Ember

by Anna Holmes

  

  Anna Holmes

  Copyright © 2017 by Anna Holmes.

  Copyright © 2017 by Anna Holmes.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art copyright Jason Nguyen 2017.

  Author photo by Ian Grant 2017.

  Title art copyright Maria Paz 2017.

  Published by CreateSpace, an Amazon company.

  First Printing, 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-0692902561

  ISBN-10: 0692902562

  For J.E., who always believed

  Chapter One

  Caelin

  I pace the narrow confines of the vestibule, the gold trim of my heavy skirt clacking against the stone. Stupid, I chide myself. This is stupid. I ran off to join the civil war when I was eleven bloody years old, took command of it when I was fifteen, ended it with a decisive battle barely a season ago, and a little ceremony has me quailing in my satin slippers?

  I whirl on my blurred reflection in the blue green glass of the cathedral wall, hand instinctively reaching for my metal belt. There’s no sword there anymore. The council hasn’t let me wear it. My hip feels naked. I don’t know what good the sword would do me against the archpriest and the huge echoing chamber I can only associate with my father’s funeral, but I wouldn’t mind the company.

  Behind me, a curtain rustles, and I turn again sharply. My hand still fidgets for a hilt that isn’t there. Riley shows me his palms as he manages to detangle himself from the curtain. "Just me. Easy, Highness."

  I swallow my own heart. "Right. You. Come to laugh at the dress?"

  He tugs at the collar of his gray and blue dress uniform. "I would, but I’m not precisely in a position to talk."

  This does coax a chuckle out of him. It’s a far cry from the way we met. I’d been sobbing in a garden for my father and my home—lost to the Afterlands and the Legion, respectively. Mother, mired as she was in her grief, was deficient as a ruler, and I, seven, was temporarily deficient. A Regent would step in for me until I grew up a bit, I’d been informed, and until then, we had to hide away on a small estate in Elyssia’s sparse farmlands. My familiar surroundings were plucked from my grasp. First my home, my mother, then guards, then most of the tutors, and soon I was alone with a governess and a handful of rotating servants. With floods of new citizens and new government, I’d been largely forgotten, assumed shipped off somewhere to live in luxurious obsolescence. As is customary for Legion-deposed ruling families.

  One of those rotating servants must’ve had looser lips than the Legion likes, because a rumor spread of a haunted villa where a ghostly little princess mourned among wilting rosevines. And so a local boy went ghost hunting. When he found me, he was so covered in dirt that I’d screamed to a governess about a monster made of mud. Under the mud was a shadowfolk boy, a few years older than me, with pearly grayish skin and hair some strange shade of purple. This was Riley. His cleaned up self at twenty is unrecognizable. No more mud for Lieutenant Bannon.

  "They told me you're meant to be sequestered for some solemn rite," he says.

  "The Meditation of the Regnant," I confirm. "I’m meant to be pondering the immense responsibility about to fall onto my head with the crown. As far as I know, this is the only time in history it’s ever been interrupted. So unlike you, Lieutenant."

  "I know. But I figured you'd have worn through the floorboards by now."

  "So you came to rescue me."

  "Like you need rescuing from anything," he scoffs, though he smiles now. A hard-earned thing, a smile from him. "I've been sent to let you know it's time."

  "My hero," I mutter nervously. "I thought the waiting would kill me."

  He holds back the curtain, making room for me to pass. I step out into the aisle made by rows upon rows of guards, saluting with their fists to their chests. All of this, at least, looks familiar. I cross the last set of them into the vacuous space of the Cathedral.

  It’s eerie that this place should be so quiet. Water pours from the high eaves, casting crystalline blue green shadows over the white marble. One would think that a building with sheets of falling water for walls would make a bit more sound, but no. I hear my every footfall, every tremulous breath restrained by my corseted bodice until my long trudge to the archpriest leads me through the break in the choristers. Every hollow place in the Cathedral pulses with the triumphant strains of the Exaltation. High voices swirl around the ceiling, the low rumbling deep in my chest—deep in all our chests. This is the sound of Elyssia, the home we’ve fought for, the boundlessly joyful antithesis to Rosalia’s cold rigidity.

