A successor from another family.
Service over self. It wasn’t about his line, but about Emaurria and his people. He leaned against the wall.
A knock came from the hallway. “Enter,” he called.
Light, quick steps. Eloi. He entered, pausing wide-eyed before he bowed his curly-haired head, and approached with a neatly tied stack of folded parchment. “Your correspondence, Your Majesty. The Grands have handled any official matters, but…”
Personal correspondence. He accepted the bundle. “Thank you, Eloi.”
Eloi bowed again. “My pleasure, sire. By your leave?” When Jon nodded, he departed.
At the very top of the stack in his lap was a note bearing Tregarde’s seal. Brennan’s seal.
It is with the utmost joy that we celebrate your coronation, Your Majesty. We are honored and privileged to serve at your pleasure.
The coronation will be a historic, monumental occasion, and it is our wish to see you crowned and celebrate at your side. Unfortunately, Rielle and I will be unable to attend and must regretfully decline…
Well wishes and regards, and Brennan’s signature and seal.
So be it. He folded up the message.
Another knock, and when he allowed entry, a maid came in. Not Manon. He’d had her transferred to Olivia’s household before Veris.
“The carriage is ready, Your Majesty,” Clarice said with a bow.
“Thank you.” He headed for the bedchamber door, but glanced at Rielle’s portrait one last time. It was still here, hanging above the fireplace, where he could see her every night before he slept and every morning when he first awoke.
It was time.
Clarice bowed again. “By your leave—”
“Wait,” he said, and she straightened, her eyes wide. “Before I go, tell the Lord Chamberlain to have this portrait sent back with the Duchess of Melain, along with my thanks.”
Service over self.
Another knock—Eloi. “Your Majesty—”
“What?” he grunted.
“There’s been an attack. Basilisks have destroyed Rouzenac.”
* * *
Leigh stood at the front of the nave with Ambriel, while the entire crowd waited for the coronation to begin. The choir had been singing The First Hour since dawn. Where was Jon?
There had been murmurs of an entire village being destroyed by basilisks, this time near Costechelle, so he had to be in talks with his generals and the Paladin Grand Cordon, planning military operations.
The loss was neverending, and until Emaurria was secure—until the world was secure, safe from the Immortal beasts—Leigh wouldn’t rest.
Ambriel squeezed his hand, and Leigh gave him a faint smile. Together, they’d help fix this.
As soon as the coronation was over, he could begin dealing with the Tremblays, empowered by a crowned king. Gustave Tremblay, Archon of a Coven of battle mages, was known for his strict observance of protocol… and teaching any disrespectful visitors the meaning of pain.
Time to test protocol.
The singing continued, the same as it had for the last hour, and Leigh sighed.
“The end is upon us!” a voice cried from outside.
“If only,” Leigh murmured under his breath. The singing was growing tiresome.
The madman was escorted away.
“What is the plan to defeat the Immortal beasts?” Ambriel asked quietly next to him, dressed in Emaurrian finery from head to toe. He was quite a picture in a navy velvet overcoat, tailored brown trousers and riding boots—his six-foot height and sleek, powerful frame begged to be touched. Oh, and it would be. Later.
“I am the plan,” Leigh replied, tugging at his white shirt cuffs. The tailor had outfitted him well, too—Edouard always did, the man was a sewing genius—in a violet samite doublet lined in smooth cendal, and white trousers. The dyaspin shirt was worth wearing for its subtle sheen, as long as the weather remained cool and comfortable.
Ambriel gave him a sardonic eyebrow raise. “I know what you’re capable of, dreshan, but—”
A grin. “Oh, my dear, you’ve only seen the very tip of what I’m capable of. And this will require finesse, which I happen to possess in large quantity.”
“Finesse?” Ambriel’s lips twitched. Holding back a smile. “And here I thought overwhelming might was more your style.”
“If finesse doesn’t work, explosions are a good contingency plan.” And infinitely more fun.
Voices shouted orders outside, and horns blared. The clopping of hooves on the cobbles drew to a stop, and everyone in the nave turned to the door.
