Are you all right? I wanted to ask her, though assassination attempts surely didn’t unnerve her. Are you worried? Do you know what to do with him?
Did I do the right thing? Did I prove myself?
Do you trust me a little more now?
I blinked. I was at my door that opened onto the hall, had wrapped my fingers around the handle. I let go, stepped back. I couldn’t ask her any of those questions. I wasn’t her Whispers yet. Much had been promised, but nothing confirmed.
I extinguished the candles and climbed into bed. I stared at the ceiling, but couldn’t quieten my whirling mind.
Chapter Seven
Lia
The household had been up before dawn, submerging me in hot water to wash the princess from me. They’d brushed and twisted and pinned my hair.
For all of my financial fretting, I’d allowed no compromise on the dress. I’d parade through Arkaala before returning to the palace to be crowned. Clothing made no difference to my ability to rule, but people would remember what I wore. The dress was deep blue, the bodice and skirt heavy with gold and silver embroidery. My cloak was gold, edged in pale fur – too hot for an early spring coronation, but tradition demanded it.
My necklace, a large sapphire set in silver, had been my great-grandmother’s. I wore little face-paint, to limit the damage from nerves and the heat of too many people in one room.
I still looked a princess playing at being Queen.
A knock.
‘Enter.’
Mother held a large box stamped in gold leaves and vines. She bowed, her eyes wide in the mirror. ‘I– you–’
‘I know,’ I said, surprised at how sad I sounded.
Her mouth twisted in a half-smile. ‘Not what you expected?’
‘I’m not sure what I expected.’ I hadn’t anticipated political manipulation being so exhausting. I’d never used silence so much before to unnerve nobles and politicians into assumptions. They wanted so much, because they could. It was enough to make me scream, because I could.
And I hadn’t anticipated someone trying to kill me so soon.
Two days after the Opposition gathering, my physician had confirmed what I’d suspected: Naruum’s wine had been poisoned, strong enough to kill me. When Matthias had confronted him, Naruum insisted the dose would have only temporarily indisposed me.
When the information leaked, the Court and Parliament had infected themselves with panic. My parents had employed poison-tasters before my birth, had been almost matter-of-fact about the unavoidable consequences of being royal. Privately, no matter how I’d been taught, the attempt made me want to never leave the royal wing again. Publicly, I couldn’t let it affect me. The Court didn’t know how to react when I calmly continued with my daily routines.
Behind closed doors, Matthias tried to pry answers from Naruum and had also won our argument. He insisted on more guards for the coronation, while I wanted the original number to keep up the pretence of normality.
Mother eyed me, then put the box down. It was only when she reached forward that I realised she intended to hug me.
I flinched.
She froze.
A flush crept up Mother’s neck; my own face was already aflame. Well. We haven’t even left yet, and the day is already ripping at the seams.
I hadn’t wanted Mother to know about Naruum’s poisoned wine, but it was better she heard the truth from me. She’d cried. Even if she was matter-of-fact about risks during my childhood, that was before we’d lost Father.
‘If you hug me,’ I said, ‘I’ll cry, and I’m not sure I could stop.’
‘Ah.’
‘I hope Father would be proud today,’ I said: a tentative apology.
‘Of course he would be.’ Mother squeezed my shoulder. ‘Kneel, please. The shoes make you too tall for me.’
I knelt. She placed the heir’s circlet, silver and steel-wrought, on my head. I’d worn it only a handful of times. It was heavier than it appeared. Father had looked elegant and dashing wearing it in his portrait. I felt like I was wearing part of a costume.
Mother adjusted the circlet against my forehead, then stepped back, satisfied.
I stood. Took a deep breath. Let it out. Squared my shoulders.
Mother curtseyed, proper and deep. She smiled – all forgiven now? Possibly? ‘Long live the Queen.’
Please, Father, I thought, as I walked to the door, Mother behind me. Grant me the strength to get through today. Help me make you proud.
Since the Opposition gathering, I sometimes jerked awake in the deepest part of night with the taste of wine in my mouth, sweet poison on my tongue.