  I reach the edge of the dais as the choir reaches the height of its song. The whole of the audience rises in unison, adding a sweeping percussion line. I begin to fear that my chest, my heart, my soul won’t be enough to contain this vibration, this energy my country entrusts to me.

  And yet, I must try. As I move to incline my head to my witnesses, I catch the briefest of glimpses of a ray of golden light from the small circular window above. My father’s memorial. It radiates the same glow that his skin gave off, the same glow that now emanates from mine. His boots will forever be too big to fill, but I am of him. I am his daughter, his rightful heir, his legacy.

  And as Queen Regnant, I will see this country back on the path on which he set it. Nerves be damned.

  The final chorus of the Exaltation fades against the Cathedral’s high stone ribs, but the electric hum lingers. The audience shifts in anticipation as I kneel before the archpriest. I barely hear a word of the prayer he offers in Old Elyssian. I’m busy trying not to totter on my shaking knees.

  After the customary murmur of so shall it be, the silence settles heavier on my shoulders than the mantle he fastens around them. It’s punctuated by the self-important thumps of Kelvin’s impeccably polished boots against the stone as he stops in front of me.

  He’s a good commander and a decent chief advisor, Kelvin, and I doubt we’d have made it through the war without him. However, he pauses after everything he ever does as though he expects applause to follow. "Countrymen," he blares, his deep bass reaching as far as the choir did. "Today we formalize the beginning of our beloved nation’s new life."

  This actually does draw applause, as well it should. It’s been a long ten years for all of us. Longer for those of us scrambling for footholds against the Legion’s massive military machine. "Today," he shouts over the roar, "we welcome back our royal family."

  My eyes squeeze shut around the sting of tears. I can feel the warmth of the memorial window beaming down onto the back of my head. I’m ready.

  "Today," Kelvin continues, his voice deliberately soft, forcing the crowd to bring down their intensity to match. "Today, we return order to this island." He turns to the Archpriest and retrieves the ring of silver vines from the pillow, holding it high above my head. "Caelin Lightholder," he rumbles. "I offer you this crown in fealty and in service."

  "I accept this crown, your fealty, your service," I answer, my voice light but confident next to his.

  The archpriest wobbles a little. It’s not tradition for a cabinet member to crown the Regnant. It usually falls to a family member, with the clergy consecrating. This time, however, we merge the military with the governance, to show the people we are one entity. I feel the crown settle to my head, and Kelvin steps back as I stand to face the crowd. The tangled nerves are pulled in every direction. Almost through. All that’s left is for him to declare me Queen Regnant. "People of Elyssia," he declares, "I give you, once again, your Princess."

  It takes everything I have not to stagger, not to stand there staring slack-jawed. I
spare him the briefest of questioning looks, but he’s busy engaging with the cheering crowd, his fist held high. He grasps my hand and holds it up as though it’s a prizefight I’ve just won. We just won. My heart sinks through my body, through the floor as the sting of the word Princess gives way to cold fury. He beckons over to Riley, who takes up my arm and starts to escort me down the aisle to the waiting carriage. "Hold it a few more seconds," Riley advises me, his voice low.

  "I’m going to kill your stepfather," I mutter back, trying to keep my smile in place.

  "And you know I’d at least help you hide the body," he says, nodding toward the assembled. "But I don’t think the Duke of Gisbourne will tolerate the gore. Wait until we get back to the castle."

  "Did you know he was going to do this?"

  "No," he answers, trying desperately to hide his natural frown. "I’d like to hear what he has to say for himself too."

  Easier said than done. There is nothing Kelvin loves more than an audience, and the guests at the reception are absolutely a captive one. As am I. I’m stuck up here on yet another dais, searching for hints of his graying head between congratulations from effusive nobles. Congratulations for what? I’m not sure.

