Averill smiled at Raisa, his face alight with pride. Was it because she was his daughter, or because there would be a mixed-blood queen on the Gray Wolf throne?
Micah and Fiona approached from the other side. Micah’s eyes met Raisa’s as he shook back his hair, tipped the cup, and drank. Fiona kept her eyes focused on the cup.
One by one, the people in each row were invited forward to drink the blood of the Gray Wolf queen. About half the crowd stayed in their seats. They were dignitaries from the rest of the Seven Realms, who had no intention of declaring fealty to Raisa.
“We are thereby pledged to preserve the Gray Wolf line and the queendom,” Jemson said, drinking from the cup himself and then setting it aside.
Remember that, Raisa thought, looking at the Bayars.
“Kneel, Your Highness,” Jemson said.
Raisa dropped to her knees, the coronation robes puddling around her.
Jemson lifted the ornate Gray Wolf crown from its velvet cushion, raising it high. “By the authority vested in me as Speaker of the Cathedral Temple of the City of Light, I crown you, Raisa ana’Marianna, Queen of the Fells, thirty-third in the new line.” And he settled the crown on her head.
On the dais, the Gray Wolf queens bowed their heads in acknowledgment of their new sister queen, and dissipated like vapors.
Raisa rose, stiff-necked, conscious of the weight of the crown, worried it might topple off. Jemson stepped aside. Her attendants assembled behind her, and she processed grandly down the aisle to the applause of the assembled nobility.
Likely the last time they’ll unite to cheer anything I do, Raisa thought.
As she crossed the courtyard she heard a clamor from the balconies but was afraid to look up, for fear of losing her crown. Rose petals spiraled down all around her.
Once safely inside the palace, she lifted off the crown with both hands and handed it to Amon, exchanging it for the lighter tiara.
She climbed the grand staircase to the third floor and turned down the corridor, trying not to trip over her coronation robes, her attendants trailing like fancy plumage.
Thousands of people had collected in the courtyard below—men, women, and children. No doubt some had come because they’d never been invited into the castle close before and they were curious. But many of them wore roses pinned to their clothing, some of them real and others fantastical constructions of fabric and lace, bright spots of color on gray and brown.
When Raisa appeared at the railing, a thunderous shout went up from the crowd. “Rai-sa! Rai-sa! Rai-sa!” and “Briar Rose! Briar Rose!”
Raisa extended her hands, and the crowd shouted, “Who are you, and what brings you to temple today?”
“I am Raisa ana’Marianna, Gray Wolf Queen of the Fells,” she replied, and the cheering started up again, dying away only when she raised her hands for quiet.
“Peoples of the Fells! A coronation is an ending and a beginning,” she said. “The ending of a period of uncertainty, the beginning of a new era. The end of Marianna’s reign, the beginning of Raisa’s. The end of a princess, the first steps of a queen. The end of childhood”—she paused, wrinkling her nose—“and now I suppose everyone expects me to be a grown-up.”
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
“In some ways I will never grow up. For instance, I continue to believe in miracles. But I know that miracles come to those who work very hard. I pledge that I will work very hard for you.”
Another cheer went up.
“I continue to believe in the people of the Fells. Although we have had hard times, and there are threats on every side, we will overcome any adversary if we will just work together—Valedwellers, wizards, and Spirit clans. You listen to each other, and I will listen to you.
“Finally, in addition to hard work, I believe in parties.” This was greeted by a roar of approval. “Tonight we celebrate. I will be dancing, and I hope you will be dancing too. Thank you!”
As she turned away, cheers hammered her back.
And so it was done. Raisa was queen of the Fells—thirty-third in the new line of Hanalea. She’d been born for this—and raised to it. She’d fought for it, and at times she’d thought she might die for it. She had a long history of tragedy and triumph behind her, and a lifetime of hard work ahead of her. It was time to get started.
EPILOGUE
The coronation party continued in Fellsmarch long after the official one was over. Guests spilled out of the castle close and into the streets, bluebloods mingling with ragpickers and blacksmiths and stable boys. Food and drink had flowed freely at the new queen’s party, and the streetwise residents of Ragmarket and Southbridge filled their bellies and then their pockets and carry bags. In times like these, who knew when more food would come their way?
Some in the crowd would have celebrated the crowning of the Demon King himself, so long as it involved jackets of ale or drams of stingo and blue ruin.
From the roof of Southbridge Guardhouse, Sarie Dobbs surveyed the crowd with the practiced eye of a slide-hander. A pocket diver could have had a field day with a crowd so deep in its cups. But so far there’d been little evidence of trouble. Even streetrats were disinclined to target those celebrating the crowning of the lady known as Briar Rose.
Cuffs—or the Demon King, as he called himself now, their streetlord—had asked them to keep eyes and ears on the celebration, to pass through the rougher sorts of inns and report back anything that might threaten the safety of the queen. He’d called on them since most of the prime bluejackets were partying along with her.
