The Seven Realms- The Complete Series

by Cinda Williams Chima

  She turned and left the room in a rustle of silk.

  But time passed, and soon they would have to leave for the temple, and still her father did not come. Raisa peeked out into the corridor, and a stocky young guardsman snapped to attention outside the door.

  “Your Highness?” the soldier said. “How may I assist?”

  “Oh. I was just looking.”

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Raisa said, “Well, carry on,” and pulled the door closed.

  Unable to sit still, Raisa threw open the doors to the terrace and walked out into the sultry evening.

  Thunder grumbled over Hanalea, Rissa, and Althea. Great pillars of clouds tumbled over the peaks, underlit with green-and-yellow lightning. The air was thick with the scent of rain, almost too thick to breathe, and the hair on Raisa’s arms and the back of her neck prickled.

  The wind picked up, setting the clouds in motion like gray wolves prowling over the distant hills. Raisa hunched her shoulders. Jitters, she said to herself. Just jitters.

  Magret was as jumpy as Raisa. She picked through the messages on the front table as if she might find an undiscovered note from Averill. She fussed with Raisa’s hair, her hemline, her makeup, and tugged at her laces until Raisa had to struggle not to scream at her.

  Every time Magret opened her mouth, words spilled out in a nervous cascade. “Did you hear? Prince Gerard Montaigne of Arden is here. Right in the middle of the war, he’s come up here, probably meaning to go home with a marriage contract in hand. He’s the youngest of five brothers, so I don’t know why he thinks the princess heir of the Fells would give him the time of day. That Prince Liam, now, he’s a handsome boy, and such good manners. He’s the heir to the throne of Tamron, you know.”

  Finally there was a knock at the door. Raisa jumped to answer it, but Magret, of course, beat her to it.

  It was not her father. It was Gavan Bayar, High Wizard of the Fells, resplendent in silver and black to match his mane of silver hair and thick black brows.

  “My Lord Bayar,” Magret stammered. “I thought…We were expecting…”

  Lord Bayar stepped past Magret and bowed low to Raisa. “Your Highness, you are a vision. I wish I were a younger man.” He paused, his eyes traveling over her from head to toe. “Unfortunately, your father still has not returned from Chalk Cliffs. The queen has asked me to escort you to the temple.” He offered his arm. “It would be my honor.”

  Raisa backed away, shaking her head. “Perhaps…he’ll still come.”

  “Everyone is assembled,” Lord Bayar said. “It is time. The queen requires your attendance.”

  Raisa bumped into her dressing table and leaned back against it, suddenly dizzy. There was something wrong about all of this. Every instinct screamed at her. The lamp on the table guttered in the breeze from the open door, and wolf shadows loped along the walls.

  The stocky guardsman stood in the doorway, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Your Highness?” he said.

  Magret stepped between Raisa and Lord Bayar, her face crinkled with dismay. “Her Highness doesn’t feel well,” she said. “Perhaps, if you gave her a few minutes…”

  Anger kindled in Lord Bayar’s blue eyes. “Step aside,” he said. “We don’t have a few minutes. The princess must come with me by order of the queen.”

  “It’s all right, Magret,” Raisa said, even though it most certainly wasn’t all right. She straightened, shook her head to clear it, and nodded to the guardsman. “Be at ease. I’ll go with Lord Bayar. It’s kind of him to come and fetch me. I’m sure Papa will be here in time for the dance.”

  Still ignoring Lord Bayar’s arm, Raisa gripped her skirts on either side, lifted her chin, and walked ahead of him into the corridor. The guardsman followed along behind.

  It was difficult to stay ahead of Lord Bayar’s long legs, with her more limited stride and fancy shoes. Eventually she allowed him to take her elbow, feeling the sting of power through the wizard’s fingers.

  Use your trader face, she said to herself.

  They followed the covered walkway from castle to church, crossing the courtyard that represented the separation between church and state, between holy and profane. The weather was growing worse, and the wind lashed strands of her carefully coiffed hair around her face. At any moment, it appeared the skies would open. She wondered if her father was out in the storm somewhere, trying to get home. She said a prayer to the Maker, and to Maia, the weather-maker, for his safe return.

