by Jayne Faith
“Your Majesty,” she addressed me, bending into a deep curtsy.
“Vera,” I said. “I’m happy to see you.”
“I’m pleased to see you as well, Queen Petra,” she said, and as far as I could tell, she sincerely meant it.
She’d come in wheeling a covered garment cart. She lifted the sheet and brought out a dress. It was a creamy-white gown that appeared to be sewn and embellished with bronze thread. The neckline was a halter style, and it had a narrow A-line skirt. It was unfussy yet incredibly elegant.
“I knew you wouldn’t want frills,” she said. “But obviously I wanted something regal for your coronation.”
I nodded, took the dress, and went into the bathroom to change into it. When I emerged, she’d placed a little square riser on the floor. She had me step up onto it, and then she moved around me, making little adjustments and sticking pins into the fabric here and there. There was a narrow mirror on a stand, so I could see how the gown looked. She’d selected a perfect shade of white for my skin tone, and the bronze details accentuated the tawny yellow in my eyes.
“It’s really quite lovely,” I said.
“Oh, this is nothing,” she said around a pin she held in her teeth. “Wait ‘til you see the robe that goes over it. And the crown, of course.”
She finished with the pins and went back to the cart. Pulling up a garment bag, she revealed a robe that must have been made completely out of the bronze-colored threads. It was edged with white-flecked brown fur. The upper part that draped from my neck to my elbows was positively encrusted with opals. The design was repeated around the bottom hem.
When Vera settled it around my shoulders, I swore it weighed fifty pounds. She slipped a bronze rope belt around my waist and cinched it.
I stared at my reflection. Even with my simple braid, no makeup, and no crown, I couldn’t argue that she had indeed succeeded in making me look regal.
“Once again, I’m in awe of your skill,” I said. “Especially on such short notice.”
She leaned in, speaking across the back of her hand as if telling me a secret. “I had these pieces started even before there was any mention of a coronation ceremony.”
I gave a short laugh. “Still, that only gave you, what, a couple days’ head start? It’s positively gorgeous.”
She beamed at the compliment.
“We’ll do a final fitting right before the ceremony this evening.”
She helped me out of the cape, and I changed out of the dress in the bathroom and tried not to think about facing the entire population of Carraig Sidhe.
“Your contribution is deeply appreciated,” I said.
She gave me a little bow as she left with her covered garment cart.
I didn’t have time to meet with any more candidates before my appointment with Maxen, so I asked my page to figure out where Oliver was. I wanted a moment alone with my father before the ceremony. While I waited, I stared at the list of positions that were still vacant and tried to ignore the uneasiness I felt about finding suitable people to fulfill all of those duties. Not just suitable people, but Carraig who didn’t have strong objections to calling me Queen.
I’d had a few victories, of course, and some who’d stepped up—like Emmaline and her student army—were a welcome surprise. But the little time I’d spent in the corridors of the fortress left me with the distinct sense that the majority were not with me. Sure, most of them bowed and curtsied, but I could see it in the hardness in their eyes: most didn’t want me in charge. I suspected there existed two groups within the population of my dissidents: those like Raleigh who saw me as a traitorous usurper and still felt loyal to Marisol Lothlorien, and those who could perhaps swallow the loss of Marisol but wanted Maxen to wear the crown.
My phone rang, and I grabbed it while the ring was still sounding.
“Oliver Maguire is here for you,” my page said.
“Please send him in.”
My father entered and bowed.
I snorted and waved a hand. “You don’t need to do that.”
He straightened. “Maybe not when we’re alone, but I need to follow protocol whenever there are eyes on us. Better to practice.”
Angling the chair across from me so there was room for his long legs, he settled into the seat, interlaced his fingers, and brought his palms to the back of his head, elbows splayed out. It was a casual posture on the surface, but his sharp-eyed gaze said there was nothing relaxed about this man.
“How did things go today?” he asked.
