Penhallow gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Indeed.”
Connor turned to Blaine. “What about Hennoch?” he asked. “We freed his son.” Eljas Hennoch was surprisingly well recovered, considering his treatment. “Eljas has been asking about his father’s fate.”
Blaine let out a deep breath. “Hennoch surrendered to Piran as soon as it was clear that Thrane’s talishte were destroyed,” he said. “We knew he only fought for Pollard to save his son’s life. So I gave Hennoch a choice, for himself and his soldiers—death, or exile to Edgeland.”
Connor chuckled. “In a way, he’s getting off easy, since there’s no more Velant.”
Blaine nodded. “And there won’t be, ever again, if I have any say in the matter. But the colony is going to need new workers once trade opens back up again, and new defenders, in case we haven’t seen the last of the Cross-Sea Kingdoms. My sense is that Hennoch is a man of integrity who found himself in a bad situation. I think he and his men could be a good addition to Edgeland.”
“So I take it he agreed to exile?” Zaryae asked.
“He really didn’t need to think about it long, given the alternative,” Blaine replied wryly. “I assume Eljas will want to accompany his father, unless he has family here to rejoin.” Exiling Hennoch and his men was a smart move, Connor thought. It made Blaine look fair, even magnanimous, while avoiding slaughter.
“Will Edgeland remain a place of exile?” Zaryae questioned.
“I hope that the need for exile is rare,” Blaine answered. “Still, I’d rather have the option to spare a life rather than keep people like Hennoch in prison or be forced to hang them. So the situation may still arise, now and again, but I hope that Edgeland can become more of a true colony, self-sustaining and with most residents able to travel back and forth to Donderath if they choose.”
Already thinking like a king, Connor thought. “So the war is truly over,” he said. After everything that had happened, it seemed impossible to believe the fighting was finally done.
Blaine nodded. “Yes. And now the hard part starts—rebuilding.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE BACK IN THESE BLOODY catacombs,” Piran grumbled. Deep beneath Quillarth Castle, the necropolis held the catafalques and crypts of the dead kings of Donderath as well as those of nobles, vaunted generals, and the founder of the Knights of Esthrane. Blaine and the others had been down in the catacombs before, each time fraught with danger, since the dead here did not remain quiet.
“The mages and Dolan say it’s where we need to do the formal investiture, in order to restore a level of ‘magical immunity’ to the kingdom,” Blaine replied, making a face at the term. “Whatever that means. But they’re sure that the ancient coronation ritual has to be done a certain way, and I don’t want to find out what happens if it gets done wrong.” Piran grimaced, and Blaine was sure he was remembering how working the ritual to re-anchor the magic had nearly killed them when it was not performed correctly.
“But we get a party afterward, right?” Piran asked, trying to cover his own nervousness. “Food, drink, pretty girls?”
Kestel elbowed him. “Food and drink, yes. But I’ve already warned the pretty girls. Sorry.”
They bantered in hushed voices, out of respect for the occasion and because the catacombs seemed by their nature to require whispers. All of the new Lords of the Blood were present. Dolan conferred with Cosmin, Viorel, and Rikard on the magic to be worked, while Seneschal Dillon fussed over the crown. Later, for the public ceremony, Judith McFadden and Mari, Zaryae and Desya, Rinka Solveig and Geir would join them, but for now, only those who were part of the ritual braved the dangers of the castle’s catacombs.
Blaine tugged at his collar. Dillon had managed to have suitable clothing reworked from what he had been able to beg, borrow, and scavenge, since fine brocades, velvets, and silks could not yet be made anew. From what Blaine had seen in the mirror that morning, Dillon had outdone himself, putting together an outfit truly worthy of a king. Dillon had also found a suitable gown for Kestel, one that played up her red hair and coloring, complementing her figure, and making her look every inch a queen. Piran and Niklas wore uniforms befitting their role as generals, and even Folville showed up dressed suitably for his new position as the Lord Mayor of Castle Reach.
“Everything is ready,” Dolan said. Dolan and Nidhud both wore the gray cloaks and surcoats that marked them as members of the Knights of Esthrane. They and the rest of the Knights would have a prominent and visible role in the public coronation ceremony and in the government that Blaine would forge as Donderath’s new king.