Who would’ve guessed—me and Flinn playing at bluejackets, Sarie thought, grinning at Flinn on a roof across the river. Her grin faded as she considered the high cost of sobriety on a night like this.
The fireworks were long over, the vivid colors still engraved on Sarie’s eyeballs. It was getting past darkman’s hour, and even the most dedicated soakers were stumbling home in the gray light of morning.
Motioning to Flinn, Sarie skinned down the drainpipe to the ground. They’d make one more sweep through the streets of Ragmarket and then head back to their crib.
Along the way, they growled at some of the lytlings and street kiddies, scaring them toward home. On their way down Pinbury Alley, on their old turf, Sarie spotted a pair of fine boots poking out from behind a dustbin.
Dustbins were new to Ragmarket, one of the queen’s bright ideas. She seemed to think folk would put scummer and trash in them instead of leaving it in the gutters.
“Hey, now,” Sarie said, “it an’t safe to be sleeping over here with them boots on.” She nudged one of the boots with her toe, and something about the way the leg rolled away told her the boots’ owner wouldn’t be needing them anymore.
“Flinn!” she hissed. “Get over here.”
Two bodies lay behind the dustbin, a woman and a man, all glittered up in blueblood finery, the wizard stoles around their necks splattered with blood. Their throats had been cut right through the windpipe.
Flinn stared down at them, swearing under his breath.
Sarie knelt next to the bodies and patted them down. Whoever had done them had left their purses behind. And the boots.
“Their flashpieces is gone, though,” Flinn pointed out. He was right—their amulets were missing, and jinxflingers never even went to the privy without their flashpieces.
Sarie and Flinn searched the area, but didn’t find them.
Flinn squatted next to the corpses, scanning their clothing in the growing light. “Look at this,” he said, sweeping his hand down the torso of the wizard with the boots.
There, faintly daubed in blood, was a vertical line with another line zigzagging across it.
Flinn sat back on his heels. “What does that look like to you?” When Sarie said nothing, he thrust the talisman Cat’s copperhead had made into her face.
Sarie looked again. Now she saw it—the stylized serpent and staff. The gang sign of the Demon King, Cuffs Alister’s new street nam
e.
“That don’t make sense,” she said, after a long pause. “He’s left the Life.”
“But he’s got himself a crew and a crib and he said himself he’s got a game going,” Flinn muttered. “Said he didn’t want to let us in because it was too risky.”
Sarie waved at the two on the bricks. “You think these ones had a hand in what happened to his mam and sister?”
“Does it matter?” Flinn said.
“You think he’s out hushing wizards at random?” Sarie said.
“Him or Cat Tyburn, maybe—she’s rum with a blade.”
She shook her head. “He’s a charmcaster himself. Anyway, Cuffs is too smart for that.”
Flinn licked his lips. “Remember what he said down in Filcher Alley. He wouldn’t say what his game was. But, you know, he did call it a lack-witted scheme. A fool’s quest. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to let us in.”
“He’d of taken their purses,” Sarie said. “Make it look like footpad work.”
“Unless he was making a point,” Flinn said. “Why else would he sign his work?”
Sarie tried, but her weary mind couldn’t come up with another argument.
“Maybe Cuffs an’t in his right mind,” Sarie said, frowning. “Remember how he was after Mam and Mari burned. I never seen anyone that draws trouble like he does.”
“The bluejackets will be stumbling through here before long,” Flinn said, judging the angle of the light.
Sarie thought on it. “Here’s what we’ll do.” She wadded up the end of the wizard stole in her hand and pressed it into the neck wound, saturating it with blood. Then she mopped it over the symbol on the corpse’s coat until she’d blotted it all. “Good thing these is fresh,” she muttered. She handed one of the purses to Flinn and stuffed the other into her carry bag. “Let’s take these too. Make it look like a slash and grab.”
The next thing Sarie knew, Flinn was tugging off the boots. “They’re clan made,” he said, when she glared at him. “And they look like my size.”
By the time the sun broke over the eastern escarpment, Sarie and Flinn were on their way back to their crib. Sarie hoped they’d managed to cover their streetlord’s tracks, but worry tugged at the corners of her mind.
He keeps this up, he’s bound to be caught, she thought. And this time they’ll dangle him for certain.
A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
A special thanks to my dual (not dueling) editors, Arianne Lewin and Abby Ranger. Your love and enthusiasm kept me going, even while you asked the unanswerable questions that made my books better.
Thank you to my long-suffering critique partners, Marsha McGregor and Jim Robinson; the YAckers: Jody Feldman, Debby Garfinkle, Martha Peaslee Levine, Mary Beth Miller, and Kate Tuthill; to Twinsburg YA writers Julanne Montville, Leonard Spacek, Jeff Harr, Don Gallo, Dorothy Pensky, and Dawn Fitzgerald, for being willing to read pieces and parts, but never the entire thing.
Thank you to my extraordinary agent, Christopher Schelling, for continuing to assure me that I’m not high-maintenance.
The Gray Wolf Throne Page 43