“They went well, all things considered. We filled a couple of posts.”
I picked up a pen and rolled it between my fingers, and Oliver watched my hands for a moment.
“I’m waiting for the but,” he said. “Things went well, but . . .”
I drew a long, measured breath through my nose. “I have a bad feeling about tonight. They’re not happy about this out there.” My eyes flitted to the closed door and then back to Oliver. “If I had to guess, I’d say there are very, very few New Gargs who think I have any business at all taking the throne. Emmaline and the youngsters like the idea of being rebels, of supporting a strong fighter but an underdog. But the rest? A handful of them are politely tolerating me. And that’s about the best I can say about my so-called support.”
He nodded slowly. “I’d say that’s about right.”
I tossed the pen down and flipped my hands over in a palms-up gesture of frustration and helplessness. “So what the hell do I do?”
“Like Maxen said. Stay alive through the coronation, assert your authority to keep the peace, get your administration established, make sure everyone’s needs are met, and figure out how to make the kingdom grow. The best you can. In that order.”
I grunted and gave him a long-suffering look. “I was hoping for, oh I don’t know, some specifics.”
He unclasped his hands from behind his head and shifted his weight forward, leaning toward me. “It’s my honest estimation that if you can do those things, everyone will accept you. Eventually.”
“I guess for the moment I’ll just have to focus on getting through tonight, then,” I said. “How are things looking for security?”
His face tightened ever so slightly, and my heart dropped about a foot in my chest. Whatever he was going to say next, I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be great news.
“I’m challenged finding trustworthy people,” he said.
“Are you being too stringent in your selection process?” That would be like Oliver. He didn’t take any crap from people in general, and faced with the task of protecting his own daughter, well . . . I could imagine he might be a bit too rigid about who he deemed worthy.
“No,” he said bluntly. “I’ve loosened my expectations considerably.”
I leaned forward, my eyes wide with alarm. “You haven’t found anyone?”
“I’ve recruited two for sure.”
I didn’t know what to say for a moment. “I didn’t want to attend the ceremony with Aurora on my back, but I think I should.”
“Probably wise,” he agreed, which just made my stomach knot itself tighter. He rested his elbows on his knees and peered at me intently. “You’re right to be worried, Petra. I don’t want you to become sick with paranoia, but I think it’s a good idea to stay on your toes tonight. Make sure Maxen is near you. Use your baby battalion. Put them along the front of the stage. If someone comes at you personally, strike first. You have the skill. And of course I will do everything I can to back you up and prevent a shitstorm in the first place.”
I closed my eyes, pushed my fingers against my eyelids, and then pulled my hands down my face.
“Okay,” I said, digging for some resolve. “Guess I’ll be taking the throne with my sword drawn. Only figuratively . . . I hope.”
My tablet pinged with a calendar alert, and two seconds later my phone rang. “Crap, that’s probably Maxen.”
I answered, and my page affirmed my guess.
Oliv
er rose, gave me a nod of encouragement, and departed. Maxen stepped into my office as soon as my father was gone.
“We don’t have a lot of time, so I hope you’ll allow me to dispense with pleasantries,” Maxen said.
“No, please don’t make me skip the pleasantries,” I moaned, going for a little joke.
He didn’t even look up, let alone crack a smile. Okay, then.
He pushed one of the two tablets he’d brought across my desk. “This is a diagram of where everyone will be positioned.”
Maxen outlined what would happen at the ceremony. The most significant thing about it was that Maxen himself would place the crown on my head. Otherwise the whole thing was pretty bare-bones.
“I don’t think there would be much tolerance for pageantry,” he said, his voice tight.
My heart thumped uneasily. “I’m sure you’re right,” I said quietly. I waited for his eyes to meet mine. “I’m going to be wearing Aurora.”
His brow creased. “I encourage you not to.”
“I’ve already decided,” I said. “I don’t want to, but given the general attitude toward me at the moment, I can’t stand up there unarmed with the entire population of the fortress in the same room with me.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t try to talk me out of it.