Blaine tamped down his nervousness, and Kestel gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. Then Blaine followed Dolan to the center of the large, circular plaza in the catacombs, the hub from which many corridors branched off into the darkness of the huge necropolis. Dagur, Rikard, and the other mages had set two warded circles that were nearly complete, leaving an opening like a door to admit the participants. Blaine looked solemn as he stepped into the smaller, inside warding, and Dagur completed the circle around him. In the outer circle, the twelve Lords of the Blood took their places: Penhallow, Connor and the Wraith Lord, Nidhud, Borya, Tormod Solveig, Birgen Verner, William Folville, Traher Voss, Piran, Verran, Dawe, and Niklas. Each of them, like Blaine, wore the obsidian disk that had been part of the ritual to restore the magic. Kestel and Dillon stood outside the circles, watching intently. The mages—Dolan, Dagur, Rikard, Cosmin, and Viorel, along with several assistants—had already prepared the chamber with candles and incense, as well as a number of unusual artifacts Blaine did not remember having seen before.
Then there was the crown itself, which was older than the state crown Blaine had glimpsed on the occasions when he had seen King Merrill in his finery. It was a plain crown made of steel, beautifully wrought and embellished with studding instead of gems, quite a contrast to the more elaborate crown Blaine would wear for his public coronation. The crown sat on a pedestal inside the second ring, nestled on a faded velvet cushion. Next to it, lying atop a satin pouch, was a torque made from twisted strands of precious metal. Beside the torque lay a single golden earring set with a blood-red ruby.
Torches in sconces lit the round room, and Blaine could not avoid glancing down the darkened corridors, worried that they would overstay their welcome. The catacombs beneath Quillarth Castle were often overrun by the spirits of the dead, and their never-ending battles could prove deadly for mortals unlucky enough to be caught up in the action.
Dolan finished the outer warding, and the mages stood outside that circle of power, making a third ring with their bodies. Assistant mages stood behind the more powerful magic-users, holding hand drums and bells, chimes and small cymbals. At Dolan’s signal, the drummers and bell ringers began to play, singing a low, repetitive chant that echoed in the shadowed vaults and catacombs.
Blaine shivered. There was magic in that chant, and every beat of the drums and shimmer of the bells raised its power. The inner circle, previously invisible, began to glow, like dust particles in a beam of sunlight. The outer circle became a coruscating curtain, glinting with multicolored, iridescent light.
Unlike in the ritual to restore magic, Blaine had no labyrinth to walk, no invocation to make. Dillon and the mages had been vague about what would happen next, and Blaine was still not sure whether that was because they wanted him to react to the events without prejudice or because they truly did not know. He suspected the latter, which only added to his nervousness.
The chanting continued, and the power rose, filling the chamber. Gradually, misty figures joined the outer circle. Many of the ghosts were dressed in clothing or armor that marked them as the dead of centuries past. Some, he recognized. Lynge, the martyred seneschal, and Geddy, his assistant. Torsten Almstedt, the founder of the Knights of Esthrane. King Merrill, Merrill’s father and grandfather, and kings from long ago, whom Blaine recognized from their portraits and tapestries.
H
ow is anyone going to cross the wardings to convey the crown, if that’s what this is all about? Blaine wondered. Then three ghostly figures stepped forward, and he realized that the wardings would pose no barrier at all to them.
Torsten Almstedt’s ghost grew more solid as he moved toward Blaine, empowered by the magic and by the energy of the catacombs themselves. He crossed the first warding effortlessly, moved past the Lords of the Blood, and lifted the torque. The second warding slowed him only for a second, and then he stood directly in front of Blaine, his gaze solemn.
“Blaine McFadden. You are not of royal blood, yet today, a new dynasty begins in you. Do you swear to protect this kingdom and its people with your life, your blood, and if need be, with your soul? Think before you answer,” the ghost warned. “What is done cannot be undone.”
“I swear.”
