Mother eyed me, then put the box down. It was only when she reached forward that I realised she intended to hug me.
I flinched.
She froze.
A flush crept up Mother’s neck; my own face was already aflame. Well. We haven’t even left yet, and the day is already ripping at the seams.
I hadn’t wanted Mother to know about Naruum’s poisoned wine, but it was better she heard the truth from me. She’d cried. Even if she was matter-of-fact about risks during my childhood, that was before we’d lost Father.
‘If you hug me,’ I said, ‘I’ll cry, and I’m not sure I could stop.’
‘Ah.’
‘I hope Father would be proud today,’ I said: a tentative apology.
‘Of course he would be.’ Mother squeezed my shoulder. ‘Kneel, please. The shoes make you too tall for me.’
I knelt. She placed the heir’s circlet, silver and steel-wrought, on my head. I’d worn it only a handful of times. It was heavier than it appeared. Father had looked elegant and dashing wearing it in his portrait. I felt like I was wearing part of a costume.
Mother adjusted the circlet against my forehead, then stepped back, satisfied.
I stood. Took a deep breath. Let it out. Squared my shoulders.
Mother curtseyed, proper and deep. She smiled – all forgiven now? Possibly? ‘Long live the Queen.’
Please, Father, I thought, as I walked to the door, Mother behind me. Grant me the strength to get through today. Help me make you proud.
Since the Opposition gathering, I sometimes jerked awake in the deepest part of night with the taste of wine in my mouth, sweet poison on my tongue.
All I had to do, as Matthias kept saying, was show up, be crowned, and still be alive by tonight. Not difficult.
Please, Father, let me survive.
Chapter Eight
Xania
Anticipation filled the throne room, as strong as the scent of roses around us. Blue and silver banners hung around the room. The largest, emblazoned with the royal crest, hung above the throne.
We’d arrived early enough to get a prized vantage spot on a Fifth Step gallery. We weren’t as close to the throne as the royal family or Seventh Step nobles, but still had a good view. Zola and I spent the time people-watching and whispering about the fashion.
‘What will her dress look like?’ Zola mused.
‘Blue.’
She thumped my arm.
‘Must you act like children?’ Mama asked, but couldn’t hide her smile.
‘Here’s Duchess Sionbourne,’ Lord Martain said, as the Queen’s mother entered the royal gallery.
The Dowager Queen arrived soon after. She wore navy blue with white embroidery, a subtle hint of her prior status that wouldn’t upstage the Queen. She and the Duchess exchanged small talk, only a slight stiffness betraying their mutual dislike.
There was a momentary hush when the Arch-Bishop and two bishops stepped onto the dais. Edar didn’t hold much with religion anymore, but the Order still performed ceremonial state duties. One bishop carried a black bell, a finely-wrought knife, and a bowl filled with fire on a small table. The other held the royal sceptre.
The Arch-Bishop balanced the crown on a cushion. Over two centuries old, burnished silver and set with sapphires, it was forged when Edar was tearing itself apart. The Queen’s great-grandfather had kept it instead of designing a new one.
Trumpets blasted in the distance; the Queen had returned to the palace.
I’d forgotten about the blindfold until she entered amid a flurry of bows and curtseys. She walked slowly, her hand light upon the steward’s arm. I’d still bet my pitiful inheritance she was shaking inside.
It was Sannaa, one of the oldest historians whose written work still survived, who’d first mentioned monarchs wearing blindfolds during their coronations. They would travel blindfolded amongst their people, trusting in their divine surety.
The divine right to rule was long gone, but the tradition remained. Sannaa had also claimed no monarch was protected during their coronation, but no one believed that. Judging by the guards lining the walls, neither did the Queen.
Her gown swept around her. Her circlet gleamed. The ends of the silk blindfold fluttered behind her.
Zola drew in a harsh breath.
‘I know,’ I murmured, over the pounding heartbeat in my throat. ‘Blue dress.’
Zola choked out a laugh, then ducked her head at Mama’s glare.
The cries started from the doors, gaining in strength as the Queen travelled up the room: ‘Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!’
When she reached the dais and knelt, everyone cheered.
Coronations, it turned out, were boring. A lot of back and forth about honour and duty and upholding the law. Justice and Mercy. Maintaining order. Working with Parliament, while standing firm against them when necessary – politicians had been trying for years to get that part removed.
Papa’s death had turned me cynical. But something close to hope swelled inside me as the Queen answered each question with steady conviction, luring me into thinking: She’ll be different to her uncle and grandfather. She won’t fling money away and demand more extravagance in return. She won’t drain our country and beggar us.
She will be just. She will be merciful.
With the vows almost finished, I leaned forward. Papa had told me about this part when I was little, and we were just close enough for me to catch glimpses of it.
One of the bishops lifted the bell, holding the clapper until the right moment. The other set the bowl of fire before the Queen. She tilted her face towards the rising heat.
‘By the air I breathe –’ she said.
The bishop turned left and rang the bell.
‘– the counsel I listen to –’
The bishop turned again and rang the bell at the throne.
‘– the blood I spill –’
The bishop rang the bell to his right. The second bishop picked up the dagger and pressed her fingertips against the Queen’s hands. She turned her palms up and held them high over the fire.
‘– I swear to uphold the law and govern my people wisely until my death.’
The bishop rang the bell above the Queen’s head. The second bishop drew the knife over her palms in a blur. The Queen didn’t flinch. I squinted, and could just make out the blood pooling in the Queen’s cupped hands, before she let it fall.
The flames devoured the blood.
This part was older than the First Empire, older than most religions. If a ruler accepted the crown and its power, they also accepted its hardship by shedding their blood. The Queen’s blood had fallen upon the flames and purified her.
The bishops were already removing her blindfold, cutting it to wrap around her palms. Finished, they stepped back as the Arch-Bishop approached with the crown.
She lowered her head.
‘By fire and vow and blood, you swear to uphold Edar’s laws as did those before you.’ The coronation vows never had a back-up sentence for the previous monarch being selfish and useless. ‘I crown you Queen Aurelia, Fourth of Her Name, Fourth of Her Line, First Protector of Edar and Servant Most High.’
He placed the crown upon her head. It felt like everyone took a breath together.
‘Rise.’