Chapter 14
Kyrja stood by the window in the antechamber, Dania at her side and Nik studying the architecture behind her, watching the Fjorders gather in knots on the snowy street outside the Grand Kyrka.
They all looked up at the steeple with knotted brows as they waited in the queue to come inside.
From the narthex to which this small waiting room was attached came the rumble of voices, the most discernable of the lot being that of the old dominie.
Or, as she’d learned he was actually called, Erkebyshop Leif.
Highest ranking of the sixty remaining clergymen in Fjordlandi, and a man who’d given up all pretense of infirmity when Kyrja had told him that she intended to lift all the mandates that limited the size of the religious order and the kyrkas.
And the pew tax. And all edicts banning the carrying or owning of the Words.
Apparently none had been full laws, taken through the Two Councils and voted upon, merely sovereign acts, signed into being solely by her father and grandfather.
Which meant she could undo them now, without waiting for a new High Council to be formed or taking it before the Great Council.
“What happened to King Isidor?” The voice came from outside, filtering through the glass. “Was he injured? I hadn’t noticed him aging, to indicate his magic had weakened.”
Another voice snorted. “Perhaps there was something unseen—he could have been weakened by the emotions from the terror attack. He did seem angry. Something must have happened, for Andresa’s pet to think she can take over.”
“Girl won’t last a day.”
Kyrja’s fingers knotted in her coronation robes.
Dania’s arm came around her. “Ignore them. They don’t know you—but they will. They’ll see.”
“What happens if they reject me?” Her breath made a fog on the pane of glass, clearing again in the next moment. She’d spent the whole night after the Challenge researching what she had to do now to make her claim to the throne official.
The usually clear-cut directives had a bit of a wrinkle, given that said Challenge hadn’t been publicly viewed in the arena designed to house it.
She’d had to confer with the erkebyshop the next morning, as well as the six seats of the Great Council, all of whom had looked more than a little dubious of her claims.
They’d all agreed she needed to offer proof. The recording that Henrik had made, for one thing, but not just that.
Proof that the Giver had given her his anointing, according to the dominie.
Proof that she really could best any Blessed who came forth, according to the Great Council.
It meant a two-fold ceremony, and they’d wasted no time in calling for it, giving Reykstoll only a day to prepare and leaving no time for any Blessed or Fjorders in the other cities to make the journey. It was too critical.
First, here at the kyrka for the coronation, so that the same high society—the Blessed and the elite of the Fjorders—who’d sat stony-faced through her family’s funerals could bear witness to the Song in the columns.
Assuming it happened again. Giver, do I dare assume it will? I still have so much to learn about how to please you.
Even failing that, the erkebyshop would do his part of the ceremony, setting a white-gold circlet upon her head that she would turn into a crown of ice.
No more dainty little tiaras—this one needed to be a full crown.
With his guidance, she would swear the oath to Fjordlandi, promising to serve her people with all that was within her.
Then would come the part nearly as nerve-wracking as wondering if the Giver would send his anointing again.
The arena.
Dania let her arm fall away and peered out the window beside her, scowling as a Blessed bypassed the queue, head held high.
“You have nothing to worry about. You won the Challenges, and the Coronation Ball will begin with the recording of it. The Blessed will bend the knee to you because you’ve already bested the best of them.
The noble houses will bow too, and you can bet I will.
” She gave Kyrja a wink. “And I’m sure all the other Fjorders will follow my gallant lead. ”
Kyrja grimaced at the thought of that “bending the knee,” though. “It’ll be like all the practices with Einar that I inevitably failed at. All the Blessed throwing whatever they can at me.”
“So that you can prove your dominance and give them a reason to bow. It’s just a show.”
That didn’t help. “That’s the problem. I was never good at the show.”
“But you came through when it counted.” Dania motioned behind them.
Nik paced the floor, careful to avoid the tapestries, given the flames that tended to lick up his arms without warning. When Kyrja turned to look at him, he was studying something on the ceiling.
Seeing him doing something so mundane shouldn’t make new flutters flip through her stomach, wobbling about like a child on her first pair of skates.
But the look on his face as he studied the woven scene, the intensity there, the appreciation…
She’d never known anyone so enthralled by such old, simple artwork.
