“She’s a fake!” Matwyck yelled. “A fraud in a blue wig or colored hair. An imposter. A witch.”
“Not so!” contradicted Water Bearer, her voice squeaky with outrage. “I know her. She is our own princella, finally returned to us.” Faces turned doubtfully from one speaker to the other.
“No! No!” shouted Matwyck. “Will you listen to a doddering nursemaid? Shoot her before she poisons your minds with more of her lies.” He gathered his strength and continued in a reasonable, persuasive tone. “Everyone in this room knows me; I have governed well. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Weirandale. She is a stranger, tainted with foreign ways—some inexperienced female—I am your rightful ruler.”
“Really, Matwyck?” Cerúlia asked sarcastically. “But you should know, if you are a faithful regent, that the hallmark of a true Nargis Queen lies not in her hair,” (she deliberately tossed her long hair over her shoulder) “but in her Talent.”
“Ah!” shouted Matwyck. “But Princella Cerúlia was never Defined, was she, Sewel?” He pointed at a small, well-dressed man standing amidst the chaos on the ground floor. “She never went through a Definition! Sewel! Tell the truth, now!”
“Alas,” the man called out. “’Tis true she was never Defined—”
“Ah, Chronicler Sewel,” Cerúlia interrupted, inclining her head. “It is nice to see you once more. Do you now recognize my Talent?”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” he said, and he knelt. “And I pray you forgive my earlier ignorance. Thou art Cerúlia the Gryphling.”
“What?” Matwyck shouted. “What kind of Talent is that?” With purposeful mockery he forced himself to laugh and looked around, inviting others to join in. “No one even knows what that means. This is not one of the recognized Royal Talents. Note, my friends, that this imposter doesn’t even claim to be an Enchanter or a Warrior. Did I hear you correctly? Did you say, ‘gryphling’ or ‘piffling’? This piffling girl, and her band of—of—overdressed mercenaries, have caused a great deal of ruckus and a great deal of unnecessary bloodshed this morn.”
His voice deepened and grew stern. “I demand that you lay down your weapons and surrender to the proper authorities. You are under some sad delusion, so you will be dealt with mercifully, I give you my word. Order will be restored.”
A duke shouted, “This breach of the peace is a scandal. If this woman has a claim, let her come before us and the Circle Council will judge her story. Only an imposter would assault the Throne Room by force!”
Watching the room, Gunnit saw doubt creep into some people’s eyes. Gentry on the balconies shouted comments supporting Matwyck. Many palace guards gripped their weapons with renewed intent.
Instead of answering Matwyck or appealing to the onlookers, Cerúlia remained silent. In fact, she closed her eyes.
Then she motioned with her hands as if she were conducting the musicians who had played at the wedding feast yesterday.
First, the crowd in the Throne Room heard the dozens of dogs in the palace kennels. Every dog began to howl or bark. But the kennels stood some distance away, and while the noise surprised everyone, it struck them as more curious than distressing. Then, every horse in the stable started a frenzied neighing, a sound so loud it penetrated the building, especially when it was accompanied by a tremendous clatter, as if the horses kicked against their stalls. The next moment, a flock of birds of all kinds—hundreds, maybe thousands of birds—landed on the stained glass roof of the Throne Room in a crashing wave, blotting out the sunlight with their numbers. They sang, cawed, shrieked, and tapped the glass with their beaks as if they would break it. Finally, the four mountain lions within the hall jumped up to the dais. At this point no one could hear their roars, but their wide-open mouths and claws slashing the air presented a terrifying sight.
People shrank from the noise in terror, putting their hands over their ears. All had a sense of the tremendous army of creatures—an army capable of destroying every person in the Throne Room, every person in the palace—controlled by the slim woman with her eyes closed and her arms raised. If any still harbored doubts that this woman wielded a Talent granted by Nargis, such doubts fled.
Cerúlia moved her hands again with a flourish, and the roar of the animals abruptly cut off. The birds lifted off and light streamed back in.
The abrupt silence was equally awe-inspiring.
Someone standing on the balcony took advantage of the moment to situate himself behind the Lord Regent and deliver a mighty shove. As watchers screamed, the lord teetered at the balcony railing, tumbled over, grabbed at a vertical baluster with one hand, held on for a moment, and then lost his grip, hitting the marble floor with a stomach-turning thud.
Cerúlia regarded the crumpled man for a moment. Then she raised her gaze to the balcony.
“Whoever did that, you have done us no service. You may have deprived the realm of the chance to learn the truth about the assassination attempt on Queen Cressa and the full extent of the Lord Regent’s treachery.”
A guard close to the crumpled figure exclaimed, “He’s alive.” Another voice called, “Where are the healers?”
Cerúlia displayed no interest in her injured enemy; she was intent on a different goal. She looked around the room. “Is there a Brother or Sister of Sorrow with us?”
“Brother Whitsury is nigh, Your Majesty,” called out Water Bearer. “It’s fitting. ’Twas he who officiated at Your Naming when you was just a wee babe.”
Gunnit recognized Brother Whitsury, slim and serious in his gray robe, from all the messages he had furtively taken to the abbey. The Brother pushed his way through the crowd and climbed the six steps. He walked to the Dedication Fountain.
From centuries of Weir lore, the crowd knew the rituals of a Dedication. With a collective sigh of satisfaction, everyone knelt, one knee on the floor, the other leg bent at the knee, hands resting on the bent knee, head bowed low. If members of the crowd still supported Matwyck, they feigned devotion so as to blend in.
Gunnit alone—who was not a Weir, who served another Spirit—stood erect, intent on observing every detail of the ceremony.
Brother Whitsury placed both of his hands in the spray of the water that spewed over the enormous, jagged quartz rock. He took the water he had gathered and trickled it over the young woman’s head, saying, “By this anointing with Nargis Water I pronounce you Queen Cerúlia of Weirandale. Do you Dedicate your life to the welfare of the realm and to the security of its citizens?”
“I do Dedicate my life,” Cerúlia answered.
“Do you Dedicate yourself as the champion and protector of all Weirs, young and old, lowly or high, poor or wealthy?”
“I will Dedicate myself,” she vowed.
“And do you Dedicate yourself to safeguarding her Waters, the Waters that grow our food, quench our thirst, and grant us life?”
“I do Dedicate myself, from now until I perish.”
Then Cerúlia walked over to the waist-high golden Basin that continually caught the flowing water and continually let it overflow its rim. She plunged her right hand into its swirling pool. She pulled out of the water something small and shimmering.