Looking down at the foreign royalty, ambassadors, and members of clergy seated in the front row, then at the gathered villagers behind them, there was an unreal sense of futility. It was as if her journey into the forest had never occurred to begin with. She would be forced to marry Sinclair, be crowned his consort; what had become her only option was the very one that never should’ve been an option to begin with.
And Garin—Garin, she thought, her chest hollow and throat constricted, had suffered a horrid fate no one deserved.
With her Darkling Tongue gone and Sinclair as monarch, she would never be able to make the impact that she’d intended to as queen. The dream she’d had of inciting peace amongst the Darklings and humans had never felt more important to her than in that moment—when it was no longer a possibility at all.
She stared emptily into the trees, hoping they would reveal to her a path forward. A path to revenge.
Beside her, Sinclair cleared his throat to grab her attention and jerked his head toward the Cardinal, who was reading out the coronation prelude: a lengthy, repetitive monologue that glorified Lilac’s family and confirmed one’s genealogical validity of the right to rule.
Behind them, her parents watched warily alongside the duke and Vivien. Her mother, paler than usual, had yet to acknowledge her, while her father hastily looked away when she caught him examining her. In contrast, the duke and duchess watched with scrutiny.
Lilac ignored them.
At least the villagers hadn’t brought any angry signs or pitchforks… none that she could see from that distance, anyway. It was probably due, in part to how quickly word had spread of Sinclair’s ascension to kingship in the same ceremony.
When it came time for the priest to give his rite of blessing, the king and queen took their symbolic seats upon the pedestal behind them while The Le Tallecs took their seats off to the side. She and Sinclair were then prompted to turn around, Sinclair standing slightly ahead of her; the high priest would face them and have his back to the crowd while they recited their oaths to everyone. In the moment, she was relieved that Sinclair stood in front of her, acting as a sort of barrier between her and everyone else while her mind raced.
Just one kick. A maddening jolt of hysteria rose into her chest, making her ears ring. He would simply tumble off the battlement to an instant death below. She could regain her title as monarch, then.
Wasn’t that how it worked, since she was apparently so expendable?
When the bell tower chimed, an older gentleman donned in white emerged from the keep door to their left. A silver-plated bulb hung from the end of a thin chain in his hand, dusting the air with stifling frankincense and myrrh as he swung it back and in forth in unison with his cadence. Behind him, the holy procession followed—first, the priest with his golden, jewel encrusted chalice, hood concealing his face in a billowing purple robe. Behind him trailed a servant who cradled two crowns atop a wide, velvet pillow, and last came the scribe, dutifully carrying the scroll containing a transcription of the very Oath they’d take, and the quill they’d sign with—pronouncing she and Sinclair Le Tallec rulers together.
Lilac couldn’t hold her composure any longer. The tears came freely now. Pretending to be bothered by the blinding morning sun, she glanced down through her damp lashes so no one would see—especially the priest, who took his position directly in front of them.
She had failed. She’d failed her parents, who were minutes away from handing centuries of tradition and reign over to the Le Tallecs. She failed Garin, who’d perished in vain—and all because of her. She’d failed Freya… And, least surprisingly, she’d failed herself.
“All rise in honor of Lord Sinclair Le Tallec and Her Royal Highness, Lilac Trécesson.”
Lilac froze with her head down. She had gone mad after all. The priest had spoken, and he sounded almost like Garin—save the musty Latin accent.
Only when a strange choking noise emitted from Sinclair did she dare peek up to meet a pair of shockingly youthful eyes, shadowed and visible only to the pair in proximity. The priest smiled from depths of his purple hood, and beside her, Sinclair let out a disbelieving snarl.
“Impossible.”
It was impossible. With that, she agreed.
Upon closer inspection, she noted the way the dangling sleeves draped over the priest’s arms. His black boots peeked out from under the robe, as if its original owner was perhaps stouter, and considerably plumper. This left his wrists and large hands exposed; there, his skin was smooth porcelain instead of the painful raw char he’d acquired upon his cheek just yesterday, near the Trevelyan farmhouse window.
The priest’s solemn smile grew into a pompous grin when she blinked stupidly, the residual tears plopping and soaking into her laced bodice.
