The Gray Wolf Throne

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “You’re really not bad, Alister,” Raisa said. Memories of Oden’s Ford sluiced over her—of uncomplicated kisses and a friendship with fewer barriers between them.

  Han was bent on business, not memories and small talk. “Besides his guard, Montaigne has a couple dozen servants with him who look a lot like soldiers or rushers,” he murmured. “Cat put a tail on them. If he has other people here, we want to know about it.”

  “Where did Cat find a crew on such short notice?” Raisa said.

  “She’s been recruiting in Ragmarket and Southbridge.” He leaned in. “She says to tell you she’ll kill Montaigne for you if you want. No one will ever tie it to you.”

  “What?” Raisa grabbed Han’s lapels and pulled him closer, glaring at him. “Tell her to forget it. I don’t send assassins after people, especially my guests, no matter how despicable.”

  “I told her you’d say that,” Han said, smiling and nodding to Missy Hakkam, who looked on, scowling, as they circled by. He turned back to Raisa, his smile fading. “I think you should consider it, at least.”

  Not that it wasn’t tempting. Looking ahead, Raisa could see nothing but trouble from the new king of Arden. “How do you know Montaigne?” she asked, to keep from saying yes.

  “Cat, Dancer, and I had a dustup with him in Ardenscourt. He’s a great one for abducting people.”

  “I know,” Raisa said, recalling their encounter in Tamron.

  “Don’t drink with him, and don’t go anywhere alone with him,” Han said. “Not even inside the palace. In fact, don’t go anywhere without me or Cat or Captain Byrne until Montaigne leaves town.” He looked down at her with narrowed eyes, searching for evidence of foolhardiness.

  “I’ll be careful,” Raisa said. She scanned the ballroom. Montaigne was deep in conversation with Lassiter Hakkam and Bron Klemath. Annamaya Dubai was huddled up with Talia and the rest of the Gray Wolves, but she didn’t see Amon. “Where is Captain Byrne, anyway?” she asked.

  “He’s setting up a perimeter around the castle close,” Han said. “Just in case the king of Arden has planned more than a friendly visit.”

  Raisa felt a twinge of sympathy for Annamaya. When she married Amon Byrne, this was what she had to look forward to: a lifetime of deferring to duty.

  As the song ended, Han looked over Raisa’s shoulder, and his face cleared of all expression. She turned to find the new king of Arden bowing before her. “Your Majesty, I believe the next dance is mine.”

  Han put his hand on her bare shoulder, the heat of it stinging her skin. “Remember what I said, Your Highness.” And then he was gone.

  In contrast to the hot wizard hands and sweaty suitor palms Raisa had encountered all evening, Montaigne’s hands were dry and cold as a lizard’s skin. Had it been less than a year ago that he’d repulsed her at her name day party with talk of eliminating the elder brothers who stood between him and the throne?

  And now he’d achieved that. Raisa made a mental note: when Gerard Montaigne makes threats and promises, take them seriously.

  As he had at Raisa’s name day party, Montaigne overleapt any pleasantries and cut right to the point.

  “I am surprised to see you dancing with mages,” Montaigne said. “I understood that you were forbidden to consort with them.”

  “I’m forbidden to marry them,” Raisa said, “but they are still good for dancing.”

  Montaigne didn’t smile. “They are good for military uses as well. But rather dangerous to fraternize with, I believe, particularly for a young lady like yourself.”

  “Wizards have been part of our social and political structure for generations,” Raisa said. “We believe the benefits of fraternization are worth the risk.”

  Montaigne changed the subject. “I sent you a proposal a month ago,” he said. “And you responded somewhat favorably, I believe.”

  That would be his proposal that Raisa send her armies against King Geoff as a kind of betrothal gift to Gerard.

  “I was willing to listen,” Raisa said. “But it seems that circumstances have changed.”

  “Yes. They have. I am no longer in need of your army, which puts us on a different footing when it comes to marriage negotiations.”

  “Does it?” Raisa said. “So. Am I to understand that you are no longer interested in an alliance by marriage?”

  Montaigne shook his head. “I am very much interested in pursuing a marriage contract with you.” He paused. “Though I am not so much interested in an alliance as a consolidation of holdings.”

