The Cursed Crown

by Matthew S. Cox

  Two weeks following the coronation, Kitlyn paced anxiously around her bedchamber perhaps an hour before dawn. Sleep had proved elusive, and though near exhausted from nerves, she couldn’t sit still.

  In less than six hours, she would finally be married to Oona. Finally able to share a bedchamber… and possibly do some of those ‘unseemly things’ Ruby mentioned. Assuming, of course, they ever figured out exactly what they were.

  Frustrated, she flung herself on the bed and closed her eyes.

  A knock came from the door.

  Kitlyn popped fully awake, noting the sun had started to come up. Oh… I must have dozed off. She attempted to speak, but made a noise like a reanimated corpse.

  “Your highness?” asked Meredith from behind the closed door.

  “Come in.” Kitlyn shifted her eyes down to the pillow her face presently lay mushed into, lacking the strength to push herself up.

  “Oh, my.” Meredith hurried over. “This is going to take a lot of work.”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Kitlyn into her pillow. “Didn’t sleep well.”

  Her handmaiden pulled her upright and guided her across the room to an alcove where a bathtub already waited with steaming water. Despite not being even half the size of the giant swan-shaped tub in Oona’s bedchamber, it still offered more space than seemed necessary for a bathing vessel. Meredith peeled Kitlyn out of her nightdress and proceeded to help her bathe. The over-warm water plus anticipation and nerves shocked her awake.

  Soon, she stepped out of the water, smelling of floral perfumes. Once she dried off, Meredith hurried her over to the wardrobes. After putting on her underpinnings, Kitlyn stood there in a daze while her handmaiden scurried about the cabinets gathering the various pieces of her wedding gown.

  At some point, one handmaiden became nine or so women all buzzing around her like a flock of hummingbirds assaulting a helpless flower. When tugging at her hair started, she tried to grab and swat the nuisance away, but something trapped her arms and pulled them out to the sides. Kitlyn emitted a weak grunt of protest along with a feeble struggle, but couldn’t pull her arms back under her control.

  The tugging at her hair continued.

  It eventually annoyed her to full consciousness and she realized a pair of attendants manicured her nails while two others fussed at her hair and Meredith plus three more assembled the dress on her. Oona adores this attention… I’d just as soon be married in my peasant tunic and breeches. She gasped as the corset cinched around her, then glared down at shimmery white fabric with floral embroidery and little pearls stitched on in clusters here and there. Some degree of finery needed to come with her station, but this dress made her feel greedy. Its cost could likely feed an entire small village for a month. Then again, Lucernia didn’t presently have any serious issues with starving towns. More like large numbers of widows and orphans from the war, along with a relative scarcity of laborers as most able-bodied young adults had been swept up into the military.

  Kitlyn sighed at her reflection in the tall mirror. The current political climate offered enough security that reducing the size of the military wouldn’t threaten the kingdom, but it might make the senior commanders reconsider their support of such a young queen, especially one with a wife. But the nation needed to rebuild and didn’t need so many soldiers sitting around with nothing to do. And so, she thought on it while the swarm of attendants poked and prodded and pulled and tweaked.

  She felt ridiculous, like a child’s toy doll… but it would make Oona happy, so she offered no more protest than the occasional ‘help me’ stare at herself in the mirror.

  By the time they finished weaving a floral circlet into her hair and putting it up, she had an idea of what to do about the bloated military: declare a quarter of them ‘reserves’ and allow them to return home to pursue trades rather than sitting around at garrison. That way, they could do productive things while technically remaining in the military so as not to make the generals feel she tried to weaken them.

  Elsbeth knocked purely as a matter of forced courtesy, barging right in without waiting for anyone to answer the door. “Your highness, it’s almost time. Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Yes. Quite ready.” She took as deep a breath as the corset allowed. To get out of this dress.

  “Almost,” chimed Meredith, holding up a pair of glittery white high-heeled shoes.

  Kitlyn narrowed her eyes at them, wishing she had a sword in easy reach. “Must I?”

  “Oh, my lady,” said Meredith with a hint of a chuckle. “You’re not a small child anymore. You can’t simply run about barefoot all the time.”