  They know damn well what just happened was an insult. Providing me the trappings of royalty with none of the power. Until the word Regnant appears after my title and before my name, everything I do must be audited by my council. The nobility knows this, because instead of approaching me with just how much they’re looking forward to working with me, they’re blandly offering me pats on the head and immediately rushing off to corner my advisors. I wonder if they can tell that my smile is a little too taut, my molars clenched together.

  When I can, I follow the little cloud of darkness Riley carries with him through the throng. He noticed. When his personal shadow overtakes my light, he knows full well I’m pissed. He’s off hunting for his stepfather so we can all have a word.

  Riley, his dark eyes focused, slips in the spaces in between people. Kelvin’s broad face lights up as he calls out to people—not literally, as mine does. Kelvin is a Plain, a descendant of a relative newcomer to Elyssia. It is no measure of value. Kelvin distinguishes himself daily by his mastery of the intricate social game we play here and a formidable grasp of magic. And, of course, his dryness. "Your Highness," he says, approaching my dais. "I’m informed there’s something we need to discuss."

  I excuse myself to the front of the receiving line, resist the urge to just jump down and land in front of him, and say simply, "Yes. There is." I turn on my heel and head for the long hallway out of the ballroom. Guards fall over themselves to salute me and open the doors. Honestly, I couldn’t care less if they saluted me with their bare backsides at the moment. I head directly into the council chamber and turn on Kelvin the moment Riley has the door closed. "What," is all I can manage.

  Kelvin folds his arms behind his back. "You’ll need to be more specific, Princess."

  "That," I say, crossing back over the blue marble. "Princess. Queen Regnant is what you promised me. One does not typically have a coronation to celebrate a title one already has."

  "And Queen Regnant is what you shall have," he says, dark eyebrows arched. "In due time. Today was a ceremony to welcome you back to your station."

  "And what have the last three months been?" Weeks of touring Elyssia, speaking in towns whose names I’d never heard, looking diplomatically into crowds which, in places, stared back with apathy or skepticism or vitriol. "I think I’ve been properly inaugurated."

  Kelvin rocks on the soles of his boots. "What would you have me do, Your Majesty? Return to that room and announce to the assembled that there’s been a misunderstanding?"

  "Misunderstanding? You and the rest of the council led me to believe I was ascending today."

  "Yes, a misunderstanding," he says firmly. "We feel and have felt that this would not be the ideal time to elevate you to the highest. Elyssia is still staggered from war. There is bound to be unrest."

  Riley surprises both of us by cutting in. "You trusted her enough to fight a war for you—lead troops into battle—but not to lead a nation out?"

  He frowns deeply, not even turning his head in Riley’s direction. "Lieutenant Bannon, you are dismissed."

  "No, he is not," I say. "He is the head of my personal guard and as such I need him here."

  "For what purpose?"

  "I’m not certain where your loyalties are, Counselor."

  "Because of the ceremony?" He laughs incredulously. "Your Highness. We trained you to lead those troops, did we not? Now we must train you to lead a nation. Today marks the beginning of that training. It is very much a cause for celebration!"

  "That training began the moment I could string together a full sentence," I spit. "I was brought into this world so I could take my father’s place. I knew that, he knew that, and it seems that the only ones who don’t are Legion or you."

  Kelvin shakes his head. "Do not think for a moment our plans have changed for you, Majesty. When the moment is right, you will honor your exalted father with your presence on the throne. But for the time being…we must ever think of Elyssia. To some you are a beacon of hope, the same they followed during the darkest days of the war. To others, an immediate ascendance would be nothing but trading a Rosalian Archon for a Queen Regnant." He looks at me. "I understand, Princess, your eagerness, your love for this country, but I ask you also to consider the chaos that might break out should we rush things."

  Some of the heat seeps from my face, and I take a breath. Damn it. It’s a good point, but I’m not ready to concede entirely. "You could have mentioned it to me, at least," I sputter, harnessing the last of my rage.

