Brightly Woven(73)

“You have beautiful hair,” Beatrice said. “No one in Auster shares your color. The Book spoke of many signs, including your hair. ‘Tresses the shade of my fiery spite,’ it said.”

I wanted to scream.

She twisted half of it up, pinning it in place with little golden clasps and flowers. The rest was left down, much longer than I remembered it being. Beatrice finished by sliding a golden diadem through my hair, allowing the long red veil attached to it to flow down the length of my back to the floor below.

There was a looking glass beside my bed, but I couldn’t bring myself to look.

“It really is you,” Beatrice said. “My Great Lady, thank you. You have given me the highest honor in allowing me to care for you.”

“No,” I said. “Please, don’t thank me.”

She bowed in front of me again and held out her arm. “The king has asked this humble and obedient servant to accompany you to the great hall.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I was no goddess, but for my life, and for all the lives I had left behind in Palmarta, I could at least pretend to be. And maybe…maybe there was a way I could twist the impossible situation to my advantage. Dorwan thought himself exceptionally clever, but he had neglected to include my will in his plan.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I whispered.

“You will be celebrated and loved,” Beatrice said, not realizing I hadn’t been speaking to her at all.

Beatrice brought me past the servants and commoners who lined the pathways to the great hall. I was led through pristine corridors, every stone evenly spaced, the marble floors shining with the light of the sun. Outside, the mountains surrounding the palace rose for miles on end, the blue of the Serpentine Channel blocked by their massive shapes. The final bridge on the palace grounds had been built seemingly between two mountains; it reached high into the air, toward the heavens. For a moment, I thought the bridge was carrying us over the clouds.

The hall itself was filled with light, striking and new compared to the dark halls of the palace at Provincia. The men and women were silent, kneeling as I passed them. I refused to be afraid, not when I knew the consequences of my uncontrolled emotions. If I could stay calm, I could get through this. The night before, I had dreamed of destroying the palace and every city in Auster in a fit of rage, but now, after seeing the faces of the kingdom, the idea left me horrified.

The doors to the great hall opened, illuminating the streamers of red and gold falling from the ceiling. An array of foreign flags was interspersed between the banners, each bearing the symbol of the snake.

Beneath them, hovering anxiously at the edges of a long crimson carpet, were even more Austerans. They fell into a hushed reverence when Beatrice and I stepped through the door. Even the king and queen stood, making their way toward me down the long aisle. Beatrice backed away, releasing my arm.

“No!” I whispered, reaching for her. She merely shook her head, giving me a small smile.

“My Great Lady,” the king said, kneeling in front of me with his queen. “Your servants welcome you.” He dwarfed his wife, though in my hazy half-waking dream I had believed him to be much larger. The queen was fair-skinned, but wore her crown atop a cluster of night-black curls.

“Has Beatrice treated you well, my Great Lady?” the king asked, rising. “We had hoped to spare your wrath in allowing you to rest.”

“She has been a great help,” I said, forcing the quiver out of my voice. As we approached the thrones, an elderly man in golden robes stepped out from the crowd and walked behind us. The scepter in his hands glinted with the light streaming in through the enormous windows.

The king and queen left me standing as they reclaimed their thrones. Five men stood behind them, and as I passed, each slid a gold medallion over my head. I glanced down, reading the names and crests of the countries engraved deeply in them—Auster, Saldorra, Ruttgard, Bellun, Libanbourg—all of the Salvalite nations in the world. The old man, obviously a priest of some kind, bowed deeply before unrolling a long scroll at my feet.

“The alliance has been assembled,” the king said. “We have been brought together to further your cause, through sword and strife, blood and battle. All we ask for is your blessing.”

“All of you?” I asked faintly, looking down at the scroll, a map of the continent. I had seen a near-exact copy of it in North’s messy scrawl as he presented the information to his mother, only Palmarta did not exist on this map. The borders of Palmarta had disappeared, as if the small country had been swallowed whole. I took in every line with a sharp sense of dread, but an even sharper eye.

“Your blessings?” the king asked again.

“How can I give you my blessings,” I began, steadying my voice, “when I do not approve of this war at all?”

The representatives of the other nations crowded in, their voices leaping forth in protest. The king held up a silencing hand, his face red as he turned to the priest.

“The scriptures said we would have to bring her into the world slowly,” the old man said. “She knows not what she says.”

I recognized my mistake immediately. Losing the king’s trust and faith would also mean losing my life.

The king gave a curt nod. “Continue with the ceremony, then.”

When the priest spoke, it was in a language I had never heard before, a tongue that sounded like the groaning of an old wagon. His words were deep and lyrical, thundering through the great hall. The spectators, as well as the king and queen, responded in turn. I strained my ears, trying to catch a familiar word.