by David Hair
He led her through a series of guarded portals and into a tunnel that opened into a large, circular walled space with a mound in the middle and a spindly brackenberry tree at the top, surrounded by a dozen or so smaller bushes. ‘Welcome to the shrine of Saint Eloy,’ Wurther boomed. ‘You are looking upon the original Winter Tree itself.’
Lyra recalled the leafless sapling in Coraine; the grand prelate was clearly waiting for her to ask questions, so she said, ‘Why is it called that?’
‘It blooms in winter, Milady,’ Wurther replied. He led her to the foot of the mound, which turned out to be a large rock with a cave-mouth in it. Hundreds of candles gave it a soft, warm light. The cave was sealed by a silver lattice-gate, but she could see a tunnel twisting downwards, out of sight; its walls were coated in a translucent golden paste that looked like dried honey. ‘It’s amber, the sap of the Winter Tree,’ the grand prelate said. ‘It seeps through the rock from the tree roots and solidifies as it flows down the walls.’ He waved a hand in proprietary fashion. ‘Welcome to the heart of Koredom.’
‘Why is Saint Eloy so revered?’
‘Because he gave up not only temporal power but his magic to dedicate his life to Kore, and some believe he saved the empire in doing so,’ Wurther replied. ‘He once said: “Set against eternity, our lives mean nothing”: a good thing to reflect on before receiving a crown, Milady.’
She bowed her head. There was some kind of presence here, she was certain, and like the tree in Coraine, it felt benign to her. But Wurther appeared oblivious to it. He showed her a kneeling-stand before the silver gate.
‘It’s traditional to keep your vigil here, Lyra. The cave contains the bones of Eloy and his brethren. Once a year, the grand prelate is permitted to go inside and bring back a piece of amber, a gift for the Order of Eloysius.’
‘What’s it like inside?’
‘Like no other place, Milady: the bones are mostly encased in amber now, and the walls can sometimes seem to glow. Animals don’t enter it, nor insects. Even nature bows down before Kore.’ The grand prelate laid a warm hand on her shoulder, as if trying for some kind of familiarity or rapport, and said, ‘I’ll go now and take the auspices.’
‘What does that mean?’
Wurther chuckled, a cavernous sound. ‘It’s a tradition passed down from Rimoni times, when the Emperor was also the Pontifex, the Head Priest of the Sollan faith: I’m supposed to consult the stars on the eve of a coronation – superstitious clap-trap, of course, but it gives me something to do while you pray. And it’s always helpful when the people believe that a new ruler’s reign is to be blessed by good fortune.’
‘Is mine?’
‘Ha! My dear, the Rimoni believed that a reign begun in autumn is ill-omened, and we are on the cusp of Fall. Folk still sing an old rhyme about it:
“The King of Winter has a heart of ice,
The King of Spring the ladies entice,
The King of Summer loves wine and song
And the King of Fall won’t last very long.”
‘That doesn’t sound very hopeful,’ Lyra said.
‘Words like “King” and “Fall” never sound good together,’ Wurther said whimsically. ‘But don’t fret, my dear: I’m sure I can find some good omens in the stars to balance things out.’
With that he wobbled away and vanished behind the doors to the garden, which clanged shut as the bells for midnight rang out. She knelt and for a time lost herself in prayer, asking for the strength and courage to go through all she must. Then she thought about Ril, and a warm glow flowed through her, sensual and comforting, and the cold vanished. She put a hand to her left breast, closed her eyes and bathed in memories of him.
The world was silent, the moon crept across the sky and stars glimmered coldly beyond. Then a faint breeze lifted her hair, there was a sharp click and the silver gate swung open. She threw a backwards look towards the Dome. She seemed to be alone, but this was an eerie place . . .
The faintly glowing amber had an allure she couldn’t resist. She crept to the cave-mouth, feeling oddly safe as she stepped inside. She’d expected the floor to be wet, or slippery, but it was neither. A spiral stair descended, and in half a turn, the garden was gone and she was encased in a world of glowing honey-coloured sap. Two more turns brought her to a small chamber with an ash-filled hearth in the middle and a chimney-hole formed by the core of the stair, through which the Winter Tree could be seen, stark against the moon.
