Next, an underskirt of fine white silk, embroidered all over with silver swirls. Not real silver, and that had been a battle Willow had nearly lost with the seamstress. The woman had been so proud to be the one to clothe her Queen, and she thought thread that was only silver colored was insufficiently royal. Willow had had to make it a command, if a gentle one, and follow it up with a promise to make the woman the royal dressmaker if Willow was satisfied with her work. Now she ran her fingers down the rough-smooth surface of the skirt and felt very satisfied indeed.
The sleeveless gown of North blue silk slipped over her head. It fastened up the back with dozens of tiny buttons, and the skirt was split down the center to reveal the underskirt. Willow stood patiently waiting for Jenny or Violet or Amanda to button the bodice, which fit snugly across her chest, flattering her slim figure. Willow caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and was astonished at the woman she saw reflected there. She might not feel like a Queen yet, but she was beginning to look like one.
They stitched her into her sleeves, which was necessary because they were too snug for her to slide her arms into. She would never wear anything this tight as a midnighter, impeding her range of motion, but that wasn’t an issue any longer, was it? She gingerly raised her arms and felt the fabric strain, but not give. So long as she could at least raise her arms to head height, the sleeves would be fine.
She gave herself another long look in the mirror when they were done with her. She’d almost lost a battle with herself the day before, when the keeper of the royal jewels had presented her with a slim choker of silver leaves studded with sparkling sapphires. Turning it down had taken great willpower, plus the knowledge that the silver fizzing would make her drunk in minutes. Between that and the Crown, she’d be miserable. Kerish, seeing the longing on her face, had suggested a rope of pearls, and the maids arranged that around her neck now.
“You look beautiful, your Majesty,” the blond maid said.
“Thank you, um…thanks,” Willow said. “What time is it?”
The brunette retrieved Willow’s new watch, a fat turnip you could bring down a pheasant with. “Twenty minutes to noon, your Majesty.”
“All right. And would you all please call me my lady? ‘Your Majesty’ gets a bit old after a while.” Willow was probably out of the question.
“Of course, your—my lady,” said the redhead.
Willow gathered up her skirts and left her dressing chamber. Kerish was already gone, dressed in North blue finery for the first time. They were going to make an attractive couple at the reception after the coronation. Willow wondered how she was going to shed the Crown—surely they wouldn’t expect her to wear the thing for three hours?
The halls outside the royal suite were of yellow stone, soft and warm-looking, though it was an illusion; they were every bit as icy as the gray stone leading to Old Tower. Long golden carpet runners covered red tiles two feet on a side, swallowing Willow’s footsteps. She hardly had to bother walking quietly, though she did anyway as a matter of habit. Elaborate jewel-toned tapestries covered the walls, muffling sound further. Ruthanne, the palace chatelaine, had informed Willow, with some pride, that they were priceless relics a hundred years old. Willow had said something about how you really could put a price on history, if you tried hard enough, and Ruthanne had come over faint and had to sit down. Willow still had things to learn.
She passed the steps to the north wing. So far no one had made any jokes about it now being the North wing, at least not in her hearing. She noted in passing how worn the steps were and thought about having them repaired, or at least carpeted. Something to turn over to Ruthanne, who knew everything there was to know about running a palace. It was comforting to have competent help, these last few days when she felt she’d been racing to keep ahead of the information pouring in from all sides. She’d cultivated a wise but distant look that seemed to convey confidence, or at least that was what she judged from the reactions of her new councilors.
She’d met with the Council for the first time earlier that day. Kerish had said, “Isn’t it odd to convene them when you’re not officially Queen yet?”
“It’s a subtle ploy to remind them I don’t need the Crown to compel their obedience and respect,” she’d replied. And it had worked. The ten councilors, three of them ruling lords and the rest experts in one field or another, hadn’t murmured at all, though Alric Quinn had looked like he wanted to. She still had reservations about allowing Lord Quinn to serve on her Council. He’d come dangerously close to outright rebellion, and giving him even the small measure of power he’d get from being one of the three ruling lords on the Council might encourage him to rebel again. But Willow’s instincts told her to keep a close eye on him, and how better to do so than keeping him in her pocket, so to speak?
She went through a low, arched doorway into the oldest part of the palace. The stone floor was worn as if a river had run through the halls for centuries, smoothing it down in the center like a very shallow trough. Walls bare of anything but sconces rose thirty feet in the air. Shadows collected in their upper reaches like clots of ink, untouched by the lamplight. It was old, and mysterious, and Willow felt as if she’d stepped back in time three hundred years. All it needed was torches on the walls instead of lamps.
The hallway ended at a pair of doors, small and modern and looking completely out of place in this medieval setting. Two guards in Tremontanan green and brown waited for her there. Both saluted, and one pushed open the door for her. She nodded to them and passed through.
The antechamber to the coronation hall was as modern as the doors. White plastered walls trimmed with burning gilt were covered with mirrors, making the small, high-ceilinged room feel larger. Silver epergnes filled with roses—and where did they get roses at this time of year?—scented the air with a strong, sweet aroma that made Willow sneeze twice. She checked her hair in one of the mirrors and smoothed down a wayward lock. Another pair of doors, these much grander, stood opposite the ones she’d entered by. Willow stood in front of them, resisting the urge to wipe her damp palms on the silk of her gown. They would open when it was time. She wished it was time already.