All I had to do, as Matthias kept saying, was show up, be crowned, and still be alive by tonight. Not difficult.
Please, Father, let me survive.
Chapter Eight
Xania
Anticipation filled the throne room, as strong as the scent of roses around us. Blue and silver banners hung around the room. The largest, emblazoned with the royal crest, hung above the throne.
We’d arrived early enough to get a prized vantage spot on a Fifth Step gallery. We weren’t as close to the throne as the royal family or Seventh Step nobles, but still had a good view. Zola and I spent the time people-watching and whispering about the fashion.
‘What will her dress look like?’ Zola mused.
‘Blue.’
She thumped my arm.
‘Must you act like children?’ Mama asked, but couldn’t hide her smile.
‘Here’s Duchess Sionbourne,’ Lord Martain said, as the Queen’s mother entered the royal gallery.
The Dowager Queen arrived soon after. She wore navy blue with white embroidery, a subtle hint of her prior status that wouldn’t upstage the Queen. She and the Duchess exchanged small talk, only a slight stiffness betraying their mutual dislike.
There was a momentary hush when the Arch-Bishop and two bishops stepped onto the dais. Edar didn’t hold much with religion anymore, but the Order still performed ceremonial state duties. One bishop carried a black bell, a finely-wrought knife, and a bowl filled with fire on a small table. The other held the royal sceptre.
The Arch-Bishop balanced the crown on a cushion. Over two centuries old, burnished silver and set with sapphires, it was forged when Edar was tearing itself apart. The Queen’s great-grandfather had kept it instead of designing a new one.
Trumpets blasted in the distance; the Queen had returned to the palace.
I’d forgotten about the blindfold until she entered amid a flurry of bows and curtseys. She walked slowly, her hand light upon the steward’s arm. I’d still bet my pitiful inheritance she was shaking inside.
It was Sannaa, one of the oldest historians whose written work still survived, who’d first mentioned monarchs wearing blindfolds during their coronations. They would travel blindfolded amongst their people, trusting in their divine surety.
The divine right to rule was long gone, but the tradition remained. Sannaa had also claimed no monarch was protected during their coronation, but no one believed that. Judging by the guards lining the walls, neither did the Queen.
Her gown swept around her. Her circlet gleamed. The ends of the silk blindfold fluttered behind her.
Zola drew in a harsh breath.
‘I know,’ I murmured, over the pounding heartbeat in my throat. ‘Blue dress.’
Zola choked out a laugh, then ducked her head at Mama’s glare.
The cries started from the doors, gaining in strength as the Queen travelled up the room: ‘Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!’
When she reached the dais and knelt, everyone cheered.
Coronations, it turned out, were boring. A lot of back and forth about honour and duty and upholding the law. Justice and Mercy. Maintaining order. Working with Parliament, while standing firm against them when necessary – politicians had been trying for years to get that part removed.
Papa’s death had turned me cynical. But so
mething close to hope swelled inside me as the Queen answered each question with steady conviction, luring me into thinking: She’ll be different to her uncle and grandfather. She won’t fling money away and demand more extravagance in return. She won’t drain our country and beggar us.
She will be just. She will be merciful.
With the vows almost finished, I leaned forward. Papa had told me about this part when I was little, and we were just close enough for me to catch glimpses of it.
One of the bishops lifted the bell, holding the clapper until the right moment. The other set the bowl of fire before the Queen. She tilted her face towards the rising heat.
‘By the air I breathe –’ she said.
The bishop turned left and rang the bell.
‘– the counsel I listen to –’
The bishop turned again and rang the bell at the throne.
‘– the blood I spill –’
The bishop rang the bell to his right. The second bishop picked up the dagger and pressed her fingertips against the Queen’s hands. She turned her palms up and held them high over the fire.
‘– I swear to uphold the law and govern my people wisely until my death.’
The bishop rang the bell above the Queen’s head. The second bishop drew the knife over her palms in a blur. The Queen didn’t flinch. I squinted, and could just make out the blood pooling in the Queen’s cupped hands, before she let it fall.