  And I’m not interested in either one, Raisa thought.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, “I had not even dreamed that we would be discussing this tonight. I expect you must have your hands full, with your new responsibilities. As I hope you can understand, there is much to do here in the Fells before I consider…external affairs.”

  “On the contrary, I believe I have a certain momentum,” Montaigne said. “You have seen what I can accomplish in a short time. I see no reason to delay the inevitable. The resources in the Fells are complementary to our own, and would help restore our depleted treasury. This would be the next logical step.”

  You honey-tongued romantic, you, Raisa thought, doing her best not to roll her eyes. As usual, it’s all about you and what’s best for you. She was suddenly eager to get Gerard Montaigne out of her queendom as quickly as possible.

  She cast about for an excuse. “I will carefully consider what you’ve said,” she said. “But you should know that here in the Fells, it is customary to remain in mourning for a year after the death of a parent. That prevents hasty decision-making while in the throes of grief. I could not consider celebrating a marriage or negotiating changes in political structure any time soon.”

  The song ended, and they came to a stop. “Good evening, Your Majesty,” Raisa said. “Safe travels home.” She curtsied a good-bye, trying to pull free, but Montaigne kept hold of her arm, dragging her toward a windowed alcove at the side of the ballroom.

  “I’m not finished,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear to you.”

  Raisa set her feet, resisting, and suddenly they were walled in—Amon Byrne, Han Alister, Cat Tyburn, and three of the Gray Wolves—with Micah close behind them.

  “You take your hands off me before I have you arrested,” Raisa said, her voice like ground glass.

  Montaigne let go of Raisa’s arm.

  “I don’t know what customs you keep in the south,” she went on, “but I will not be manhandled in my own court. By anyone.”

  “I understand that you have much to think about,” Montaigne said, pretending to ignore Raisa’s small army. “But you of all people should understand that I am not endlessly patient. When your mother became an obstacle, you removed her. Just as I will not hesitate to remove anyone who gets in my way.” He paused a moment to let that sink in. “I offer you a role and a voice in a greater kingdom of Arden—an offer that may be withdrawn at any time. I suggest that you choose carefully and render me an answer sooner rather than later.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, without even a suggestion of a bow.

  “Montaigne!” Raisa called after him, her voice ringing out above the music and clamor of voices.

  He swung around to face her. “Yes?”

  “No need to wait and wonder. I’ll give you my answer now,” she said.

  Montaigne turned and stood waiting, his lips forming a faint smile.

  He expects me to give in, Raisa realized, astonished. He expects me to say yes.

  He is used to bullying women into doing what he wants, she thought. He’s never bothered to learn to read them.

  Maybe it was Raisa’s imagination, but it seemed the ballroom went silent around them, waiting to hear her answer.

  “The answer is no,” Raisa said, in a loud, carrying voice. “I would rather marry the Demon King himself than marry you. I suggest you look elsewhere for a bride. And heaven help the one you choose.”

  T
wo spots of color appeared on Montaigne’s pale cheeks—whether fury or embarrassment at this public rejection, Raisa couldn’t tell.

  Now he inclined his head a fraction, his blue eyes as pale and cold as wind-roughened ice. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for being so direct with me. Good evening.”

  Raisa watched him walk away with mingled feelings of relief and dread. It was a relief to put an end to the charade that she would ever consider a marriage with Montaigne. But she knew he would find a way to make her pay for his public humiliation.

  I should have let Cat kill him, she thought.

  C H A P T E R T H I R T Y-S E V E N

  CORONATION

  The coronation ball had been for the nobility, wizards, and military officers—bluebloods, Han would call them. Valefolk of all ranks were invited to the Coronation Day party. And there would be a feast and dancing in the Spirits for clanfolk.

  Even in celebration, her people were divided.

  First to temple. Magret helped Raisa into her temple robes, draping the elaborately embroidered clanwork coronation garment over her shoulders. It was studded with jewels, and so heavy Raisa nearly staggered under the weight.

  It seemed symbolic of the load of responsibility settling onto her shoulders.