  The nave of the temple cathedral was candlelit and solemn, her path a long red-carpeted corridor between crowds of the glittering nobility, all craning their necks to catch their first glimpse of the princess heir. Raisa felt like a bride walking into temple on her father’s arm. Except this wasn’t her father, and this wasn’t her wedding.

  She could tell that the last-minute substitution of Lord Bayar for her father had not been announced. She heard a whisper roll through the crowd, saw a ripple of heads turning, driven by the usual gossips. Where was Averill Demonai, and why wasn’t he here, and what did it all mean?

  She wanted to stamp her foot and say, “This wasn’t my idea.”

  Ahead of her, she saw her mother sitting in the queen’s chair, her skirts spread around her, the heavier ceremonial crown on her head. And standing next to her, Raisa was surprised to see Speaker Jemson from Southbridge Temple, resplendent in gold and white. Even at that distance she could see the surprise on the speaker’s face as Raisa entered with the High Wizard.

  Then Raisa understood. Her father would have been in charge of the elements of faith. He would have been the one who invited Speaker Jemson to officiate.

  Raisa walked the length of the temple, doing her best to ignore the wizard beside her, doing her best to keep her face a mask of solemnity while her heart pounded within her chest. Despite this distraction, a few images crystallized in her peripheral vision—for instance, the smile frozen on her cousin Missy Hakkam’s face. Missy stood next to her brother, the handsome and equally vapid Jon. Kip and Keith Klemath were nudging each other, probably laying bets on who would win the game of courtship at the dance.

  Her grandmother Elena stood with a handful of clan elders in Marisa Pines and Demonai ceremonial robes. With the elders were several Demonai warriors, including Reid Nightwalker, Raisa’s rumored highland suitor.

  As Raisa passed with the High Wizard, Elena leaned over to whisper something to Reid. Elena’s face was impassive, but Reid was scowling.

  Miphis and Arkeda Mander stood toward the front with Micah Bayar, a triple of wizards. Micah’s banishment was over, it seemed. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, breathtakingly handsome, as usual, but he had a pale, rather feverish look, as if something didn’t agree with him. His dark eyes followed her to the front of the temple.

  A small honor guard stood to either side of the dais. Raisa looked for Captain Edon Byrne, who’d accompanied her father to Chalk Cliffs. He was missing also, but Amon was there in his dress uniform, standing ramrod straight, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared straight ahead, cheeks flushed, but she knew he saw her.

  I dreamed about you, she thought.

  And finally she was before Speaker Jemson and her mother. Lord Bayar released her elbow and stood to the side, next to her sister, the Princess Mellony.

  Raisa looked into Speaker Jemson’s eyes and saw compassion there. The speaker smiled. That buoyed her somehow, and she smiled back. Her pulse quieted and her fears ebbed. She would be queen, and queens ruled over wizards in the Fells.

  “Friends, this is the season for name day ceremonies, and I have presided at many already,” Jemson said. “It is always a privilege to launch a child into adulthood and to welcome a new citizen of the realm. But today we are assembled for a very special naming—one that builds on a tradition that has lasted for a thousand years. Today we name Raisa ana’Marianna, heir to Hanalea and the Gray Wolf throne.”

  Jemson looked out over the assembly. “The princess has alread
y proved herself to be compassionate beyond her years. Her Briar Rose Ministry at Southbridge Temple serves hundreds of people every week. Families are fed and clothed, and children are educated because of her generosity. She is a fitting heir to Hanalea’s legacy.”

  The queen looked up at Raisa, a startled expression on her face. Comment rustled through the crowd like wind through winter branches.

  Speaker Jemson’s voice flowed over Raisa, prompting her as she rededicated herself to the Maker, the Fells, and the line of queens. Her mother asked her the Three Questions, and she gave the Three Answers in a loud clear voice so she could be heard to the far end of the hall.

  Raisa mounted the stairs onto the dais and knelt before her mother. Queen Marianna set the glittering Gray Wolf tiara on her head and said, “Rise, Princess Raisa, heir to the Gray Wolf throne.”

