Hundreds of people lined the rows within. Thousands more stood outside in the courtyard behind her, and in the Kellesar streets. Through the open archways, Marai spotted children tossing flower petals into the air, coating the cobblestones in pink, purple, and yellow. Women jingled belled bracelets to drive away evil spirits. Music floated on the breeze. People danced in the streets. A city alive with celebration.
Heads followed Marai as she ventured down the green carpeted aisle. Representatives from most of the Nine Kingdoms were there: dark skinned nobles from the Southern countries of Ain and Henig, shorter tanned diplomats from Ehle and Beniel in the West. Marai spotted fashionable men and women from the Empire of Syoto. Princess Eriu, Rhia’s sister and the singular representative of Varana, stood demurely near the front of the hall with the servant who’d rescued her.
Then there was Nieve with her retinue, taking up the majority of the front right side of the hall. The Northern Queen was the most prominent person in the room. If people weren’t staring at Marai, they were gawking at Nieve, who preened at the attention. She shot Marai a slow, arrogant smile, one of the few in the room to actually hold her gaze.
Heads leaned together to whisper, not too quietly, about the faerie who had single-handedly destroyed a third of the Tacornian army. Many regarded her with genuine terror as she passed. Others grimaced and scowled. Others avoided eye contact at all costs. Marai tried to ignore them, and kept her focus centered.
Halfway up the aisle, Thora waved to Marai from the end of a row. She wore a nice, simple blue dress; nothing near as flashy as Marai, but clearly new for the occasion. Her hair had been styled prettily atop her head with sprigs of heather and gorse. Tarik and the other two surviving werewolves, Brass and Yovel, stood next to her in the row. Hazel-eyed Yovel lost his arm in the battle.
“Good to see you, Lady Marai,” Tarik said.
“I’m glad to see you all well.” A heaviness settled within her. Three of Tarik’s compatriots had not survived. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Tarik’s face fell. “The fact that three of us still stand here to see this day, when humans and magical folk can share the same room, is joy enough for us.” He gave her a swift nod, then returned to chatting with the other two weres.
“You look gorgeous,” Thora said, taking Marai’s sweaty hand. “Where did this dress come from?”
“It was Queen Larissa’s,” said Marai. “Ruenen had it fixed up for me.”
Thora quirked a playful eyebrow, making Marai flush.
Keshel entered, looking harried and winded. He walked briskly down the aisle and came to Marai’s side. He was dressed in a conservative dark vest and pants with a deep blue cloak, but his hair was unusually messy and cheeks were wind-blown, as if he’d run a long way to make it in time.
“Where have you been?” Thora hissed at him. “You never came home to the cottages last night.”
“Busy. Witan meetings. Walking in town . . .” Keshel tried to fix his tangled hair.
“You’re hiding something,” said Marai, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Nonsense. Where are Raife and Aresti?” he asked.
Keshel was good at keeping secrets, but something wasn’t sitting well with her. It wasn’t a secret lover, Marai guessed, not with the way Keshel’s eyes traveled up and down her dress. What was Keshel keeping from both her and Thora?
“The King’s Guard is walking in behind Prince Ruenen,” said Thora, clearly not as concerned by Keshel’s odd behavior as Marai.
Head Monk Baureo entered in his brown robes, and the massive, echoing chamber quieted. Slowly, he walked down the aisle, chanting the ancient language of the gods. Everyone bowed as he passed.
Then two brown-robed priestesses entered; each wore a headdress adorned with lit candles. They joined hands and walked, chanting, down the aisle after the Head Monk. Once they reached the dais, all three religious leaders raised their chins to the ceiling and reached up to the gods painted there. They swayed, reeds in the wind, and the priestesses’ candle flames flickered.
Avilyard, his armor polished to gleaming perfection, appeared next at the door, followed by two flag bearers. The steady clank of their boots down the aisle thumped in rhythm with Marai’s heart.
Then Ruenen stepped into the room.
Heads bowed, knees bent low; no gaze could fall upon him until he reached the dais where the Head Priestesses now twirled around themselves, chanting.
From her curtsey, Marai watched Ruenen’s feet pass. Tall black boots. The white fur cape dragged heavily behind. His steps hitched a moment when his feet approached Marai, but he passed without a word, heading towards the dais.
The King’s Guard followed, rattling down the aisle. Raife and Aresti were at the rear, behind Elmar and Nyle, as was expected for newer members of the guard. Marai dared a glance up; they both marched with poise and honor. Aresti, in particular, seemed to be in her element.
Who would’ve thought this would be the life she chose?
Aresti and Raife met Marai’s eyes and smiled as they passed. Kadi would have loved this.
The Witenagemot entered last. Holfast, Fenir, and Vorae were at the front, black robes recently pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Shining gold livery collars hung around their necks, and Nevandian emblem pins sparkled against the black robes. This was an important day for them, as well. Holfast had somehow held this country together for nine years. He had every reason to celebrate his accomplishments.
But Fenir looked jumpy, as Ruenen had said earlier. He twisted his hands in the fabric of his robe as he walked. His owlish eyes darted around the room, as if he expected Rayghast to pop up from the Underworld at any moment. Or like he was expecting some kind of attack . . .
Finally, Head Monk Baureo spoke. “You may rise, my children.”
Hundreds of bodies shifted, standing to full height. Marai could scarcely see anything over their heads. A particularly statuesque group of Henigis in their turbans stood in front of Marai. Peering between two bodies, Marai finally caught a full glimpse of Ruenen. His outfit was almost entirely gold brocade, except for the trimmings and lacings in forest green.
Marai’s heart swelled with pride and eyes stung with tears as Ruenen knelt to one knee. The priestesses blessed Ruenen with holy words and marked his forehead with a smudge of brown dirt. Dirt of Nevandia, his home and duty.
Monk Baureo droned on in boring words about Ruenen’s courage. His leadership. Marai’s ears tuned him out as she focused on Ruenen’s expression.
He kept himself composed and regal, but she saw the twitch of his mouth. The tightness of his eyes. This was an emotional moment for him. She knew he was thinking about the monks who raised him. They’d be proud of the man he had become. And the Chongan family . . . while they hadn’t known Ruenen’s secret, they would be standing amongst the crowd now, too, if they’d lived.
Ruenen agreed to the duties set before him in a strong baritone voice. Head Monk Baureo lifted a golden crown, each pointed bedecked with emeralds, high into the air.
“With this crown, we name you King Ruenen, of the House Avsharian, Sovereign of the great country of Nevandia.”
Slowly, the crown was placed upon Ruenen’s wavy chestnut hair. He stood with grace, a commanding presence.
“All hail the King,” shouted the priestesses and Monk Baureo.
“Hail!” The word echoed through the hall, loud as thunder.
Ruenen faced the room, swimming in sunlight. The recessional began with the Witan, then King’s Guard. Every guest bowed deeply once again. Marai could only tell what was happening based on the shoes of the people passing.