  When she was ready, her father, Averill, her sister Mellony, her cousin Missy Hakkam, and her grandmother Elena came to escort her to the Cathedral Temple. Amon was there also, solemn and heartbreakingly handsome in his dress blues, the rest of the Gray Wolves lined up at attention behind him. Raisa swallowed a lump in her throat.

  Han Alister wore the black-and-silver coat he’d worn to Marianna’s funeral, the one Willo had made for him, inscribed with subtle gray wolves and ravens, the serpent and staff on the back. He displayed what Raisa had come to think of as his court amulet—carved of translucent stone, in the shape of a hunter. She knew he would be wearing the serpent amulet against his skin.

  He met Raisa’s eyes, and energy and tension and secrets crackled between them. His gaze dropped to the pearl-and-moonstone ring she wore next to Hanalea’s wolf. He bowed deeply, his raven stoles nearly touching the floor. When had he come to look so at home at court?

  Had she herself changed that much in the past year?

  Mellony and Missy lined up behind Raisa, each grabbing a fistful of fabric. They would help carry her train.

  “Good thing I don’t have to wear this thing but once,” Raisa grumbled. “There’s no way I could dance in it.”

  Magret fussed with the folds of Raisa’s robe, arranging and rearranging. The newly made Mistress of the Queen’s Bedchamber was dressed in a fine gray wool dress, her Maiden pendant glittering at her neck.

  “It’s all right,” Raisa said, taking Magret’s hands. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, and will do, for the line.” She went up on her toes and kissed her former nurse on the cheek, wet and salty with tears.

  Amon came and stood on Raisa’s right-hand side, Han on the left. It felt good to have them there.

  “Let’s go,” she said, lifting her chin.

  They walked down the long corridors, the heavy brocade fabric swishing over the marble and stone floors. The formal passageways through the palace were nearly deserted—everyone who was anyone was already at the temple. Servants stood in doorways, however, and lined the broader corridors. Even the cooks and kitchen staff took a few minutes from their preparations for the feasting that evening to watch the princess heir pass by for the last time.

  The next time they saw her, she would be queen.

  The little procession entered the courtyard, walking along the gallery between the castle proper and the Cathedral Temple. Han slid his hand inside his coat and murmured a charm. Light arced over them, looking like a magical arbor entwined with roses, but Raisa guessed it was a clever means to deflect any assassins’ arrows or magical attacks.

  As they came into view, more servants cheered and waved handkerchiefs from balconies. “Happy name day!” they shouted, and “Long live Raisa ana’Marianna!”

  Temple dedicates stood to either side of the great double doors of the cathedral. They pulled them ajar as Raisa and her entourage approached.

  Raisa halted in the doorway, scanning the room. The cathedral was packed, every seat on either side of the aisle occupied. The hall thundered with the sound of feet hitting the floor as the congregation rose to greet the princess heir.

  Raisa walked down the aisle, head held high, Han and Amon falling back a bit so that she was visible to everyone. At the front of the temple, Speaker Jemson waited in the ceremonial robes that speakers had worn for every coronation since Hanalea.

  Good thing they’re one size fits all, Raisa thought—just like mine.

  Again, the cacophony of noise and color reminded Raisa of her name day ceremony. But this time, the Gray Wolf throne sat empty on the dais, twined with rowan and roses instead of her mother’s white gardenias, a symbol that times had changed. Still, Raisa couldn’t help thinking of it as her mother’s throne.

  Below, at floor level, and to either side, were the less elaborate chairs occupied by representatives of the Spirit clans, the Wizard Council, and the Council of Nobles. Her grandmother Elena took her place next to the clan seat, and Gavan Bayar and Lassiter Hakkam came forward and stood for the wizards and the Vale nobility.

  Events seemed to slow to a crawl as Raisa’s mind raced faster, collecting images, sounds, body language, expressions, and reactions.

  Raisa halted just in front of the dais, turning to face the room. Her attendants fanned out to either side. Again, Han conjured a canopy of glittering magic—wolves and roses and the unlidded eye—the symbol of her father’s clan.

  The Gray Wolves lined up against the wall, rigidly at attention. Han and Amon stood on either side of the dais, an honor guard of sorts. Mellony, Missy, and Averill took seats in the front row, Averill slipping his arm around Mellony’s shoulders.