Almstedt placed the torque around Blaine’s neck. The metal was cold, but Almstedt’s ghostly touch was even colder, and Blaine tried not to shudder. “The yoke of King Dacen, the first of Donderath’s warrior kings,” Almstedt intoned. “Wear it always, so long as you are king, as a symbol of the burden you have undertaken to keep this kingdom from harm.” With that, Almstedt stepped back and made a shallow bow, then vanished from beside Blaine, only to reappear outside the second warding once more.
King Merrill’s ghost was the next to move through the wardings, and he lifted not the crown but the earring. The living eyed the specter with regard, and bowed as he passed by. Merrill was a generation older than Blaine, and Blaine’s late father had earned the king’s gratitude in wars long past. But Merrill had also known Ian McFadden’s dark side, which was why he had exiled Blaine for Ian’s murder instead of having him executed. Now, Merrill’s melancholy gaze fixed Blaine in a piercing stare.
“This gem has been part of the legacy of Donderath’s rulers since time before memory,” Merrill’s said, his voice clear but filtered, as if coming from a great distance. “You will wear this for as long as you live, and it will bond with your blood. That bond creates a shield against most dark magic.” He sighed. “As you well know, it cannot protect against everything. But this relic will protect you, and the kingdom, against many potent threats.”
With that, Merrill reached up to Blaine’s right ear. His hands felt as solid as those of a living man, though cold as a corpse. With a sudden push, Blaine felt the sharp stud of the earring pierce his lobe, allowing a few drops of warm blood to trickle down his neck. The earring warmed rapidly, as if its ruby took sustenance from his blood.
“Keep this kingdom well,” Merrill charged, stepping back and regarding Blaine solemnly. “The spirits of the dead will be watching.” As with Almstedt, Merrill’s ghost made a shallow bow and vanished, only to appear on the outer ring of onlookers.
The third ghost was Kierken Vandholt. Here in the catacombs, he did not need Connor’s body to make himself seen, a commanding man with a powerful physical presence, even as a specter. Vandholt lifted the steel crown in his large, broad hands. He was the most ancient spirit of the three, a millennium old; mage, talishte, and warrior. The mortals parted to allow him to pass, but Vandholt’s gaze never wavered from Blaine.
“The Vottomer crown is the oldest surviving crown of Donderath kings,” Vandholt said. “It is a warrior’s crown, simple and strong like armor. It is even older than I am, and this crown remembers its past. Wear it knowing that the eyes of all those who came before you are watching. Take counsel from the living, but understand that with the three relics you have received, you may also seek wisdom from the dead. They are your safe passage to these chambers. Do not disappoint.” With that, Vandholt lifted the crown, and Blaine knelt, inclining his head. The Wraith Lord set the steel crown on Blaine’s head, and Blaine felt a tingle of power pass through his body.
“Rise, King Blaine of Donderath,” Vandholt said solemnly. “Restore your kingdom and its people.”
Vandholt made a low bow, and the other onlookers, including the Lords of the Blood and the mages, even Kestel, went down on one knee in fealty. Blaine stared out at them, completely at a loss, overwhelmed by what he had just heard and seen.
“Rise,” he croaked. “We have work to do.”
The chanting and drumming shifted, and as they had built energy before the ritual, now the slower cadence dissipated the magic that had been called. Dolan and Dagur released the wardings, and the shimmering power vanished. One by one, the ghostly audience drifted away.
The Lords of the Blood crowded around Blaine. “Congratulations, King Mick,” Piran said with a grin. “I guess this means I have to let you win at cards, now that you’re royal and all.”
Verran and Dawe clapped Blaine on the shoulder, then their eyes widened as they realized they had touched the monarch without permission. “We made it through Velant together,” Blaine reassured them with a self-conscious smile. “I’m not going to stand on ceremony now.”
Kestel stepped up to join him, and gave a deep curtsy before he pulled her to her feet and kissed her. “This changes nothing between us,” he whispered fiercely. “Nothing.”
As Blaine accepted the well-wishes and congratulations from his friends and allies, the ritual seemed like a half-remembered dream, important but difficult to believe. Connor seemed to guess his thoughts.