It was Garin—wickedly handsome as ever, standing in broad daylight. His perfect teeth glinted in the sun as he spoke.
“Been quite the morning, hasn’t it, Your Highness?” Garin’s voice lilted in his forged diction. “A mysterious kitchen fire, then all that commotion in the dungeon.” He clicked his tongue thoughtfully and winked at Sinclair. “Shame there weren’t more guards on post. You both should consider hiring a royal fire brigade.”
Fire? She inhaled sharply. Her plan had worked. But how on earth did he manage to escape if she was unable to carry out the rest of it?
Lilac suppressed a tremulous giggle with difficulty.
Sinclair’s face reddened further. “You,” he breathed, so low that Lilac barely heard it.
Garin, of course, picked it up loud and clear. He lifted a curious brow. “Something the matter, Your Grace?” he chimed. “Anything to add before we proceed?” Then, quieter. “It’s normal to feel apprehensive, you know. Bit of cold feet?”
Sinclair’s hands shook, balling into purpling fists. Lilac thought he might hit Garin. She almost wished he’d try. Surely that’d spark a bigger scandal than her Darkling Tongue. She could hear the town crier now.
Marquis punches priest! Priest maims marquis!
However, shake as he did, Sinclair’s feet remained firmly planted. If he attempted anything at all, Garin would kill him in the blink of an eye and be gone before anyone knew what’d happened.
“Very well.” Garin’s voice then rose so all could hear. “Ladies and gentlemen, His and Her Majesty. We are here to mark the end of one successful Trécesson era, and the momentous birth of Lord Le Tallec and Her Royal Highness Trécesson’s kingship. They will both drink from this coronation chalice, as all the kings and queens of Brittany before them have done. They will drink to good health, to each other, and to their blessed reign upon this earthly kingdom. Finally, by reciting the Coronation Oath, they shall complete their royal ascension.”
Meticulously, the vampire drew a violet cloth from his robe pocket and wiped the brim of the chalice, back and forth slowly, just as all priests would while performing the Eucharist. Lilac sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from giggling at Garin’s supreme solemnity. She couldn’t quite comprehend just what was unfolding before her very eyes.
Maybe he’d toss Sinclair off the rampart for her.
“All those in favor, please hold your tongues. If anyone stands in opposition, please speak now.” His voice boomed, carrying through the still morning, across the battlement and down to the crowd gathered below. Lilac shifted uncomfortably, knowing over half the townsfolk who attended had probably come to support Sinclair.
“Very well.” Garin sidestepped Sinclair, shuffling in his robes until he stood before Lilac. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, extending the chalice to her.
She cradled it in her trembling hands, resting her fingertips between the gold filigree and emerald patterns while Garin remained stoic. Bowing to him, she took a small sip of the wine. A Bordeaux blend, she realized, taking a moment to grin into the cup before righting herself and returning it to him.
Garin returned her bow before turning and placing himself in front of Sinclair. His hands returned to the c
loth, swiping the chalice mouth once more before handing it to the livid marquis. Instead of sipping, Sinclair tipped his head back, emptying the entire glass and eyeing the priest with disdain.
Garin placed the empty chalice upon the servant’s pillow and retrieved the larger crown—Sinclair’s. Grasping it firmly, he looked from one to the other.
“Both of you, raise your right hand.”
They did so.
“Please answer my questions wholly and truthfully. Loudly, so that the audience and reaches of our kingdom may hear. If either of the participants feel or prove they are unable to answer, this immediately marks their forfeiture of the position. Are you ready?”
They nodded.
“Do you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of this Kingdom of Brittany, and the dominions thereto belonging, according to the statutes in Breton Parliament agreed on, and the laws and customs of the same?"
Lilac and Sinclair answered in unison. “I solemnly promise to do so.”
“Will you, to your power, cause law and justice in mercy to be executed in all your judgements?"
“Yes, I will,” Lilac said, but her answer was partially drowned by a wet, strangled cough from Sinclair. She looked over in surprise and found him red faced, neck taut as he struggled to swallow.
“Yes,” he managed through a gag. “I will.”
