Page 56 of An Archer's Redemption

“Fear not, my brave Melucian friend, it is I, not you, who faces the gallows on this day.”

We entered the Throne Room through the side door closest to the dais, and I was surprised to find my Council assembled, each dressed in traditional black robes with the heavy golden chains of their office. Their ceremonial black hats trimmed in glittering gold made me grin. As a young girl attending my first state function, I asked a little too loudly why the Council wore fancy cooking pots on their heads. My father, ever present in his role as monarch, lost all composure as my tiny voice filled the audience chamber and stricken looks spread throughout the assembled nobles. I never heard the King laugh so hard in the Throne Room.

And now they wore those same cooking pots for me.

I stifled a laugh and strode forward.

Each Minister bowed, far more reverently than I had experienced from the nation’s leaders before. Each in turn grasped my outstretched hand and kissed it. I was so distracted by their display of respect that I missed the man standing by the massive chamber doors. With a start, I ignored the remaining Councilors, lifted my billowing gown, and raced into the stunned man’s arms.

“Uncle Ethan!” I squealed in a most un-queenly manner.

General Ethan Marks had returned to the capital after the Kingdom’s crushing defeat in Melucia. The wintery journey covering hundreds of leagues and two mountain ranges had taken months. I had given up on him making it back for my coronation, yet here he stood, shoulders draped with the ridiculous hunter’s fur he always insisted on wearing.

I didn’t care about any of that now.

With my father, mother, and brother gone, Ethan represented one of the last vestiges of family I had left.

“I would have moved the Spires to be here for you today.” He held my shoulders at arm’s length and smiled. “I am so proud of you, and I know your father is proud of you, too.”

At the invocation of my father, my smile drifted from jubilant to wistful, yet it did not fall. “When the ceremony is complete, we should talk. There is something I need to ask you.”

He released my shoulders and bowed. “My life is yours, Majesty.”

A moment later, I turned to face the Council, each of whom watched the exchange with Marks. “I suppose I cannot run away again, can I?”

The stricken looks on the Ministers’ faces caught me by surprise. I meant the question as a lighthearted jest, but it appeared to strike too close to some unseen mark.

Ethan whispered from behind, “They fearexactlythat, Majesty, after your most recent . . . adventure.”

I straightened my back and made eye contact with each Minister. “You are our Privy Council, the heart of our government and our most cherished advisors. Each of you has pledged your life to my Kingdom and our reign. Today, we pledge ours in return. Hear the oath we speak from the dais, and know we willingly offer ourselves in service to this Kingdom until we draw our last breath.”

The Ministers dropped to aged knees and bowed their heads.

Ethan followed their lead.

I was startled but noticed Keelan standing quietly in the corner by the door we had entered. He nodded through an unreadable expression.

Dozens of butterflies fluttered within my chest as I turned and, alone, passed through the chamber’s entrance toward my waiting carriage.

Festive crowds lined thoroughfares and cheered along the entire length of road from Palace to Temple. My gilded and heavily armored box-on-wheels was sandwiched between a hundred men on horseback. The streets had been cleared of the prior day’s dusting of snow to ensure easy passage and clear viewing for the anticipated throng.

The park that sat across from the ancient Temple was overflowing with well-wishing commoners, while nobles in their ceremonial finery and outlandish jewelry stood quietly behind rows of sharply uniformed guards who lined the walk that led into the marbled building.

As I emerged from the carriage and took my first few steps, the crowd erupted.

Men and women on either side bowed and curtsied in a continuous wave that preceded me by several paces. I had to remind myself not to look to either side, rather to hold my head erect and proceed in a slow, dignified manner befitting an incoming monarch. Everything was scripted and rehearsed, but nothing could have prepared me for my racing heart.

I approached the gilded doors of the Temple and was greeted by the High Priest, a kindly old man with unruly wisps of winter wafting in the breeze. He wore simple white robes trimmed in faded gold that spoke more of a humble servant than the exalted leader of the country’s dominant faith.

I had always liked our High Priest.

The vicar bowed, adjusted his ceremonial cap, and said in a familiar, fatherly tone, “Welcome, child. Forgive me while I set my cook pot to rights.”

Upon later reflection, resisting a laugh at his unwitting use of my private childhood joke might have been the most challenging thing I did that day. Only a small snort escaped before we were moving again.

Two towering guards smacked their pikes to marble, then opened the Temple’s doors in a painfully slow motion. The High Priest rose, took my proffered hand, and led me inside like a father ready to offer his daughter to a new husband. The light, sweet scent of incense greeted us as tightly knit harmonies of a choir rose and fell in melodic beauty.

The Temple’s interior consisted of one massive aisle lined on either side by five ascending rows of padded benches that faced each other. I always thought it looked like two opposing armies waiting for a bugle to charge forward. My father insisted this was a house of worship, though my innocent analogy held more truth regarding schisms in the faith than any child could ever understand.

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