“It really happened,” Connor said. “Down here, magic is stronger—you may have noticed,” he added with the knowing raise of an eyebrow. “The Wraith Lord could make himself present without me, although I’ve gotten used to him by now.” He managed a wan grin. “That really was King Merrill. He even nodded to me as he passed by, as if he remembered me from when I served Lord Garnoc!”
Dagur and Rikard pushed through the crowd, with Dillon a step behind. “You’ll have plenty of time to celebrate later,” Rikard said, steering Blaine by the elbow. “Thanks to the ghosts and the artifacts, that should be sufficient to reinstate the general protection against hostile magic,” he said. “And technically, you’re king. But,” he warned, “until the people see you crowned, you aren’t king in their eyes, and that’s what really invests you with the power.”
“What he means is, we’ve got another stop before the big banquet,” Dagur said. “And people are waiting.”
Blaine had insisted that the coronation be held after dark, so that the talishte could attend. He had sworn to Penhallow and to Dolan that their people would be full citizens of Donderath, and Blaine was resolved to start out as he meant to go on.
Quillarth Castle was far from its former glory, but Dillon and his helpers had worked a small wonder readying it for the coronation. Banners and pennants, reworked from badly damaged tapestries, linens, and even carpets, added a festive air. Torches and bonfires lit the bailey and the courtyard, and inside the castle, lanterns at every window made the damaged castle look more like its old self than at any time since the Great Fire. A new bell tower had been erected, wood instead of stone like the one that fell in the Cataclysm, and a salvaged bell had been readied to peal glad tidings once the new king was crowned.
Flags flew from the parapets and the gates, and while Dillon had confided that they had been made from dyed bedsheets, by torchlight they looked regal. Bed-linen flags and pieced-together banners, remade finery and salvaged relics. What will it take to bring back the kingdom that we lost? Blaine wondered. And if that kingdom can’t ever be again, what must I do to create something just as good, maybe even—someday—better?
The task set for him was daunting, and Blaine dared not think on it too long. Only the knowledge that he also could not walk away and entrust Donderath’s fate to chance gave him the courage to step forward when the trumpets blared, and he looked out on a sea of hopeful, skeptical faces challenging him to make them believe.
“We are gathered to crown a new king of Donderath!” Dillon proclaimed. For the moment, he guarded the coronation crown, rescued from its hiding place beneath the castle. Unlike the steel crown, this was the formal crown of the kings of Donderath. He held up the crown,
and the crowd cheered.
The ceremony was being held on the broad landing in front of the main doors to Quillarth Castle, a place visible to all those assembled in the courtyard. Blaine stood at the top of the stairs in the center with Kestel at his side. The Lords of the Blood stood on either side of him, mortal and talishte, living and undead, mages and those without magic, a show of solidarity. Judith, Edward, and Mari stood behind Blaine, dressed in their own reclaimed finery for the occasion, along with Zaryae and Desya, all of whom he considered to be his family.
The Knights of Esthrane stood at attention on one side of the broad main walkway, while Dagur, Rikard, and the mages faced them on the other side, looking scholarly and wise in robes salvaged from the ruins of the University. Next to the Knights were more of Blaine’s generals and allies. In a section of special guests, Rinka Solveig stood with the surviving allied Elders. The crowd grew quiet as the trumpets sounded again.
“Tonight, Blaine McFadden, Lord of Glenreith, Warlord of all Donderath, will become your new king,” Dillon announced. Another cheer went up from the onlookers, echoing from the high stone walls.
King Merrill had received his crown from the elder members of his family, recognition of the continuation of the royal bloodline. Blaine and his advisers had debated how the crown should be bestowed, finally agreeing to the only workable arrangement. At the sound of the trumpet, all twelve Lords of the Blood stepped forward as Blaine knelt among them. Gathered around him in a half circle so that Blaine was never hidden from the crowd’s view, the Lords of the Blood all held the crown, placing it on Blaine’s head together. They paused for a moment, letting their hands rest on his head in blessing, conveying their silent prayers and hopes for the monarchy.
Then, as the trumpets sounded once again, Blaine rose to his feet and lifted his head, gazing out over his people, who had now become his subjects. “All hail King Blaine!” Dillon shouted, and the crowd echoed the phrase in a roar.
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