The flames devoured the blood.
This part was older than the First Empire, older than most religions. If a ruler accepted the crown and its power, they also accepted its hardship by shedding their blood. The Queen’s blood had fallen upon the flames and purified her.
The bishops were already removing her blindfold, cutting it to wrap around her palms. Finished, they stepped back as the Arch-Bishop approached with the crown.
She lowered her head.
‘By fire and vow and blood, you swear to uphold Edar’s laws as did those before you.’ The coronation vows never had a back-up sentence for the previous monarch being selfish and useless. ‘I crown you Queen Aurelia, Fourth of Her Name, Fourth of Her Line, First Protector of Edar and Servant Most High.’
He placed the crown upon her head. It felt like everyone took a breath together.
‘Rise.’
She stood, steady despite the pain she was surely feeling. The bishops passed her the sceptre; she held it as if her palms weren’t bloodied. She turned for our adoration.
‘Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!’
For a moment, amid the roars and cheers, she looked ready to weep.
As Fifth Step, we were invited to the private celebration after the ceremony. Well, as private a gathering as a banquet can be. While the Queen went to the balcony to greet the crowds, we headed into the banquet hall attached to the ballroom.
I followed Zola’s gaze to Ernest Blackwood, the centre of his group as always. ‘No. We talked about this.’
‘We need to show ourselves. We can’t be rude.’
‘Why is nothing he does ever rude?’ I muttered.
When Ernest saw Zola, his expression went cold. I could hardly believe he’d ever liked her.
Etiquette demanded that Ernest acknowledge us first. He stayed silent until his companions shifted uncomfortably. Zola trembled at the slight. I silently counted to ten. Again, the urge to break Ernest’s nose overwhelmed me.
Then I nearly toppled to the floor, courtesy of Matthias.
‘Miss Bayonn! I’m so sorry, please forgive me!’
I gritted my teeth as he pulled me up. His cologne stung my nostrils. ‘Please, Baron Farhallow, no apologies necessary.’ I plastered a smile on my face. He grinned, then glanced at my sister.
‘Miss Zola, lovely to see you again!’
My sister, to her credit, answered him with admirable smoothness.
Matthias turned to Ernest. ‘Marquess Ashfall. Are you quite well? I hope your bout of inexplicable silence isn’t contagious.’
Ernest and his group stared.
Don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
Matthias bowed. ‘Miss Bayonn, Miss Zola, please follow me. There’s someone who wishes to make your acquaintance.’ He swept off. It was a lie, but a way for us to leave with dignity. As the Queen’s personal secretary, Matthias now had more power than his Third Step rank warranted.
‘Lovely to see you, Marquess Ashfall.’ I beamed and hauled Zola away before she could protest, or I laughed.
‘– an upstart,’ Ernest snapped behind us. ‘He considers himself much too highly. Her Majesty will immediately replace him once a better candidate presents himself –’
Zola turned quiet as we wandered through the crowds, but brightened when we sat for the meal. At the final course, she looked at her dessert in despair. ‘I don’t think I can eat it.’
‘I will gallantly eat yours and mine,’ I said. ‘It has custard. I’m not leaving it behind.’
As Zola picked up her spoon with renewed determination, I returned to watching the Queen and Matthias.
At her arrival, we’d paid our respects along with everyone else. She’d smiled and talked with her mother and aunt throughout the courses, but now she looked ready to sleep for a century. Matthias stood at the wall behind her chair, occasionally conferring with the staff. He’d stopped Zola from suffering more embarrassment than Ernest had already thrown at her, but he was wrong if he thought this improved things between us.
Despite his position, he and the Queen had hardly spoken today. No wonder they’d managed to hide their friendship for years. He looked poised, cheerful, and competent. But I knew – or thought I knew – him better. Despite his smile, his face gleamed with sweat. His laughter was slightly too loud. All this could be explained away by stress – organising a seven-course meal with copious alcohol for too many nobles wasn’t easy. But Matthias thrived on stress. And there were too many guards against the walls. The Queen might pretend nothing had changed since Naruum’s assassination attempt, but I’d bet Matthias didn’t agree with her.