A slew of quiet murmurs could be heard from the audience, and his parents shifted behind them, but he only cleared his throat scowled before repeating himself boisterously. “Yes, I will.”
Lilac gulped nervously as Garin began the next question.
"Will you, to the utmost of your power maintain the laws of God, the true profession of the gospel and religion established by law, and will you preserve unto the clergy of this realm, and to the churches committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges as by law do or shall appertain unto them, or any of them?"
“All this I promise to—”
“Blood!” Sinclair suddenly moaned, flailing his hands and batting them at his robes. “It’s everywhere—” He abruptly dropped to his knees, where he retched, but nothing came up.
“My Lord,” Garin said, forehead wrought with concern. He backed away, and both the incense holder and servant followed. “What is the matter?”
“Darkling! Vampire,” he shrieked. Oblivious to the audible gasps from the audience, he tore off his robes to reveal a sweat-drenched undershirt. His mother gave a small scream of despair.
Vivien stood abruptly, nearly tripping over her gown in her haste. “Sinclair,” she quipped through her teeth. “Dear, can I fetch you anything? Water, perhaps?”
“I don’t—What’s happening to me?” His voice grated against his throat; he inspected his fingertips frantically, turning his palms this way and that, as if his mother hadn’t said a word. Then, he looked up. “You did this,” he bellowed at the priest.
He glanced flittingly between Garin and Lilac before lunging for her throat, blue veins bulging from his outstretched hands. “You prude bitch!” he roared for everyone to hear.
Lilac froze in shock, relief, and humiliation. Fortunately, the guards behind him were faster; two arms snatched her back, while the guards wrangled Sinclair to the ground.
To her surprise, the king stood with his hand on his sword hilt, preparing to defend her while the queen white-knuckled the chair arm for dear life. Armand’s chest rose and fell in devastation, and the duchess sobbed and shrieked at the guards now manhandling her monster of a son.
“Remove him,” Henri demanded firmly, above Sinclair’s ongoing vulgar accusations. “Remove him!” he repeated, loud enough for the rest of the audience to hear.
Sinclair was wrestled into the keep while his father trailed close behind. Vivien could not stop shaking her head; instead of immediately following, she threw an apologetic glance toward the king and queen. Lilac almost jumped, startled, when the duchess gripped her wrist in passing.
Her face twisted with remorse, but the words that slipped from her pursed red lips were anything but. “Enjoy that crown while it’s yours, dear,” she whispered tightly, low enough for only Lilac to hear.
Suddenly, Lilac couldn’t stop herself from shaking. She didn’t have time to formulate an appropriate response before Vivien disappeared into the keep. A firm hand clamped onto her shoulder, causing her to jolt.
Behind her, Garin nodded breathlessly to the king, giving her shoulder a discreet squeeze. “How shall I proceed, Your Majesty?”
Henri’s quivering mustache looked as if it would detach in the wind. “Well? Let’s get on with it, then. Grant our future queen her the crown. Do it now!” He nodded at Garin and took his seat. “I need a goddamn drink,” he muttered into the queen’s ear.
Garin nodded, taking his place back at the front of the battlement. Lilac faced him and raised her hand, willing herself to refocus despite the storm of whispers that had sieged the audience below.
“Your Royal Highness,” he read from the shadow of his hood. “Will you, to the utmost of your power, maintain the laws of God, the profession of the gospel and religion established by law, and will you preserve unto the clergy of this realm, and to the churches committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges as by law do or shall appertain unto them, or any of them?"
“All this, I promise to do.”
After bowing once more, Garin removed a small, weathered book from his robe pocket. It was a miniature copy of the Holy Bible—a soldier’s Bible, battered and dulled, perhaps over the span of centuries. Her breath caught in her throat; it was probably the copy he’d brought into battle all those years ago. Beside it, a smattering of miniscule red and white crumbs sat between the indents of his fingers.
Lilac’s eyes widened. Adelaide’s scarlet mushrooms. She’d helped him, after all.
Garin cradled the pocket-sized book within his palms in front of her. Trembling harder than ever, with a deep breath, she placed her right palm upon it while taking extra care not to touch the crumbs.