  Just behind them, Magret sat very erect, her nose pink, dabbing at her eyes.

  Mellony leaned forward, looking across the aisle to where Micah and Fiona sat in the front row, clad in their usual black and white, looking straight ahead. Their faces were like fine porcelain—white and hard and yet somehow brittle.

  Raisa saw a spot of red out of the corner of her eye. It was Cat Tyburn standing in the shadows of a side corridor, wearing her satin dress from the ball. She seemed to have taken a fancy to it. Cat stood, head cocked, surveying the crowd for trouble.

  Farther back were guests from outside the queendom seated according to rank and protocol. The seating had been rearranged yet again, as Gerard Montaigne had sent his regrets, saying he would return home immediately. Raisa almost wished he were there, under her eye, where she could watch him. She couldn’t honestly say she regretted what she’d said, but maybe her timing could have been better.

  Behind the throne, crowded to either side of the altar on the dais, stood Raisa’s ancestors, the Gray Wolf queens. They eddied and shifted like vapor, their brilliant eyes glittering in the light from the torches and candelabras overhead.

  Raisa looked over at Han, wondering if he could see them too. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge them. He stood cradling his amulet, scanning the audience for potential dangers.

  This is like a wedding, Raisa thought. The bride and her attendants at the front. The wizards on one side, the clans on the other, like two families that don’t get along. The Valefolk, as always, were forced to divide themselves between the two.

  And me? I am marrying the Gray Wolf throne—the most jealous of lovers. She’d chosen it over Amon, over Han, likely over any chance at happiness in love.

  Don’t be maudlin, she scolded herself. Life is full of difficult choices. At least I get to be queen.

  Jemson walked to the center of the aisle and turned to face Raisa, his back to the crowd. He smiled down at her and winked. “Greetings, Gracious Lady,” he said. “Who are you, and what brings you to temple today?” It was the first of the traditiona
l Three Questions.

  “I am Raisa ana’Marianna, the Princess Heir of the Fells,” Raisa said, loudly enough to carry to all corners of the hall. “I have come here to claim the Gray Wolf throne.”

  “By what authority do you claim the Gray Wolf throne?” Jemson asked sternly.

  “My mother, Queen Marianna ana’Lissa, has joined our ancestors in the Spirit Mountains,” Raisa said. “I am Marianna’s heir, entitled by blood and ability.”

  “What is your lineage?” Jemson asked.

  Raisa recited the new line of queens, beginning with Hanalea, and ending with her mother and herself, familiar from all of the temple days of her life, familiar from her name day a year ago.

  Jemson nodded. “I am satisfied that you qualify by blood, Your Highness,” he said. “Now I have three questions that relate to ability.”

  These were new questions, ones she had not answered at her naming. It was assumed that a named princess heir would have time to become more capable before her coronation.

  “To whom do you answer, Raisa ana’Marianna?” Jemson asked.

  “I answer to the Maker, to the line, and to the people of the Fells,” Raisa said.

  “How do you signify, Princess Raisa?” Jemson asked. “By what do you pledge?”

  “By my blood,” Raisa said. Drawing the Lady dagger that had belonged to Edon Byrne, she sliced her palm and allowed her blood to drip into the large basin on the altar.

  Jemson handed her a clean white cloth to wrap around her hand. Lifting an elaborate ewer, he poured water into the basin and swirled it. Clean, clear water from the Dyrnnewater, high in the Spirits.

  “Who will help you in this, Raisa ana’Marianna?” Jemson asked.

  “The queendom rests on three foundations—wizards, the Spirit clans, and Valedwellers,” Raisa said.

  Jemson dipped a cup into the basin, lifted it dripping. He gestured, and Elena, Lord Bayar, and Lord Hakkam came forward. Jemson passed them the cup, and they each drank from it in turn, glaring at one another over the rim.

  Amon and Han came from either side to drink. Jemson invited the front row up, and Mellony, Missy, and Averill Lightfoot came forward and drank. Mellony’s pale cheeks were even paler than usual, and Raisa knew that her sister had imagined herself in Raisa’s place.