At their attention, Nik smiled. “I can’t believe my first time in the Grand Kyrka, I don’t even dare to enter the nave.”
Kyrja’s lips pulled up. She’d wanted him here, and he’d wanted to come.
But a man who kept erupting in flames, sitting on an old wooden bench soaked with centuries of polishing oils?
They’d agreed he’d better stay in the stone antechamber.
“Daemon said you’d learn to control it soon.
You’ll be able to attend services in a few weeks. ”
Though he looked out of place with his black leathers, it was a good kind of out of place. To her mind, anyway. She leaned into the cool stone arch around the window. “I’ve been thinking. We can’t keep calling your family Cursed, like Daemon has done.”
Nik faced her, a smile on his lips that somehow looked entirely different than it had two days ago in his prison cell.
It wasn’t the smile of a scholar, a friend.
Or not just that. It was the smile of a man who’d been sent into the fire and emerged as something new.
“I don’t know, Kyrja. I did walk into a kyrka and burst into flames.
” He held out a hand, fire springing up.
Kyrja chuckled.
Dania sucked in a breath. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“You’re demonstrating my very idea though.” Kyrja nodded toward his hand. “We’ll call you the Aflame.”
He considered, made an impressed face. Nodded. “I like it. Certainly better than my grand-uncle’s interpretation of things.”
“Renaming them isn’t the only concern.” Dania bumped her shoulder into Kyrja’s. “Once you’ve established yourself as the new queen, you’re going to have to introduce them to Fjordlandi. And that could be tricky.”
The very thought made her stomach go tight in a far less pleasant way than looking at Nik did.
Not that she didn’t want to grant the Aflame freedom to come and go from Helviti as they pleased, but, well, she had to make sure the citizens of Reykstoll realized they weren’t, in fact, the daemons they might appear to be, with their scorching heat, black leather, and the smell of sulfur that accompanied them everywhere.
Those under the domes, fed as they were by geothermal vents, would be accustomed to the distinct smell of the volcanoes, but those who lived in the open cities were more sensitive to it.
Nik’s hand landed on her shoulder, warm and soothing. “We’ll worry with that later. Today isn’t about us, Kyrja. It’s about you.”
“Nik’s right. And also,” Dania said, turning to him, “don’t singe her cloak.”
He pulled his hand back with a chuckle. “Sorry.”
She almost told him to go ahead and burn it to ashes—she’d rather have the warmth of his touch than this centuries-old heirloom.
But then, she shouldn’t be so cavalier. It was part of her history, held in cold storage between coronations.
If the paintings could be trusted, this very cloak, with its rich silver embroidery and white fur lining, had been worn by every monarch since the first Blessed who took the Ice Throne, over a thousand years ago.
Only when the massive front doors of the kyrka closed did she realize the chatter from the street had faded. Kyrja sucked in a long breath and turned to Dania. “How do I look? Are the pins holding?” She lifted a hand toward her hair.
Dania batted it down, scowling. “Stop it, or they won’t be. You know very well those curls of yours think pins are their mortal enemies, and it won’t take much encouragement from you for them to break free.”
“You look beautiful.” Nik offered her a smile and edged back, well out of reach.
She smoothed a hand down the cloak. Per tradition, she had it clasped for this ceremony, so that in all the images, it and her crown would be all anyone could see.
But once they arrived at the arena, the cloak would be left behind.
Under it she was wearing the last gift her mother would ever give her.
The gown she’d commissioned for Kyrja’s Blessing Day celebration. It had still been underway at the seamstress’s at the time of the explosion, and the woman had finished it a week ago, right on time.
The door to the antechamber opened, and Leif stepped halfway in. “It’s time. If you could find your seat,” he said to Dania.
She reached first to squeeze Kyrja’s hand one more time. “You’re our queen,” she said softly. “Don’t forget it.” Then she slipped out of the room, off to find the pew where her husband and daughters waited, along with her brother and his family.
The dominie’s eyes were on Nik, who stood with his hands behind his back and a rueful smile on his lips. “I haven’t caught anything on fire, erkebyshop. I promise.”
The old man grunted, but a smile hovered around his mouth. “Learn to control it quickly, son. I am eager for a few conversations with the one Gylfi has told me so much about. If you read all those books I sent to Harroby for you…”