A dead man lay against the opposite wall, just bones and rags, and she glimpsed more bones half-covered in amber, yet she felt at peace. The air was like water, flowing through her garments and caressing her skin, and all the while the light shifted until half-formed faces coalesced in the amber walls, peering out at her. Despite this, she was filled with wonder, not fear. Saint Eloy was here, she was sure: he, and many others. Their eyes were heavy on her, penetrating deeply. She went down on her knees and murmured a prayer for their souls.
Sister, the air whispered.
Something wet spattered on her brow. She recoiled, and touched it: a drop of sap from the tree above. Without thinking, she wiped it off with her finger, then licked it off – it tasted sour and her throat caught a little, and for a time she floated in and out of dreams, wondering . . .
If they renounced their power, why does the tree bloom out of season?
Then she noticed that something had changed: right between her knees, a small leafy sprig had broken the soil. Carefully, she dug around it, then lifted it out and slipped it into her belt-pouch, trembling with excitement.
A distant hour-bell chimed, telling her that the night had somehow fled by. Imagining the uproar if Wurther returned to find her down here, she cast a final look around the chamber, touched her hand to her forehead in honour of the dead man on his eternal vigil, then hurried outside, exhilarated and scared.
Saint Eloy’s people didn’t renounce their powers. They preserved them, right under the noses of those who feared them most. She didn’t know why this mattered to her, but the tiny sprig of life in her belt-pouch felt as precious as a child inside her. More than this it felt . . . auspicious.
*
Wurther returned at dawn, as promised, and gave Lyra into the care of Valetta, who was to take charge of her preparations this morning. As soon as Lyra was alone in her chamber, she wrapped the tiny Winter Tree sapling in wet cloth, then emptied out her jewellery casket and laid it carefully in the bottom, before replacing the ropes of pearls and chains of precious gems to cover it over. She was wary of the imperious Estellan nun, but she had no choice than to surrender herself into Valetta’s hands. She was taken to the baths, scrubbed and rinsed in cold water before having to endure Valetta oiling and combing her hair while other nameless nuns came and went, all watching her with cold eyes. She remembered when noblewomen had come to her convent, and the mix of resentment and superiority she’d felt.
Rich women have everything but their souls, the sisters used to say. She wondered if these nuns saw her that way.
Soon after, a dozen of her own ladies-in-waiting arrived to fuss over her, but that didn’t prevent Valetta from asking, ‘Have you been examined, Milady?’
‘The Abbess of Pallas-Nord examined me yester-eve,’ Lyra said. She really didn’t want to endure another round of having her nethers peered at. ‘She brought her entire convent, I think.’
Hilta produced the certification of virginity, the ladies-in-waiting tittering behind their hands, but Valetta’s sultry face was regally immune as she examined the papers attesting to Lyra’s virtue. ‘You must dress now, Milady. The hour approaches.’
The dressers bustled in and the machinery of royalty took over. Hairdressers were still working pearls into her braiding when Radine entered and seized her hands excitedly. ‘My dear, you look ravishing! Has there ever been a more beautiful empress?’
While the courtiers all agreed that, no, there hadn’t, Radine studied Lyra’s face. ‘You have made peace with your fate, yes,
my dear? I’m so pleased. But you look tired.’
‘The vigil – I’ve not slept all night, Aunty. But I feel full of energy.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ She dropped her voice, leaning into Lyra’s ear. ‘I am immensely proud of you – and I know that Solon will make you happy, dearest. He will put you on a pedestal.’
Water and a light meal of fish and peas was served to sustain Lyra through the rigours to come: she wouldn’t have the opportunity to eat again until the ceremonial seed and honey cake at the culmination of her coronation. She could feel her head clearing from its night-fog.
Finally Hilta rose to her feet. ‘Milady, it is time.’
Lyra forced a nervous smile. It was indeed time: to become queen and empress.
Lyra’s coach headed the traditional coronation parade. They left the Holy City and circled Lac Corin, where she tossed flowers into the man-made pool in supplication to Corineus, then wound through Greyspire, where the streets were lined three- and four-deep with cheering people. In the Rymfort, she took the salute of the Kirkegarde before re-entering the Celestium, to climb the steps at the head of her ladies and enter the vast glowing Dome, right on midday.