The extra guards were a precaution, but...
If Matthias was unusually stressed, it wasn’t a good sign.
When he slipped out through a side door, I pretended a trip to the privy. I caught up as he entered the passages and crept in after him.
The passages’ dim lighting still unnerved me: a wavering gleam that shimmered from the walls. I couldn’t figure out if it was natural, a remnant from the First Empire’s myths, or something created to intimidate people who stumbled upon them, unaware.
A shout exploded in the distance, abruptly cut off. Sweat burst under my arms, and I hurtled towards the noise. My arms scraped against the walls. The sounds of grunts and scuffling footsteps grew louder.
I whirled around a corner. Matthias was struggling to get a masked man against the wall. I rushed forward, dodging Matthias when he reeled back from a punch. The man lunged towards me. Silver flashed in his hand. Of course he’d have a weapon when I had none. They were banned from coronations and funerals; we’d been searched before entering the throne room and again at the banquet hall.
Our parents had taught Zola and me basic skills to disarm knife opponents and defend ourselves, even without weapons. Lord Martain had insisted our skills be kept sharp. Panic shrieked in my brain, but my body reacted from years of practice. I crossed my hands around his wrist to stop the knife. His eyes widened as I forced his hand up and twisted. I couldn’t remember which joint to hurt, so I slammed my heel into his foot instead. His cry turned into a wheeze, as I forced him to his knees and yanked the knife away.
Matthias pinned him against the wall.
I braced my palms against my knees and panted. The man’s jaw twitched, like he was about to grind his teeth.
‘His mouth!’ I said.
Matthias shoved his fingers between the man’s lips, but he’d already bit down and swallowed. It was too late. Matthias released him and stepped back.
The poison was quick. The man slid down the wall. Spit bubbled down his chin. When he reached the ground, he went still.
For a moment, we stared in silence. Matthias finally swore at the dead assassin with quiet, harsh efficiency.
Revulsion shot through my veins, turned sour on my tongue. A dead assassin was worthless. It was easier to focus on that than the horror of a man killing himself before me.
Matthias closed his eyes. The rage fled from his face with terrifying speed. ‘I was going to knock him out.’
‘You’re welcome.’ No matter what he said, he hadn’t been in control of the fight.
He had the grace to look sheepish, but asked, ‘Do you still want to do this? Face-to-face death is ugly.’
Fine words considering Matthias had dumped me on this path. ‘Who does – did – he work for?’
‘I have my suspicions,’ he said. ‘A handful of assassin groups use suicide-by-poison when things go wrong.’
‘Would Vigrante have hired him?’
Matthias shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t try this so soon after Naruum. This was probably orchestrated from abroad. If Lia dies, the Crown passes to Farezi.’ He worked his jaw. ‘But who hired him? The timing is suspicious so the Farezi royalty would deny it, though they benefit from Lia’s death. Whoever is behind this, they didn’t think it through.’
‘They still tried to kill the Queen.’
Matthias rubbed his forehead. ‘Indeed.’
‘Was her uncle targeted like this?’
‘From what I’ve heard, no,’ Matthias said. ‘But Vigrante probably helped to prevent these situations.’ He crossed his arms. ‘Everything would be easier if Lia didn’t despise Vigrante, and he didn’t want her to rely on him like her Uncle had.’ He gestured at the dead assassin. ‘I’ll find out who hired him. It’ll take some careful tugging to reach the source, but I’ll manage.’
‘Like you managed me?’ I hated the bitterness in my voice. Even if I’d thought he was on my side, and we were something like friends, he’d used everything Papa had taught him – everything Papa didn’t teach me because it wouldn’t help my marriage prospects – for the Queen’s benefit. When Matthias had offered to help me avenge Papa’s murder, his loyalty was still ultimately to her.
Queen of Coin and Whispers Page 5