  Outside the temple, the storm broke, and hail clattered against the leaded windows. Her ancestors proclaiming their approval. Or were they shouting a warning?

  Applause rolled from one end of the hall to the other, probably because it was time to go to dinner.

  The main ballroom had been transformed into a fairy forest, its borders softened by groves of bare-branched trees sparkling with tiny wizard lights. The dining tables were set up at one end, in a woodland bower. The trees were hung with silver cages filled with songbirds.

  At dinner, she sat next to the queen at the head of the table. Raisa insisted that Speaker Jemson take the chair on her other side, which should have been her father’s (mostly to prevent Lord Bayar’s occupying it). She was surprised when the queen readily agreed. Marianna seemed eager to please her often difficult daughter, anxious to fill the hole left by Averill’s absence in any way she could.

  While protocol would dictate that the southern princes be seated next in line after the royal family, Raisa noticed that her mother had seated them rather far down the table. Not only that, the Tomlins were seated across from a stranger, which, from his elaborate dress, must be the ambitious Gerard Montaigne, the youngest prince of Arden. He was slender, with hair the color of wet sand, and pale, almost colorless, blue eyes.

  Elena Demonai and the other clan representatives were also seated at the far end of Raisa’s table.

  Raisa ate very little, feeling the weight of the tiara and her new title and the sting of her father’s absence. She said very little too, but Speaker Jemson and Queen Marianna and Lord Bayar made up for her lack of conversation. Their voices splattered against her skin like rain on canvas, scarcely penetrating.

  The queen seemed nervous, her smile forced, and she glanced anxiously in Raisa’s direction as if unsure what the new princess heir might do. Speaker Jemson pretended to be relaxed and chatty, but Raisa thought the speaker missed nothing.

  “The Princess Raisa has been a wonderful ambassador for the Gray Wolf throne in the city,” he said.

  “Has she now?” the queen said, fussing with her napkin.

  “Oh yes. The street musicians sing her praises. The children at Southbridge Temple school leave flower garlands beneath her portrait in the sanctuary, and the temple dedicates have opened a new healing hall in her name.”

  “I had no idea,” the queen said, poking at her roast quail, a faint frown on her face.

  “Everyone praises you, Your Majesty, for raising a daughter with such a compassionate nature,” he added, and the queen smiled.

  Amon Byrne caught Raisa’s eye several times from his post against the wall. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, What’s going on?

  Raisa began to relax a little when dinner was cleared away and they decended to the dance floor. Her dance card was already full, according to protocol, once they got past the awkwardness of the traditional father-daughter dance. (They skipped it.) The evening passed quickly, a kaleidoscope of male faces and brilliant plumage, a cacophony of flattery, the sting of wizard hands, the Klemaths resurfacing repeatedly like a bad dream.

  She danced with Prince Gerard Montaigne and found him cold, intense, and condescending, a remarkable combination in a boy so close to her own age. He made no effort to woo or even flatter her, but cut right to politics.

  “Does it concern you, Princess,” he asked, in his harsh flat-lander accent, “that though I’m the son of a king, I’m the youngest of five sons? Four of whom are living?”

  “That depends,” Raisa said, unable to resist. “Do you have older sisters as well?”

  He stared at her a moment with eyes as pale and hard as glacier ice. “I have one older sister,” he said. “But in Arden, the crown passes through the line of sons only.”

  “I see. Do you hope to marry a queen, then, so that your daughters will have an inheritance?” Raisa asked.

  “Well…ah…I had not thought it,” the prince stammered. “I thought that it would make sense to…ah…marry our kingdoms—and our resources—together.”

  “I see. Our kingdoms. Well, then. I believe I did not answer your question. You asked whether I’m concerned that you’re the youngest son?”

  “Yes,” Gerard Montaigne said. “I wanted to assure you that, given the situation in Arden, these are not insurmountable obstacles. If you can be patient, Your Highness, I fully expect to wear the crown in the end.”