The journey flashed by her: afterwards, all she could recall were a few faces – weather-worn, hardship-lined, with unkempt greying hair and awestruck eyes, waving at her, somehow claiming her as something between goddess and victim. The ranks of the Kirkegarde on the parade ground in Rymfort were terrifying, the beasts stamping in unison, the officers saluting as one, banners dipping and rising, drums thundering. She felt tiny, a twig in a maelstrom, but the Corani knights formed an honour guard at the front of the cathedral and she was grateful for their presence. Even dull Sir Oryn Levis felt like a pillar of reassurance right now.
She entered the Dome between immense statues of Corineus and Sertain carved in marble and gold. They looked like they wanted to crush her. But she’d glimpsed Ril in the ranks of knights, and that gave her the courage to go on, pacing up the aisle alone in time to a single slow drumbeat, feeling the weight of all eyes on her, before kneeling on the lowest of the seven stairs leading to the Sacred Throne.
Dominius Wurther waited at the top. His mitre appeared to touch the ceiling. Her breath wasn’t quite reaching her lungs, and the watching high nobles were like birds of prey. But Ril is here . . . She could do this.
Wurther hammered his giant crozier against the marble tiles, beginning the Rite of Crowning. ‘Are you Lyra Vereinen, the natural offspring of Ainar Borodium and Natia Sacrecour?’
‘I am,’ she said, proudly and without hesitation, concealing the lie with assertion. She took the first step, and knelt again.
‘Lyra Vereinen, are you of the Blessed Three Hundred, the founders of this Holy Rondian Empire, and a wielder of the sacred gnosis?’
‘I am!’ Another lie. She ascended to the second step and knelt again.
‘Lyra Vereinen, do you love Kore and accept him as your only God?’
‘I do!’ It was a relief to speak a truth, finally.
‘Lyra Vereinen, do you accept Corineus as your Saviour, and place your soul in his care?’
‘I do!’
‘Lyra Vereinen, are you the rightful heir to the throne of Rondelmar, and her Holy Rondian Empire?’
‘I am!’
‘Lyra Vereinen, are you of sound mind and whole body, and possessed of a fruitful womb?’
According to the healer-mystics who’d attended upon her earlier in the week, she was.
‘I am!’ She stepped onto the penultimate step and knelt. She could smell the wine-and-roasted-food reek of the grand prelate now, but mostly she was aware of the silence in the cathedral, and the way their words echoed through the cavernous space.
‘Lyra Vereinen,’ Wurther boomed, ‘do you wish to serve your people as Queen of Rondelmar and Empress of the Holy Rondian Empire?’
‘I do.’
‘Then ascend, and kneel before your God and Saviour!’
She did as she was bidden, her nerves returning as she sank to her knees before the throne, the grand prelate and the immense, resplendent Sacred Heart icon above.
‘As the golden dagger pierced His sacred heart,’ Wurther intoned, ‘the glory of the gnosis was revealed, a sacred flame kindled in the hearts of those faithful to Kore.’
‘WE ARE BLESSED!’ the congregation chanted.
‘We, the descendants of those Blessed Ones, have accepted the charge of ruling Urte, until Kore returns.’
‘WE ARE BLESSED!’
‘Kore crowned Sertain Sacrecour His first emperor and set him upon his throne. I, Kore’s Voice on Urte, offer myself as His avatar. Do you accept me as such, and permit me to crown this woman?’
‘WE DO! YOU ARE BLESSED!’
‘Lords and Ladies, descendants of the Blessed, here is a woman, Lyra Vereinen, born of Sertain’s line and proclaimed rightful heir to the throne of Rondelmar. Do you wish her to become your Queen and Empress?’
Though it was all ritual, Lyra still found herself holding her breath fearfully, then the congregation thundered: ‘WE DO! SHE IS BLESSED!’
‘Then Lyra Vereinen, raise your head.’
Wurther ushered forward a young page bearing a purple velvet pillow on which the Imperial Crown sat. Seeing it brought another tightening in her chest. It looked inhumanly heavy, like a collar or a yoke. Tears started in her eyes, and didn’t stop as Wurther took the crown.
