Page 94 of Golden Queen
"But nothing, Princess. We did not bring you here to ask your opinion," the Duke of Divestra added coldly.
"This is the only path forward," Bryce said, gently placing a hand over mine on the table.
I felt bile rise in the back of my throat as I pushed back from the table.
"Are you alright, dear?" Baroness Adiala asked, scrutinizing my face.
I nodded, but I turned and strode from the chamber quickly, barely making it to the door before I lost the fight and vomited on the marble tiles.
I was crowned in a simple ceremony with the ten eldermen, seven priests and priestesses from the Presarion, and Markus. There were a few other nobles in the seats before the dais, but I could not have named them.
Markus looked close to losing his temper as he barked commands to the pages. They had been tasked with guiding the long train of my gold and white embroidered robes around the edges of the benches that lined each side of the aisle.
The ceremony should have taken place in the godsgrass on the great gilded throne that rose out of the fields like a sentinel. Instead, my coronation was held in the castle's smallest throne room, as though it was a shameful act done in secret.
Acolytes from the holy order, young boys of only nine or ten, walked ahead of me down the aisle carrying sheaves of godsgrass in their arms.
We followed the high priestess, the old priest who'd named me as a baby, Behret Bazalrid, and another priest I did not recognize. They all carried burning censures of godsgrass suspended from chains at the ends of long poles. The sweet, smoky scent filled the air, stinging my eyes and throat.
When I reached the dais, I saw that the godslion pelt that had always lain across the empty thrones, had been removed. The last of the great beasts that had once ruled the plains, slain at least a hundred years before my birth, was always laid across the throne when the Windemerian monarchs were away. It had been in place since my father had broken himself on the stones below the tower.
In place of the pelt, lay an ornate golden crown on the cushion of each throne. The smaller one, on the queen's seat, was intricate and bright. Gold formed in the shape of pointed godsgrass stalks tangled around delicate spikes that held milky diamonds.
The larger crown was similar, but the gold was older—tarnished and dulled from countless years of polishing. The spikes were the points of swords supporting deep red, square-cut rubies. It had been made for Edgeon, the first king of Windemere, and even to me, it seemed somehow more substantial, as though it carried more authority.
My heart lurched painfully as I envisioned the faceless Behr Aldur who would someday wear that crown and have the right to sit on my father's throne. Even if he did not have the same authority as a rightful king would have with the sovereign contract, he would be my husband with rights to me...to my body. The thought was more than painful. It was devastating.
I stepped before my throne and knelt. It was a simple wood and leather high-backed chair—ancient and unadorned. It was the one my mother sat on twenty-one years ago.
As the high priestess began the long sermon that would usher in my reign,hisface formed in my mind—his smile, that dimple, the touch of his finger tracing the edge of my lip, the sound of his laugh.
The thoughts caused an ache in my chest so fierce that it stoked the angry inferno inside me back to life again. Before it could do more than flicker, though, the emptiness inside me abruptly swallowed it whole—like cold water poured over my head.
I should have been filled with joy. I should have been proud to be standing before those chairs, eager to take the place that godslion pelt had been saving for me.
Instead, there was only the emptiness; dark, endless, emptiness.
The acolytes laid the godsgrass at my feet as the priestess finally finished her sermon. She held a knife out to me. It was ornate, burnished gold and rubies—no doubt some ancient ceremonial blade.
I was surprised to see my hand was steady as I grasped it firmly. I felt the bite of the edge as I pulled my hand along it in a quick, smooth motion.
It was symbolic, of course, that I make the cut myself—that I sacrifice for the sake of the golden grains below me.
If I had been in the fields, my blood would have poured down onto the earth, an offering to water the godsgrass.
In the throne room, it only dripped onto the lifeless stalks in a parody of the rites of ascension.
I couldn't help but feel like it was an omen of what my reign would be—a farce, a spectacle, a half-hearted attempt at salvation forced upon us all by a faceless enemy. If war did not loom, these people would never have accepted me on my own on that dais.
The priests began to chant words in the old language. "Nefum calu Aelia, oan alva catka morgan."
I thought they were chanting, "Gods bless Aelia, our just and rightful queen," but my head was swimming from the amount of blood that was still pouring from my palm, so I couldn't be sure.
"Nefum calu Aelia, oan alva catka morgan."
I squeezed my hand, feeling the sharp pain of the deep cut and the sticky blood that had begun to congeal around the edges of my palm.
"Nefum calu Aelia, oan alva catka Morgan."