  “Oh can’t I now?” Kitlyn raised an eyebrow. “I am the queen. If I can decree law, I can plunge my toes into the grass whenever I see fit. But those things… they’re not shoes. They’re a devious rogue’s trap designed to break my neck.”

  The attendants all exchanged glances of surprise.

  “You’ve never…” Meredith held the shoes up at her.

  “Of course I’ve worn shoes.” Kitlyn sighed. “Just not ones like that with the stick on the heel end. I shall not stumble down the aisle looking like a baby stridefowl.” If she dared try to wear such things on her feet, she would surely wobble about like one of those lakeshore birds. A fluffy, cottony body perched upon tall, narrow legs. While the adults moved with grace, the chicks could barely stand upright and often fell face-first into the mud.

  The women all giggled.

  “Well, we shall have to do our best to keep up appearances.” Meredith crouched, lifted the hem of the elaborate gown, and proceeded to attach the demonic things to Kitlyn’s feet. “You will ruin your hose without shoes.”

  Kitlyn flailed her arms, her body teetering back and forth on the verge of falling over. “How is it that I am queen, yet have no say in this?”

  “Tradition.” Meredith secured the tiny buckle.

  “Oh, I’m going to break my nose.” Kitlyn swung herself to the side and clamped onto Meredith, surprised to find herself slightly taller than the woman. She tried to stare down at her feet but couldn’t find them under the billowy skirt. “Ooh… Whoever invented these infernal things, I shall send to the dungeons. If you let go of me, I will wind up on the floor.”

  “You’ll do fine.” Meredith winked.

  Kitlyn smiled to herself. A wedding with two brides had thrown the castle court into a frenzy of questions. Who stood at the altar? Who strolled down the aisle? Did someone have to ‘give away’ both brides? They’d decided to both walk in, with Beredwyn escorting Kitlyn—as he’d been more a father to her than the former king. Oona asked Guard Captain Lorne to escort her, as she had no surviving male relatives.

  The attendants fussed over her for a while more, the whole time she clung to Meredith to avoid falling over. Piper and a few of Oona’s entourage popped in and out to coordinate things, all of them grinning and trying not to giggle. For a moment, Kitlyn felt like the least enthusiastic person in the entire kingdom for her own wedding, but blamed it on a mixture of minimal sleep and frustration at her outfit. If she could dispense with all the formality and merely spend the day with Oona somewhere quiet, she would.

  But the kingdom needed a statement, and Oona rather enjoyed the fanciness. After all, a wedding day was supposed to be the high point of one’s life. With a resigned sigh and a scowl of determination, she heeded Meredith’s prodding and practiced walking back and forth around the bedchamber in heels.

  “This is thoroughly pointless. No one will ever see these shoes under all this gown… until I’m flat on my face in the middle of the temple with my underpinnings blooming like a white rose for all to see.”

  The attendants gasped, blushed, and laughed.

  Meredith squeezed her hand. “You’re getting the hang of it already. It is only for a short while, and it will make Oona happy.”

  A long, slow sigh slid out between her teeth. “It would be less unpleasant to bring about an end to another war than wear these torturous thi—”
She yelped as her left ankle wobbled, spilling her over to that side.

  Fortunately, Meredith caught her and two women on her right side pulled her back to balance.

  “I cannot believe you’ve never worn fancy shoes,” said one she wanted to call Ivonne.

  “The poor thing barely had shoes at all,” grumbled another, perhaps Elaine. “Certain parties kept stealing them.”

  While the attendants erupted in a flurry of fretting over how poorly Kitlyn had been treated, Meredith continued walking her around in circles. By the time she had to make her way over to the temple of Lucen, she felt reasonably competent at walking in high heels—as long as she kept a hand on someone for support.

  Castle staff holding flowers lined the corridors and rooms, forming a road to the main gates. Kitlyn climbed up into an open-topped white coach with rose-hued seats, pulled by two horses—one black to match her hair, the other white for Oona’s blonde.

