Two 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 traditional 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.
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.
E P I L O G U E
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.
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