Her stomach rumbled. How nice that part of her wasn’t anxious. It had been a long six hours since breakfast. The khaveh had been delicious for the first time that week; the kitchen was growing used to brewing the alien beverage. Maybe that was a good omen for the day. She’d take anything she could get. It wasn’t that she was nervous—it was just a coronation, after all, and all she had to do was put the crown on her head. It was the finality of it. After today, there was no turning back. Granted, she didn’t want to turn back, but she was used to having a back way out. This wasn’t just closing that door, it was hammering oak planks over it and pouring tar to seal the cracks. Queen Willow North. It still made her laugh to think of it.
The doors creaked. Willow wiped the smile from her face and took half a step to the left to be better centered in the doorway. The doors opened, swinging past her face, and she heard the rustle of several hundred bodies all turning to face her. She swallowed and reminded herself that Willow North wasn’t intimidated by people staring at her. Straightening her back, she took one measured step into the coronation chamber, then another, keeping her pace slow and even.
There were no chairs in the coronation chamber, and her guests, or witnesses, stood to both sides of an imaginary aisle, down which rolled a carpet of heavy red velvet. It gave Willow a guide, though she didn’t need it, because at the far end of the room was a dais with three steps leading up to the throne, and before the throne was a knee-high pedestal bearing an object that at this distance was too small to make out clearly. Willow didn’t have to see it to know it was the Crown.
She’d seen it when she’d spoken to the keeper of the royal jewels. It was silver, not gold, thank heaven for small mercies, lined around the band with soft velvet that would keep it from cutting into her scalp. Six points tipped with diamonds rose at even i
ntervals around the band; huge cabochon-cut emeralds circled the crown, each ringed with small round faceted diamonds. It was gaudy, and beautiful, and Willow had looked at it with trepidation.
Now she focused on it to avoid looking at the avid faces flanking her. So, she thought conversationally, it’s finally come to this. Do you know how much conflict has been waged over you? What I’ve given up for the sake of what you represent?
She’d crossed nearly half the room now. The slow pace was driving her mad. Why couldn’t she walk like a normal person? Or, better yet, run? You’re such a small thing, she told the Crown. So small, to be the symbol of a nation. Eskandel doesn’t have anything like you. I don’t know if Veribold does. Don’t know much about Veribold at all, to be honest. I guess I’ll have to learn. Thanks to you.
The Crown was clearly visible now, though she’d sensed it with her magic the moment she’d entered the antechamber. Its emeralds gleamed in the light of dozens of lanterns shedding a warm glow over the scene. You and I are going to have to learn to deal with each other. All this time, I thought I was winning you for someone else. I’m not the Queen anyone expected. But I’m the Queen they got. And I’ll do my best for Tremontane—and for you.
She ascended the three steps and stood looking down at the Crown for a long moment. Would it fit? She hadn’t tried it on before, Willow being slightly superstitious about wearing it before the day, and it only at that moment occurred to her that she might look stupid if it slipped down over her ear. Nothing for it, she thought, and gracefully knelt before the pedestal. Behind her, fabric rustled like a gust of wind as everyone in the room did the same.
There had been some discussion over how the actual crowning should go. Normally, the head of Willow’s family would put the crown on her head, but Willow was the head of her family. In that case, the master of ceremonies, Marcus Dane, had said, she should designate another member of the family to do the honors. But Kerish was the only other member of the North family, and the implications of the Consort crowning the Queen, suggesting a degree of superiority to her, made that impossible. Giving the honor to another family carried the same problem. So in the end, Willow declared that she would crown herself.
“It’s symbolic,” she said to the aghast Dane, “because I’m responsible in myself to the country, and I’m the first of the North line. And I promise to put it on straight.”
Now she touched the Crown, keeping her fingers on the emeralds and avoiding the silver as best she could. The stones were cool, the silver fizzed through her blood, and she raised the Crown high above her head. The fabric of her gown strained at the armpits. Slowly she lowered the Crown to rest on her head. It was surprisingly light, and the velvet lining muted the feel of silver against her skin, though her scalp still tingled and fizzed with proximity. She had a feeling it would grow increasingly heavy as time wore on. That was how it worked—you never realized what you’d gotten into until it was too late.
I won’t let you become a burden, she thought, standing and turning around. The Crown didn’t shift at all. It fit as if it had been made for her. I gave up too much to let you overcome me.
She faced the crowd, which was still kneeling, heads lowered, eyes intent on her. Kerish was in the front row, and he alone raised his head, smiling the way he did only for her. “Three cheers for the Queen!” he shouted, right on cue. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
“Rise,” Willow said, her voice carrying to the far corners of the hall. The rustling began again, more ragged this time as some people had more trouble getting up off their knees than others.
“No one was more surprised than I to learn I would wear the Crown of Tremontane,” she said in the same carrying voice when the noise had stilled to a whisper. “But I swear to fill this office to the best of my abilities, and to bear my responsibility to this people with humility and honor.”