I couldn’t help thinking back to when Maxen had prepared me for the opening ceremony of the Battle of Champions. So much had happened since then.
We talked through more logistics, and before I knew it, our hour was past. It was time to start getting ready.
Emmaline and her troops escorted me to my quarters, and Vera and a couple of stylists showed up a few minutes later. The next two hours passed in a flurry of fabric, last-minute tailoring adjustments, hair styling, and makeup application.
I slung my scabbard over the lovely opal-studded robe, and to her credit, Vera didn’t even wince at the eyesore I’d added to her ensemble. She helped me into the heels I’d have to endure for the ceremony and then rose and stepped back.
She curtsied solemnly. “You’re ready for the coronation, Your Majesty.”
My pulse kicked up. The moment had come. I was going to officially take the throne of the Carraig Sidhe kingdom.
Chapter 11
MAXEN DIRECTED THE movements and logistics that took place before the ceremony, for which I was grateful. I knew I could leave that part completely in his hands, and he’d make the right decisions.
The corridors of the fortress had been eerily quiet as I’d made my way with my entourage to the backstage area of the auditorium. The ceremony wasn’t set to start for another twenty minutes, but obviously everyone was eager to claim a seat.
Oliver, dressed in his battle ranks uniform with a tailored coat thrown over the ensemble, never strayed more than five feet away from me. Nicole hovered nearby, too.
I suddenly realized that we should have had a kingdom seal designed and ready for this event. The Carraig Sidhe needed official colors, emblems, livery, banners . . . small details, perhaps, but things that would nevertheless help unify our small realm. Then again, maybe such touches wouldn’t have made much difference, given the unrest in the small realm.
Gods, we really were small. By far the tiniest kingdom in Faerie, both in population and territory. We couldn’t do much about increasing the population, not quickly, anyway, but we’d have to look into carving out more area for the kingdom. As an official kingdom, we had the right to expand.
My mind was trying to spin out with the long list of things yet to be done. I inhaled sharply, bringing in my focus. All of that would have to wait. Tonight, I needed to do my damnedest to make sure the fortress didn’t riot as Maxen attempted to place the crown on my head.
Emmaline remained with me backstage, but save for half a dozen student soldiers, the rest of her young battalion filed out. On Oliver’s suggestion, Maxen was sending them to line the floor along the front of the stage.
I edged over to Maxen, who was consulting one of his tablets. I leaned in and kept my voice low. “What’s the mood out there?”
He looked up, his sapphire-blue eyes distracted. “The tension is palpable.”
At least he wasn’t going to blow smoke up my ass. My gaze skirted over to Oliver. He had his people, few as they were, out there, watching for threats.
“Super,” I muttered.
“I’m making some last-minute changes to my speech,” he said. “I’m going to shorten it. I also set up a reception immediately to follow. I’m hoping the prospect of food and drink might be some small placation.” His tone clearly said he had doubts about how effective that would be.
My insides pulled tighter. I subtly pressed my hands against the sides of my thighs, trying to wick off the sweat slicking my palms. I wasn’t even half this edgy when I’d faced the arena for the Battle of Champions. Perhaps it was because I knew I would only have to face one foe there. Out in the fortress, there could be hundreds of enemies waiting to take me down.
“Five minutes until go,” Maxen said.
I nodded.
He directed the handful of people who would be on stage to their marks. A few minutes later, the curtains at the front edge of the stage swept aside, and everyone backstage except for me, Oliver, Maxen, and Maxen’s handful of assistants and pages filed out.
The stage was set up with a dais that supported a throne of sorts. The raised platform was covered with shimmering white fabric. I’d recognized the chair as the one Marisol usually had set up at the head of the largest table in banquet rooms when she’d hosted official functions. The dark wood had been hastily sanded and repainted the same bronze as the details on my clothing. Standing backstage, I caught a chemical whiff of the barely dry paint.
