Long May She Reign(13)

Tomorrow, I would be on display for all the grieving kingdom to see.

The seamstresses left to begin their work, but my father remained, running over the coronation rules again and again, making me walk around the room with a regal air, correcting my posture, correcting my gaze, correcting everything about me.

Was he remembering, as I was, all the times I’d skipped my etiquette lessons, how I’d sulked and shouted and fought until he gave up on courtly elocution and dancing classes? Maybe if I’d gone to those lessons, actually tried, instead of assuming it was all useless to me, when I planned to go as far away from this court as I could . . . maybe then, this would have been different.

The seamstresses returned in the middle of the night for a fitting. The new dress didn’t exactly calm my nerves. Jewels weighed it down, although only half of them had been added, and the mass of them made it even harder to breathe.

By the time morning came, I was dizzy with tiredness and fear. But the preparations weren’t over. It took two hours for the four seamstresses to dress me, even helped by an apparent army of maids. They sewed me into the dress as they went. Jewels were stitched into the cloth, hung around my neck, studded on my shoes, and draped around my waist.

And still my father reminded me of all the things I must not do. The most important one, the one he repeated over and over, was that I must not speak. Not one single word, beyond the ritual itself.

I had to wonder: Was that tradition, or was that rule only for me?

The Minster reached taller than a castle, its bell tower hidden by the clouds. Every inch of its stone exterior was covered by intricate carvings and gargoyles, and when its bells rang, the sound echoed through the entire city like singing. It was a building crafted by the divine Forgotten, before they left this kingdom behind.

Rickben, the peacemaker. Elandra, the fierce. Garret, the trickster. Valanthe, the just. They had ruled Epria when it used to be better, but abandoned it in disgust at the kingdom’s growing corruption. Now only a few relics remained, miracles of architecture and engineering, a reminder of how great the kingdom had once been and could be again.

It always sounded like nonsense to me. We had no records, no real proof of their existence, just a bunch of old buildings and a collection of legends. Everyone knew the names of at least twenty of the Forgotten, but even these were just tradition. As far as I was concerned, the Forgotten were just an excuse. People saw things they couldn’t even dream of creating, and decided that they must be divine.

I kept my eyes on the Minster now, staring at one of the grimacing male faces above the doorway. Crowds had gathered on either side of the path, but I couldn’t let myself look at them, couldn’t let the fear take hold. All I had to do was walk.

My legs shook underneath my skirts, but I did not fall.

The inside of the Minster had always amazed me. We were rarely allowed inside—once a year for the midwinter celebration, once a generation for a coronation—and every time we were, I spent more time staring at the ceiling than I did listening to the words of the priest. I glanced up again now, taking in the carvings and paintings sixty feet above me. How? I wondered, every time I saw them. How had anyone climbed so high to paint?

The people inside rose. I fixed my eyes on the altar at the far end of the Minster—miles away, surely, from where I now stood. The rear pews were crammed with the commoners invited to see my coronation—the merchants, the bankers, the lawyers, the doctors. All here for a glimpse of this unknown queen.

They had already judged me, I was sure. The moment I stepped through the door, they had decided what sort of queen I would be.

The front half of the Minster was almost empty. I should have expected it, should have known, but my stomach still dropped when I saw empty pew after empty pew. These boxes were designed to fit at least five hundred nobles. Less than twenty stood there now—the remnants of the court, or at least those willing to see me crowned. It was possible, possible, that some of them had decided not to attend. Possible, but unlikely. None of them would want to miss this.

I glanced at the back of their heads—who were they? I didn’t know most of them well enough to tell from a quick look at their hair, but I recognized Naomi. Her black hair was in a simple bun at the back of her head, strands falling loose. Her brother was not beside her.

My stomach dropped, and I dragged my gaze away. I had to concentrate. I couldn’t think about . . . I couldn’t get distracted. I focused on the steps ahead of me, the platform, the gold throne, and the chanting priest.

Somehow, I reached the dais, and the hours of practice clicked. My knees hit stone as I knelt for the priest’s blessing. I bowed my head as he dabbed oil on my forehead. I sat on the throne as someone handed me the ceremonial scepter and orb, as a red sable cloak was placed over my shoulders, as the priest stepped behind me and balanced a crown on my head. The ritual flowed past, like someone else was moving my body, and I was just watching, too.

“All kneel before Queen Freya, first of her name, ruler of Epria. Long may she reign!”

The priest stepped back, and the crowd fell to their knees.

“Long may she reign!”

I let myself glance at the nobles before me. My eyes went straight to Naomi, and she gave me a gentle smile. But she was alone.

Maybe Jacob was ill. Maybe he was shunning me. Something. It didn’t mean he was—her brother wasn’t dead.

My father knelt with a group of men and women I vaguely recognized—some of the king’s old advisers, I thought. Torsten Wolff knelt by another pew, and Fitzroy. A smattering of people.