  Citizens of Cimril City had turned out in large numbers to wave and throw flower petals as she rode by on the way to the temple. One or two (both older men with sour faces) tried to throw tomatoes, but missed. Their hatred hurt, but Kitlyn forced herself not to show it on her face. She couldn’t expect everyone in the kingdom to abandon centuries of misunderstood dogma overnight. Some people, likely a lot more than let on, still objected to her marrying another woman… though between the goddess Tenebrea herself making an appearance and the temple of Lucen officiating the ceremony, public dissent had been minimal.

  They know they speak not for Lucen but for hatred. In what way could who we love possibly affect them at all? She barely managed to resist scowling off in a random direction. Well, perhaps since I am the queen, having no king to give me a child may affect them… but we have Evie. Kitlyn blinked away the annoyance. I shall not burden myself with such thoughts today. This is a day of joy.

  The coach arrived at the temple of Lucen, rolling through the grand white gates and around the great statue of the God of Purity. Soldiers formed a human wall at the forefront of the crowd, keeping an open passage for the coach to travel to the temple stairs.

  Meredith hopped down first and helped Kitlyn navigate the small ladder, then supported her arm on the way inside. They followed an acolyte to a well-appointed sitting room… and yet more waiting. The same coach would go back to the castle to retrieve Oona, who would soon find herself in a similar sitting room elsewhere in the temple.

  Some of Kitlyn’s attendants entered and resumed fussing around with her gown. An agonizing few hours (actually, only half of one) later, the acolyte returned and bid her to follow. Kitlyn forgot herself and tried to walk unassisted after him… and wound up flopping on a divan when her right shoe twisted out from under her.

  All the attendants gasped.

  Meredith hurried over and helped her up.

  “That was my fault.” Kitlyn waved her arms for balance. “I forgot I’ve been hobbled.”

  Clinging to her handmaiden’s arm, she walked out into the corridor and followed the acolyte to an antechamber where Beredwyn waited in his finest advisor’s robes of deep loam green. A white tabard hung down the middle bearing the crest of Lucernia. Flared shoulder pads trimmed in emerald and gold glittered in the sun filtering in from the high windows along the cathedral wall. She couldn’t look directly at his tall hat, nearly two feet high, the top sloped forward like a hatch that might let out a tiny goblin.

  As a small girl, she’d adored asking the advisors questions that would make them nod since their hats made the gesture utterly ridiculous.

  “You look lovely, child.” Beredwyn smiled so broadly his eyes disappeared to narrow slits trimmed by bushy white brows. After a moment, he glanced about as if about to share a matter of state secrecy, leaned close, and whispered, “And I am sure you cannot wait to be rid of that gown.”

  Kitlyn pressed her palm into her stomach. “I fear the most difficult part of assuming the throne is that I spend most of my days barely able to breathe.”

  “Ahh yes. Starting or ending wars is a simple matter. Changing tradition, not so much.” He offered her an arm.

  Meredith leaned in and whispered to him about her unsteadiness on elevated heels. Beredwyn nodded to her. Kitlyn looked away from the wobbly hat but still snickered. He led her down a narrow side passage that led to a foyer at the far end of the main cathedral chamber, where three small girls—no doubt children of dukes or barons—greeted her with giant smiles, all holding baskets of white and pink flower petals. The girls swarmed, oohing and ahhing over her gown.

  “Are you really going to marry a lady?” whispered the youngest, about five, with dark blonde hair in ringlet curls.

  The other two, each a year or two older, stared at the little one in horrified shock.

  “Yes, I am.” Kitlyn smiled.

  “You love her?” asked the little one.

  “More than anything.”

  “That’s nice.” The tiny one beamed up at her.

  Kitlyn grinned back.

  “My father says you won’t be able to make a rabbit,” said the five-year-old.

  The other two kids blinked in confusion.

  “W-what?” asked Kitlyn.

  Beredwyn covered his mouth to hold in a laugh.

  “He said the kingdom needs a hare and you can’t make one,” said the little one, dead serious.

  The older girls giggled, then blushed at Kitlyn with wide eyes as if they expected to get in trouble.

  Kitlyn laughed. “Oh, I’ll figure something out.”

  Beredwyn collected the flower girls and guided them left toward the cathedral a few paces, arranging them in a vee formation, leaving Kitlyn to teeter in place. She stared at the floor threatening to fly up and kiss her. Sitting upon Omun’s shoulder hadn’t been as scary.