The crown was propped on a little display stand to one side of the podium Maxen would stand behind to say a few words. I’d asked him if I should speak, and he said it would be better if I didn’t. He said it was a time to establish me as the figurehead of the kingdom, for the Carraig to see me as a ruler. He was afraid that, given the circumstances, any kind of speech would be seen as me attempting to ingratiate myself to my subjects.
I figured the decision also had something to do with the fact that my public speaking skills were shit.
“It’s time,” Maxen said. A page took his tablets and scurried off to the side.
I leveled my chin, blew out a long breath, and waited for the curtain at the back of the stage to lift. Flanked by Maxen and my father, I walked slowly down the carpet runner that created a path along the right side of the dais. When the three of us reached the throne, we paused.
For a split second, you could have heard a pin drop in the auditorium. Then the entire room shifted and rose to their feet in a rustle of fabric and shuffling shoes. I let out a small breath. I’d been half expecting that no one would stand, that the entire population would sit on their hands and stare at me like children who’d been forced into their dress clothes and marched to some distant relative’s wedding. Or, perhaps, funeral.
Maxen waited while I placed my hand in Oliver’s and he helped me up the short step onto the dais. I sat on the chair that smelled of paint fumes and faced the completely packed auditorium. The audience took their seats. Oliver stepped up to stand beside me, while Maxen continued on to the podium and the sparkling crown.
Resisting the urge to squint into the glaring stage lights, I tried to spot faces I recognized. Or faces that looked like they wanted my head on a spike. I could make out the rows and rows of people, but all other details were lost in shadow. As I squared my shoulders and folded my hands in my lap, cold sweat rolled down my spine.
Maxen began to speak about a new era for the New Gargoyles, making history, and other platitudes, but I only partially registered his words. My gaze skipped over the crowd. The mood of the room was grim with a side of anticipation. I could feel it in the stillness, the frigid silence. Oliver shifted his weight beside me. He sensed it, too.
With the short speech done, Max
en reached for the crown. It was so quiet, his footfalls across the stage seemed to echo in the huge space. He approached me, holding the crown in both hands. His lips were parted, and he seemed slightly breathless.
Stopping just short of the dais, he bowed. Then he stepped up and came to stand directly in front of me. I leaned forward and dipped my chin slightly, and he lifted the crown and settled it on my head.
Just as he was taking his hands away, I spotted movement beyond his elbow.
“Shit,” I muttered. A few bulky figures were making their way from the seats toward the stage. They were coming fast.
Quick glances left and right showed more approaching from either side.
Oliver drew his sword. The crowd was beginning to react, the murmurs of voices growing. A few cried out in alarm. Some rose to try to escape.
Emmaline shouted a quick command, and the student soldiers all drew their weapons. Stone armor flowed over their skin.
I stood but didn’t reach for Aurora. Instead, I raised my arms.
“Stop!” I thundered, trying to be heard above the noise. “Stop now, or you sentence yourself to death. I command you!”
The young soldiers moved to intercept the would-be attackers, and my heart clutched. Please, gods, don’t let them kill the kids. The first couple of dissenters reached the area in front of the stage. They wielded clubs, using them to knock aside Emmaline’s soldiers’ swords, though a few of the students managed to get some slashes in, and one of the men screamed and clutched at the side of his neck.
I pulled magic and formed stone armor. Chaos began to erupt in the auditorium as others decided to join in the attack on the stage and more seemed to want to flee.
Oliver moved in front of the dais and crouched in a ready stance, turning his wrist to swing his huge broadsword.
Pulling the crown off my head, I tossed it back on the throne and kicked off my shoes. With an anguished growl, I drew Aurora and stood behind my father. The attackers were trying to avoid hurting Emmaline’s troops, but the kids were defending the stage with full force, and the violence was escalating. I had to do something before the situation completely unraveled.