  “I am not at all worried about your four brothers,” Raisa said. “Although I think they have reason to be worried about themselves. I would, however, be very concerned about the succession in Arden if it seemed at all likely that we would marry.”

  Fortunately, at that point, the song ended. Raisa stepped back from Prince Gerard, pulling her hands free, though he didn’t seem to want to let go of them. “Thank you for the dance, Your Highness,” she said. “Have a safe journey home.”

  She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she walked away, head high. There’s one southerner to cross off my list, she thought. He gives me the jittery shudders.

  She was apprehensive when Micah’s name came up on her dance card. She didn’t know what to expect—some sort of proposition, a protestation of love, conspiratorial whispers—something. But she needn’t have worried, it seemed. This time he was a perfect gentleman. He seemed so distracted, in fact, so distant, that Raisa asked him, a little sharply, what in the world he was thinking of, just as the music stopped.

  “I’m thinking of nothing, Your Highness,” he said, bowing stiffly. “Nothing at all. It’s a good skill to have. I recommend it.” And he walked away, back straight.

  Amon was a different matter. He gripped her hands so hard, she squeaked in pain, and he relaxed his hold. “Sorry,” he said. “What is going on? Where is your father?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Raisa replied. “Have you heard anything at all?”

  “A bird came from Chalk Cliffs yesterday, saying that they had left for Fellsmarch yesterday morning,” Amon said. “I expected them to arrive last night. I’ve heard nothing since.” He paused. “They’ve probably stayed over somewhere for the night. What with this storm and all.”

  Rain clattered against the tiled roof of the temple, and the wind howled around the towers. And yet…they should have been here long before the storm began,” she said. “I just…I have a bad feeling about this. An intuition. Something’s happened, or it’s going to happen, or both.” She rested her head against Amon’s shoulder, shivering a little.

  “What could happen?” Amon murmured, his warm breath tickling her ear, his firm hand at her back, guiding her around the dance floor. “You’re here, in Fellsmarch Castle, in the middle of a party, with your guardsmen around you.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “This…intuition—how reliable is it? And, is there any way of knowing what or when?” Typical, practical Amon.

  “I don’t know,” Raisa said, trying to sort through her feelings. She felt oddly safe there, enclosed within the circle of Amon’s arms. Connected to him in a way she hadn’t been before. It was as if a channel had opened between them, power and emotion rippling through, and she wished they could just
circle forever.

  Raisa cleared her throat, trying to concentrate on that other, more nebulous danger. “Magret says it’s just name day jitters, and maybe she’s right, but I would feel so much better if our fathers were here. I worry that something has happened to them.”

  “We can’t do anything about them,” Amon said. “So let’s focus on you right now. If you’re in danger, what’s it likely to be?”

  Raisa looked up at his face, afraid he was making fun of her, but he looked completely serious.

  “Let’s think, now. When would you be most vulnerable to—I don’t know—assassins or kidnappers,” he went on. “After the party, you’ll be going back to your room. Maybe then.”

  Raisa gripped his elbows. “Stay in my room tonight, Amon,” she said impulsively. “I’d feel safer if you did.”

  “Raisa, I can’t do that,” Amon said, his expression a mixture of what looked like regret and propriety.

  “I don’t really care what anyone thinks,” Raisa persisted. “Besides, Magret will be there. She can chaperone.”

  “Right,” he said. “Isn’t she the one who fell asleep in the garden?” He chewed his lower lip. “I’ll get the Wolfpack involved. We’ve been assigned to your personal guard. Beginning tomorrow.”

  Raisa stared at him. “Really? I thought your father wanted you to stay away from me.”

  “He changed his mind,” Amon said. He took a breath as if he had something to add, but then shut his mouth and said nothing for an entire circuit of the dance floor.

  “Anyway, I’m still worried about the tunnel that you haven’t boarded up,” he said finally. “When the dancing’s done, I’ll send some of the Wolfpack to watch the corridor to your room. You’ll have your usual guard outside your door. I’ll go up in the garden and watch the tunnel entrance. That’s one night taken care of. And maybe by tomorrow, our fathers will be back.”