Jon had arrived. Good timing, too, as nearly an hour of standing was becoming tiresome. And the singing. The blasted singing.
“Keep an eye out,” Leigh hissed in Old Emaurrian. “These things sometimes turn into bloodbaths.” Although anyone seeking to bathe in the new king’s blood would have him to deal with. He hadn’t waited so long for a free-thinking monarch only to lose him to something so gauche as a coronation massacre.
Ambriel scanned the crowd. He wouldn’t find any visible malcontents here among the nouveau riche and the nobility. Outside, they were obvious enough, but here, everyone wore their dissatisfaction on the inside.
The choir stopped—praise any and all gods—and Jon entered, his broad shoulders wrapped in ermine, a massive coronation cloak trailing him. Beneath, what looked to be a royal military uniform clad his figure, and his booted steps echoed in the abbey as he strode down the aisle, gaze fixed on the large golden throne far ahead, and the altar behind it bearing the crown. Everyone bowed reverently as he passed before them, a line of nobles following behind him.
“The man just behind him,” Leigh whispered in Old Emaurrian. Duke Faolan Auvray Marcel, master rake and courtier, decked out in finery that rivaled that of the king, strode behind him, a certain ever-present gleam in his eye. Tall, fit, and handsome, he clearly had lent his good looks to his son, and had aged like a fine brandy. “If anyone is making a move, it’s him.”
Ambriel traced Faolan’s walk to the front with a sharp gaze.
Derric Lazare began a prayer, and then there was more blasted singing. Olivia, wearing ceremonial golden Archmage robes, stood at the base of the altar’s dais, waiting, watching her king approach attentively. Very attentively.
The abbot and monks followed Jon and the nobles in a procession, with the white-clad abbot bearing the Sacred Ampoule in its reliquary about his neck, and every head stayed bowed as he passed.
Jon knelt at the fore, while the abbot and his procession approached Olivia, who swore to return the Sacred Ampoule after the coronation. Then she, the abbot, and monks proceeded to the altar.
Faolan eyed the sword held by the Marquis of Quatrebeaux, then slid that gaze to Jon. Was there a noble in the abbey who didn’t know what that look meant?
Derric began the petition that the traditional rights of the Order and the Divinity be maintained so long as they respected Emaurria’s sovereignty and all agreements.
“I so swear,” Jon replied.
Next was the coronation oath on the Terran scripture.
“What are they saying?” Ambriel whispered.
“He’s promising to maintain the rights of the Emaurrian Crown,” Leigh replied, “protecting it against all other claims.”
Derric, Olivia, the abbot, priests, and monks recognized Jon’s oath, the choir sang a song, followed by a prayer—
Leigh yawned.
A great roar shook the very foundations of the abbey. Screams rang outside.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and Jon dropped his head back to fix his gaze on the ceiling as powdery debris rained down.
“My sword,” Jon said to Quatrebeaux, who brought it to him. Jon grabbed the hilt.
A force of winds beat against the roof, then another roar, more distant.
“A dragon,” Ambriel murmured, frowning. “It just seems to be passing through.”
No one moved for a long momen
t, until the silence had gone on too long, and Derric cleared his throat and nodded toward the nobles. Jon slid his blade back into its scabbard, and Quatrebeaux backed away.
The Marquis of Montvilliers shifted on his feet, then placed the spurs on Jon’s boots. Quatrebeaux handed Jon’s sword to Faolan, who eyed it a long moment before girding Jon with it. “Accept this sword from our hands,” he said firmly.
Olivia approached with the Sacred Ampoule bearing the myrrh oil used to anoint the first king of his line. It was ancient, no more than a drop used for the coronation of each subsequent king.
Jon unfastened the chain clasp of his coronation cloak and let it fall, then removed his overcoat and unbuttoned his silk shirt to expose his tattooed chest, upper back, shoulders, and biceps.