  "I apologize, Princess. I assumed it went without saying. We will be clearer in the future." He turns to look between Riley and me. "Now then. I believe there is a celebration being held in your honor, and I, for one, am not about to miss the roast goose." He tilts his head in the direction of the ballroom and holds out an arm to me. "Shall we?"

  "I’ll be along in a moment," I say. "I’d like to compose myself."

  He nods approvingly. "Very good, Your Highness. After all, the whole kingdom is watching."

  Riley moves stiffly out of the way as Kelvin sweeps from the room. I wait for a moment, folding my arms over my chest. When he’s well away, I ask, "So. How much of that do we think was horseshit?"

  "Oh, the usual," Riley groans, rolling out his shoulders. "Just enough to sound reasonable."

  "You’re sure that man was a farmer."

  "Watched him bale hay and everything," he confirms.

  "Never titled?"

  "If he had a pedigree lying around the farmhouse, I never saw it."

  Little Riley had run back to his stepfather’s farm exclaiming that he’d found the princess. The Resurgence grew from there in the hands of farriers and blacksmiths and seamstresses and what remnants of the old order remained. But this farmer…he’d served a brief stint in my father’s reserves, attained a modest rank. Had that really been training enough?

  "He plays the high society game like no one I’ve ever seen," I boggle. "He didn’t tell me before the ceremony because I can’t raise a fuss in front of the whole kingdom. That’s mastery."

  "You sound like you admire him."

  "I do, a bit," I say, shaking my head. "How he went from head of the farmer’s guild to beating down the Rosalian Legion I will never comprehend."

  "Yeah, well," he says, holding the door open for me again. "The man likes control. Don’t be surprised if due time takes a while longer than you’d like."

  I know Kelvin intends it to. A princess I was born, and if I fell in battle, a princess I’d have died, but until someone with the blessing of the Elyssian church and these fast-talking counselors of mine puts a crown on my head and says the magic words, I cannot be Regnant.

  "Well, I’ll just have to outmaneuver him, that’s all."

  "And how do you intend to do that?" He asks in a hushed v
oice as we start down the hall.

  "He’s just one voice in the council. If I can get the others to fall in line, I might be able to outflank him."

  "Well," he says, distracted, "good luck with that."

  I try to follow his eye toward whatever is pulling his focus. I see nothing but a sea of nobles and rivers of servants. Then, I spot her. He exchanges a glance and one of those hard-earned smiles with a pretty wisp of a girl with a halo of white hair. An airfolk servant. "What's her name?"

  "Oh, leave it be, will you?"

  "I mean it. I think I'll bring her from the kitchens. I've yet to find a lady in waiting."

  He gapes. I tire of all this propriety. "You would do that?"

  "I'm friends with your sorry self, aren't I?"

  He folds his hands behind his back and tries to appear nonchalant. Nonchalance never works for Riley. Breezy works even less. As though it's some small detail, he says, "True enough. Her name is Alora."

  "That's not Elyssian."

  "Her father is from Neren."

  "Oh, you know who her father is?"

  I flash him a look, and this time I receive a grin as he bows low. "Respectfully, Your Highness, I ask you to cram it."

  I grin back. "Consider it crammed, since you asked so nicely."

  He looks ceilingward. "For all of a minute."

  Curse his silence. I break easily. "Do you like her?"

  "Very, very much." It's good to see something make him happy. Riley is well of age; by now he's had a good few marriage offers. I am beginning to see now why he refused them. He turns his face from me. "Of course, nothing can come of it."

  I frown. "Why the hells not?"

  "Oh, come on, Cae."

  "What?"

  "A lieutenant and a kitchen girl? Kelvin would froth."

  Ah. Her station. And all at once, I understand his glum demeanor around the time of his knighting. Why hadn’t he told me? I'd pegged it for his usual good cheer. "Then I'll have no other lady in waiting."