The spontaneous cheering that followed was more natural, and Willow smiled involuntarily. They wouldn’t always cheer her; she’d make unpopular decisions, and do things they disagreed with. But being cheered didn’t matter, so long as she served them as best she could.
She descended the dais and extended her hand to Kerish, who kissed it, making the cheering redouble. The handsome young Consort would no doubt be more popular than his Queen. Hand in hand, they walked back down the aisle, less slowly than before, until they reached the antechamber and had the doors securely shut behind them. Willow immediately removed the Crown and handed it to Kerish. “It feels like my blood is fizzing through my veins.”
Kerish put the Crown on a little table and took Willow in his arms. “My Queen,” he said, “may I kiss you?”
“You have my permission,” Willow said. “And that’s the last time I want to hear you call me that. I don’t want you subservient, even in fun.”
“Agreed,” Kerish said, and kissed her, a long, slow, beautiful kiss.
The door on the other side opened. Willow didn’t move. “Someone’s watching,” Kerish murmured.
“Let ‘em watch,” Willow said, kissing him again.
Eventually, someone cleared his throat, and Willow reluctantly let her husband go. “Marcus Dane,” she said. “I suppose they’re waiting for us.”
“Indeed, your Majesty,” the man said. He was only a few years older than Willow, but spoke with the dignity of a centenarian. “Shall I remove the Crown for safekeeping?”
“Please. And don’t lose it, or drop it. I’d hate to begin my reign with a beheading.”
“Very droll, your Majesty,” Dane said in a chilling tone of voice that made Willow want to poke him between the ribs to make him giggle. She retrieved the Crown, relishing the fizzing feeling one last time, and handed it to him. Dane took it respectfully and bowed. “Your Majesty knows the way to the reception hall.”
“Kerish does, and we won’t get lost,” Willow promised. Dane bowed again and left.
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll steal it or something?” Kerish said. “It is a priceless piece of Tremontanan history.”
“Who would he sell it to?” Willow said as they left the antechamber. “Rufus wouldn’t stand for it. Besides, Dane’s as committed to the honor of the monarchy as I am. Stealing it would never occur to him. Is my hair messy?”
“No. How did your first Council meeting go?”
“Well, I think. They were all a little too enthusiastic about my first proposed law. I never realized how great the resentment of Ascendants is. I thought it was just me. Making dowsing illegal—we’ll have to spread the word of Devisery quickly. I don’t want those dowsers feeling like criminals, as if the law was meant to punish them.”
“There’s no other way to keep Ascendants from continuing to dominate Tremontane short of universal executions.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid I’m making them helpless against anyone like Giles who wants to deliver their own form of ‘justice’. I can’t stop thinking of that bloody room.”
“Anyone who does that is guilty of murder and will be tried. Willow, don’t worry about it. There’s no perfect solution to this.”
“I know.” She sighed. “And now I get to make nice with a roomful of nobles, many of whom I’ve stolen from. Most of them more than once. It’s surreal.”
“Willow North, midnighter and Queen. It means you know their weaknesses. That should be an advantage.”
Ahead of them, the doors to the reception room swung open. “That’s true,” Willow said. “And I’m going to need every advantage I can get.”
Epilogue
Ten years later
To Richard Quinn, Count of Waxwold, from Her Majesty Willow North, Queen of Tremontane, greetings;
Richard, you have my condolences on the death of your father. He was valued for his service as a ruling lord, though he and I had our differences. I will miss him regret that I learned of his passing too late to say a few last words to him. Though I’m sure he would have found those words dissatisfactory. He was an ornery, stubborn, arrogant fool, and I’m reli
eved not to have to deal—
Willow cursed, heard a small voice giggle, and said, “You’re not allowed to say those words until you’re an adult.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Willow crumpled the sheet of paper she’d been drafting her letter to Richard Quinn on into a ragged ball and tossed it at the child sitting next to the fireplace, reading a book. “Go ahead and burn that one, too.”
“I like watching them burn. They go all gold along the creases and then black. It’s pretty.”
“Well, if I can’t work out the best way to tell Richard I’m sorry for his loss without implying I’m glad his father is dead, you’ll have many more of those to burn.”
The little girl set her book aside and watched the paper burn. “Are you glad Lord Quinn is dead?”
“No, Rebecca, I’m not. But I’m glad I won’t have to fight with him anymore. Do you understand?”
“Sort of. I don’t want Jasper to be hurt, but I wish I didn’t have to always fight him.”
“You know that’s up to you, sweetheart.”
“No, it isn’t. Martha says it takes two to fight, but I think backing down all the time just makes him think he can bully me.”
“I don’t allow your brother to bully you. And I know you can stand up for yourself.” Willow sighed. Her twins were eight years old and at each other’s throats constantly, vying for the same position in the family. Deciding which of them should be her successor was going to be a nightmare. Maybe she should pass them both over in favor of Landon, six years old and as placid and obedient as she remembered Felix being. Well, she had time to make that decision, and children could change. Even so, she decided against the fatuous Someday you’ll love each other in favor of, “You should think of things you have in common. You both love riding.”
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