The priests chanted a prayer while Derric placed a paten upon the altar with anointing oil. Olivia opened the Sacred Ampoule and with a small golden stylus, removed a single drop and carefully mixed it into the contents of the paten.
The chanting stopped only for Derric to say a prayer of consecration, and then he asked Terra’s blessings for the new king. When he finished, Olivia anointed Jon with oil in the form of a moon on the top of his head, holding his gaze. “I anoint you with the holy oil in the name of the Maiden, the Mother, the Crone.”
“Terra’s blessings upon him,” Leigh and the rest of the assembly responded.
Then on the center of his chest, between his shoulder blades, on each of his shoulders and on the joints of both of his arms, each time repeating the words and getting the same reply from everyone. She held Jon’s gaze as if he were the only one in the room.
He sighed inwardly. This would not end well.
“May the king live forever,” Olivia shouted, and the assembly repeated.
After yet another lengthy prayer, Olivia, Derric, and the assisting priests and monks readjusted Jon’s garments.
Jon rose, and once standing, they replaced the coronation cloak on his shoulders and fastened the chain. They gloved his hands in white, then placed the Ring of the King on his fifth finger. The scepter was placed in his right hand, the sign of kingly power, and then the staff with the Hand of Justice in his left, the sign of virtue and equity.
Derric removed the crown from the altar. “Terra crown you with glory.”
He set it upon Jon’s head, while the nobles touched it with their right hands. Derric led them in blessings, and then they all stepped away, knelt in two aisles between which Jon stood, turned, and faced the assembly as he sat upon the throne.
He looked out over everyone assembled, his eyes searching but his hands steady.
Finally, a king not bound to crawl at the whim of a power that killed mages’ families to steal their talents. A king who would see mages refuse the chains thrust upon them, let them be mere citizens, not heretics or hedge witches, but just Emaurrian mages. A king who would help dissolve that corrupt power.
A king he would gladly serve. Finally.
“May the king live forever,” Derric cried out, and his cry was taken up by the nobles, Leigh, and everyone present, acknowledging Jon as the duly anointed, crowned, and enthroned king.
There was a Terran service, an hour long and dull, and then the Oriflamme banner was blessed.
Finally, at its end, Jon stood, descended, and strode out of the abbey to the blessings and cheers of everyone, meeting Leigh’s eyes as he passed and giving him a slight nod.
Good. It was time.
Outside, cheers rose up and a parade toward the palace began.
“A feast,” Ambriel said. “And there wasn’t even a bloodbath.”
“With our luck, it’s been saved for us,” Leigh grumbled. “We have a meeting with the most powerful man in Courdeval,” he murmured, filing out into the aisle.
“The king?”
“Gustave Tremblay.”
Chapter 11
Leigh leaned back in his chair. “I’m offering you the chance for status. Likely the only chance you’ll get in your lifetime.”
Ambriel had elected to keep watch at the upstairs entrance to the apothecary, while he was sharing ale in a cellar, of all places. Two grim-faced witches flanked their Archon, staring a hole through Leigh’s face—one a tall, rake-thin man, and the other a large-set woman.
“And why should I care that one suffocating power will let another collapse? We protect our Coven. That’s what matters.” Gustave Tremblay, of the Tremblay line of Archons that controlled an influential Emaurrian Coven, folded his hands together and regarded Leigh squarely. In his forties, Gustave still bore the remnants of his youth’s good looks—thick, blond hair; piercing blue eyes; a well-kept beard; and sun-touched skin. He looked nothing like an ordinary apothecary, but then, an Archon was anything but.
Leigh smiled, running his fingers casually through the candle flame before him. “I thought we were far beyond pretense, Gustave. Power is not something you ignore.” At the table, the candle illuminated no more than their faces and the space between them. “Which power lands on top matters. It could either be the Crown, which is offering you influence, or the Divinity, which wants to end you. Which is better for you and your Coven? Oh, and do remember that no matter who wins, there are dragons, wyverns, and all manner of Immortal beasties to deal with.”
Scratching his beard, Gustave looked away. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you, Galvan?”