“Repeat after me,” he prompted slowly, each word carrying the weight of the world. “The things which I have here promised, I will perform and keep...”
As he spoke, Lilac eyed the sprawling forest. Through the glens and the grottos, and the trenches of the Low Forest—something was happening. The wind of the wood picked up, visible first in the Brocéliande canopy, then carrying on and upward toward her with a flurry of fluttering beech leaves in its wake. The gale first enveloped Garin, who took no notice. Then, it vortexed briefly around Lilac.
With one breath, she couldn’t stop herself from shaking‚ and with the next, a sense of assurance and affirmation seeped into her stomach like warm honey. Shoulders pulled back, she lifted her chin so that she spoke to the crowd instead of the floor, and answered in a voice that was clear and unfamiliar.
“The things which I have here promised, I will perform and keep.” She gulped, and then added, clearly pronouncing every syllable, “I pledge to do so for the entire Kingdom of Brittany, including the Forest Brocéliande before me, and for both the magic and mortal realms contained therein.”
For Aife and her korrigan clan, Lilac thought silently. For Freya, and her children, whom she’d one day find. For the mixed families like Sable’s, caught in between kingdoms, love, and loyalty.
For Garin.
“So help me God,” Garin finished, over the susurration from the crowd.
“So help me God.”
With the closing line, Lilac’s voice reverberated in her skull, and she froze immediately. If she hadn’t known she’d answered in the Darkling language, the immediate uproar from the villagers below confirmed it. To her utter shock, her mother and father got up to stand beside her.
“Stand tall, for Christ’s sake,” her mother snapped through her smile, pinching the small of Lilac’s back. More surprised than ashamed, Lilac re-squared her shoulders and straightened her jaw. Adelaide’s tincture hadn’t taken effect, after all.
“Your attention, please,” Henri boomed, clutching his sceptre as if for dear life. He stared down at the villagers; remarkably, most did quiet, though half looked afraid and the others, on the verge of violence. In front of the crowd of commoners, the noblemen and clergymen exchanged glances and shifted nervously.
“The woman before you,” Henri said, clearing emotion from his throat before he continued, “our daughter, is now the sole heir to my throne. Must I remind all of you, my own reign was never without fault, nor was my father’s reign before mine. I implore you to consider this as we proceed. Anyone who dare interrupt Lilac’s signing of the Oath shall be silenced by law.”
Hearing her parents speak in her support for the first time in years was simultaneously painful and exhilarating. Noises of discontent could be heard throughout the crowd, but Lilac willed herself to ride the adrenaline. Somewhat confident in her course of action and intention, she knew all would one day benefit. She would win them over yet, through credence instead of fear.
The king nodded at the scribe, who scuttled forward to proffer her the enormous quill. Heart pounding, Lilac took it from him and marveled at the scroll the scribe had unraveled before her. She dipped the nib into the ink jar and scrawled her name upon the vacant line.
Garin turned to the crown bearer next. With a brief glance at the smaller crown meant for her, a subtle smile spread upon his lips. Then, he gestured for Lilac to come forth. When she bowed forward, he placed Sinclair’s crown—larger, the one that had always been hers, by right and by blood—gently upon her head.
30
As expected, Lilac spent her first week as queen in and out of meetings. Simple matters of formality, these were not the meaningful negotiations she’d once imagined; instead, there were brief—but many—introductory meetings with foreign ambassadors and representatives of allied kingdoms, including their wary French neighbors. Swanky sultan or mustache-twidling king, all seemed a tad too eager to meet the brand new and alarmingly progressive queen of Brittany.
Saved by the grace of happenstance, the Le Tallecs were banished indefinitely to their Paimpont estate. After the ceremony, it was discovered that, along with the unfortunate kitchen blaze in which the remainder of the season’s wood stash had perished, the dungeon was partially in ruins due to another spontaneous inferno. These conditions were apparently unsuitable for Sinclair to remain in for observation under physicians’ watch. For the sake of tending to the most pressing matters at hand, Lilac temporarily allowed Armand to remain head of the armed forces while she settled into her new position. Sinclair, however, was stripped of his title as Marquis—along with any hope of taking his father’s place.
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