‘I, Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther, by the grace of Kore His representative on Urte, do hereby crown you, Lyra Vereinen, as Queen of Rondelmar and Empress of the Holy Rondian Empire! Your body is now sacrosanct, and all who are joined in your body! Your possessions are now sacrosanct, and all those you take possession of in future! Your words are now sacrosanct, and holy to us! Hear me, People of Urte!’
‘WE HEAR! WE ARE BLESSED!’ the congregation thundered, then cheered and threw hats into the air as the crown was lowered onto Lyra’s head. She managed to control her sobbing as Wurther brushed her cheek with his right hand, then offered his ring to kiss. She did so, then rose and he knelt and reciprocated: Crown and State, equals.
‘You may sit now,’ Wurther said kindly. ‘We’ve saved you the best seat in the house.’
When she sat and looked out from her throne, she felt as if she could see far beyond the cathedral to the throng in the square, to those still in their homes, to the rolling green hills of Rondelmar and the mountains and rivers and plains of the vassal-states whose ambassadors waited below. Argundy, Hollenia, Noros, Bricia, Brevia and the rest – if she could hold them together. It was thrilling, frightening. And Ril is here. She managed to keep her face composed as the cheers washed over her.
Then came the First Blessings, the foremost of the congregation coming forward one by one to congratulate her, led by the Ducal Houses, those with blood-ties to the Sacrecours, titles to the provinces of Rondelmar and the greater vassal-states, in order of kinship to her. First to greet her was Sifrew, youngest brother of Duke Kurt Borodium, the new Duke of Argundy and kinsman of Ainar, her supposed father. That lie was prominent in her thoughts as she greeted this relative.
‘Your Majesty, it brings Argundy great joy to see you seated upon this throne,’ Sifrew said, his eyes shining. ‘Your late parents will be singing in Paradise this night.’
‘I’m proud to be kin to you,’ she replied. ‘I trust we will speak again soon.’
‘I await your pleasure, my Queen.’ In a low voice he added, ‘There is nothing wrong with following your mother’s example and marrying another Argundian.’ He gave her a sly wink, making her smile.
After Sifrew came the Dukes of Hollenia, Midrea and Bricia; they saw her as someone they could charm, manipulate or bully, Radine said, but they were after advantages at home, not her throne, so those encounters were simple enough.
Then came the Lords of the Great Houses of Rondelmar, a different matter entirely. After the Imperial Council had declared for Lyra, the Great Houses had bowed to the
threat of economic and military isolation, the lords of the Aquillean cities caving in first, followed by Klief and Canossi, leaving the Dupeni-Fasterius axis, the rump of Sacrecour power, isolated.
Now Radine led them forward: she might be wrinkled and frail, but today she was a triumphant little bird in full plumage. The other dukes ranged from dignified gravitas to truculent insouciance.
Then her most dangerous known enemy was standing before her.
She’d been surprised that Garod Sacrecour, Duke of Dupenium, had wanted to attend her coronation at all, but Setallius said he probably wanted to see her in person. He was a tall, rangy man, with long, unruly grey hair, clean-shaven in the Pallacian style. He had deep-set, hollow eyes and thin lips. Setallius said that his own powerbase was fragmenting: what was left of the Fasterius clan – conspicuous by their absence today – were demanding war, but Garod was refusing. His own interests were tied to trade and commerce; his family had lost too many legions in the East and war now would ruin him.
Crucially, he’d also loathed Lucia Fasterius; by attending, he was spitting on her grave.
‘I swear allegiance to the Imperial Throne of Rondelmar, and to Lyra Vereinen Imperia, my Empress and Queen,’ Garod intoned, his eyes boring into hers as he knelt. She saw jealousy, frustrated rage and lust too, which chilled her. This was the man who’d orchestrated the butchery of 909.
He’ll not stay loyal for long, her instincts told her. But for now his pledge was enough.
Then the Imperial Councillors were called forth to take oath to serve her. Calan Dubrayle was dapper, business-like and precise, Edreu Gestatium formal but trembling with suppressed triumph. Then Dominius Wurther took the oath, speaking in a soft rumble as if he were giving a favourite granddaughter a Corineus Day gift. Then came the moment she had been dreading.