“As sure as the sun.”
“If the Crown stands in the Divinity’s way, doesn’t that help your cause?” Gustave narrowed his penetrating eyes. “Why not let one hand wash the other?”
“Because one set of those hands is indelibly unclean.” Leigh fixed Gustave with a stare. The Tremblay line would join their cause or face the wrath of the Forgerons and the Beaufoys. Gustave’s reluctance was a losing game.
“I don’t disagree,” Gustave said, with an abundance of caution, “but I have my hands full here just taking care of my people. What could I possibly contribute to such grand plans?”
Finally, the man had come to the bargaining table. “If the Divinity is to atone for its crimes, to be brought to its knees, we need to wage war within and without. For that, we need the Divinity to fail in its responsibilities, for the people to lose faith in its power. His Majesty will handle the first step. You and your people are needed to rally your Coven, the commoners, and nobles in this region against the Divinity and for the Crown. We have some forces, but we need mages ready to fight… against the Immortals or the Divinity.”
Gustave shook his head. “You want me to ask my people to fight the Divinity? Are you mad? The Emaurrian Tower alone is too big a threat.”
The rake-thin witch, his face contorted, moved to take a step forward, but his companion gave him a grim nod. Opinionated, for a lackey.
“The Tower, too, will bend,” Leigh replied, his voice measured.
The candle flame flickered, shrouding the cellar in darkness for a moment. In the face of Gustave’s silence, he continued, “How much longer are you willing to hide in the shadows to keep your freedom as a mage? How many more atrocities are you willing to let our people suffer? How many mage families need to be wiped out to satisfy the Divinity’s lust for power? Make no mistake, the Divinity has been centralizing magic and power for centuries; its head has grown so large, the beast itself is unwieldy. Now is the time to support the Crown, break away from the Divinity, cripple the beast. Lead your Coven into the light, into power. No more hiding.”
For a long while, Gustave breathed deeply, tugging at his beard in consideration. “And you will take the first step?”
“Yes.” The Divinity had taken everything from him and others like him, and if it was allowed to continue, the world would soon bend the knee to Magehold.
“What about your former apprentice? The Archmage. Will she be a problem?”
“No. Olivia’s loyalty is to the king, not the Divinity.” That had been more than evident during the coronation… like smoke gently rising over a city. About to burn down.
When Gustave didn’t answer right away, Leigh held his pose, shifting not an inch until he had his answer.
“We… have a problem with a den of heretics,” Gustave said cautiously. “They call themselves the ‘Trien Coven.’ We’ve attempted to… handle them before, but there’s a Forgeron among them.”
So he needed a third party to wipe out the heretic rebels without harming the Forgeron.
Luckily, killing and abduction were great talents of his. “Done.”
The rake-thin witch stepped forward. “Archon, I could—”
Gustave raised his hand, and the witch apologized and took a step back. Opinionated and bold for a lackey. Gustave slowly extended his hand, and Leigh shook it.
“By Most Holy Terra, Coven, and Archon,” Gustave swore.
Leigh smiled. All the pieces were at last in place. The Divinity of Magic had long held a veil before the people’s eyes, making them believe it was integral to their protection when, in truth, it hadn’t lifted a finger to help against the Immortals.
Once he did what Gustave wanted and won over the Forgerons and the Beaufoys, that veil would come down.
He stood. “Now, then. Ambriel and I have some work to do. Before we go, do you know where we can get some walnut loaf?”
* * *
While Tor tried to get his attention, Jon left the council chamber with Olivia and strode toward the Treasury, deep in the heart of Trèstellan.
While he and Olivia would be in Magehold, someone would have to remain as regent. He’d been unable to leave Tor in charge—for obvious reasons—and Pons would be a negative sign to the Covens, as would Derric. And Leigh needed to succeed with them.
So he’d left Auguste in charge. His cousin and the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. They often disagreed in council meetings, but Auguste had pledged to enforce Jon’s will, and the Grands had agreed he’d be the best choice.
Court of Shadows Page 11