will be the first to fall on Balarian sand. Their swords the first to spill dirty Balarian blood!”
That released a torrent of cheers. Ashlyn waited for them to die down. The final lord was the most important. She needed the full support of Cedar Wallace and his newly arrived vassals, and she needed it tonight. Ashlyn glanced at the widows on the walls one more time and found Shoshone, who gave her a subtle nod. She had already unwound her sling from her thigh.
“Lord Wallace,” Ashlyn asked, turning to the man in the wolf mask. He was wearing a heavy cloak, just like his vassals. “You were the most celebrated hero of the Balarian Invasion. They say you personally slew a hundred men at Black Pine. Will you join me in this fight for Almira’s honor?”
For a moment, the wolf didn’t move. Then he took one step toward her on the platform and slowly removed his mask. Ashlyn’s stomach dropped when she saw the look of satisfaction on his face. The curl of a smile on the edge of his lips.
“No.”
“You would abandon your country in a time of war?” Ashl
yn asked, giving him another chance. She couldn’t kill a high lord in public for a single, terse refusal.
“I abandon you, Ashlyn Malgrave,” he said. Then he turned to the lords and raised his voice. “Look at what this half-breed has tricked you into doing! She’s convinced you to load your wardens into a bunch of Papyrian ships and sail to a war you didn’t start, and don’t need to fight!”
A shudder of doubt rippled through the courtyard. The wolf-masked lords scattered through the crowd, forcing the widows shadowing them to spread out, too.
“Ashlyn sits in her tower, twisting our country into ruin. Obsessing over dragons and plotting a petty war against the Balarians while Almirans are being torn apart on their own bloody land!”
“What is the meaning of this, Wallace?” Linkon asked, his voice muffled and weak behind his turtle mask. “You are committing treason!”
“Stay out of this, boy.” He spread out his arms. “Anyone who stands with Ashlyn Malgrave stands against me. Each of you must decide. Right now.”
“No, Lord Wallace,” Ashlyn said. “It was you who had the choice—obey your queen or face the consequences. And you have decided.” She looked up to Shoshone. “Do it.”
Shoshone whipped a shot from her sling toward Wallace so quickly that Ashlyn didn’t have time to turn her gaze back down before it connected. But the sound that followed the impact wasn’t the wet smack of lead shot hitting flesh. It was a metallic thump. When she turned back to Wallace, he’d slung a reinforced steel shield from underneath his cloak and raised it over his head, deflecting Shoshone’s shot. It looked like he’d sawed off pieces of the shield so it was small enough to fit beneath his cloak without being noticed.
The lead ball was lodged deep in the shield’s steel. Wallace was still smiling at her—dark eyes gleaming from the torchlight.
“Again!” Ashlyn ordered.
Before Shoshone or any of the other widows had a chance to fire their slings, Wallace lowered his shield and jumped into the crowd of lords. Everything turned to chaos. The lords were pressed too closely for anyone to risk firing at Wallace again, and the wolves had spread out too quickly for the widows in the crowd to reach them.
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