  Before she careened over, Beredwyn returned to take her arm and guided her up behind the flower girls.

  High Priest Balais stood some hundred yards away on the altar, flanked by the red-haired priestess and the prematurely-grey priest who had warned her of her father’s imminent dismissal from the church. Fortunately, all three Lightbearers appeared in high spirits.

  Soon, a small army of minstrels in a balcony directly above her launched into the royal march, the same song that always played whenever the king went out in public. At the onset of the music, Kitlyn steeled herself and let Beredwyn tug her along. A room of several hundred people all twisting around in their seats to stare at her unnerved her ever so slightly more than Evermoor soldiers coming after her with swords.

  With the music blaring around her, Kitlyn made her way down the aisle in a slow, deliberate walk, squeezing Beredwyn’s arm so tight it had to be uncomfortable for him, though he showed no sign of minding. The girls tossed bunches of flower petals around as they advanced in single, synchronized steps. Upon reaching the altar, she scooted to the right, but refused to let go of him.

  Beredwyn and the priests exchanged a momentary confused glance.

  “I do not wish to fall,” whispered Kitlyn. “I have never worn shoes of this type before.”

  “Ahh.” Balais nodded.

  The music wound down and stopped. A din of soft murmuring filled the cavernous room. A moment later, the minstrels started up again with a formal sounding piece that had somewhat the cadence of a march.

  A grinning Evie zoomed down the aisle tossing flower petals by the handful. She made it about a quarter of the way before skidding to a stop and twisting back at someone making a hissing noise from the foyer. The girl looked at Kitlyn with an ‘Oops! Sorry!’ expression, then hurried back out of sight.

  Soft chuckling swept over the crowd.

  Evie reappeared, struggling to walk at a controlled pace in front of two other flower girls near in age to her. Kitlyn fixated on the willowy figure in a gleaming white dress beside Guard Captain Lorne, her face hidden under a veil. Oona’s dress bared a wide swath of her neck, the tops of the lacy sleeves adhered as if by magic to the outsides of her shoulders. Her l
ower body vanished under the same sort of fluffy, billowy gown that Kitlyn wore, though she moved with the grace of a being from the gods’ realm.

  Guard Captain Lorne held her hand in a ceremonial manner, clearly not supporting her weight in the least. If anyone noticed that the queen could barely stay upright while the actual girl born a peasant glided as if she’d come out of the womb wearing expensive shoes, they didn’t let on. Entranced by her approaching love, Kitlyn daydreamed of the only other time she’d touched a shoe with such a high heel. They’d both been about eleven, and Oona let her (risking punishment by doing so) try on a pair. It didn’t last long, and ended with Kitlyn’s face bouncing off a bedpost.

  She reached up and rubbed her nose at the memory.

  Oona arrived at the altar and took a place beside her, their sprawling gowns making it a bit of a task to stand so close together. She appeared to be crying under the veil, but couldn’t possibly smile any wider.

  Kitlyn huffed at her own veil, annoyed by it as well—but nowhere near as much as by the torture devices on her feet.

  Some murmurings swept over the people in the front rows. Kitlyn caught a few words here and there, people finding it unusual to see two women about to be wed. One or two replied with ‘well, she is the queen’ or ‘the gods permit it.’ Of course, a handful of ‘the gods are punishing us for Aodh’s betrayal’ and ‘this is unnatural’ happened as well, but mercifully few.

  Oona took Kitlyn’s hand.

  High Priest Balais welcomed everyone to the cathedral and announced the wedding of Queen Kitlyn Talomir to Baroness Oona of Gwynaben. He spoke of Lucen’s light for a time, and how that light had guided them together and allowed his kingdom to emerge from the shadow of deception and betrayal.

  “The desires of Lucen and the gods are occasionally twisted by men to suit their wants and desires,” said Balais, to murmurs of agreement from the crowd. “Many of you may be wondering how or why Lord Lucen permitted such things to go on, but yet, I have come to an understanding. He means to teach us by example. The word of one man is merely that—the word of one man. To truly know the will of Lucen, each and every one of us must look inside ourselves. How easily we accepted Aodh’s deception as truth.”