Chapter 17 Sabine #2
I look around me, disoriented. As confused as the audience. Only gradually do I realize what’s happened. Kendan and the others have set me up. Thrust me on a stage and neglected to tell me I have the pivotal role.
The silver fey flares under my skin, demanding to be unleashed. To put this hateful woman in the grave for good this time.
“Show us!” Matron White beseeches. “Show us your power, O Immortal One!”
“You think I’ll perform for you?” I hiss at her, as if we’re the only people in the garden. “You locked me away. You made me beg for sunlight.”
She suddenly starts shaking as if seized by a holy spirit—never mind that I’ve seen this act a thousand times. Every Sunday in the convent’s nave, when she pretended to be moved by Iyre’s favor.
It takes me straight back there.
A little girl.
All alone.
Beaten and neglected for years.
Fey stutters in my veins, pushing and urging, until I can’t hold it back. I start to raise my hands.
“Sabine,” Basten whispers a low warning, but I ignore him.
“You want everyone to see what I can do?” I hiss to Matron White. “I’ll show them. I’ll finish what I started.”
My power aches to melt the smile from her face and reduce her, once and for all, to ashes.
Sparks crackle at my fingertips. The crowd gasps as my glamour falls away, revealing my shimmering fey lines.
“It’s true!” someone cries.
“She’s really her—look, she’s Solene!” another person calls.
I aim my fury at Matron White, ready to make brimfire erupt from the hem of her robes, when movement in the crowd catches my eye.
A few rows behind Matron White, a young maid, barely even twelve years old, lifts her hands. Her fingers are folded into the symbol of the Winged Lady. Her wide eyes brim with hope.
My fey stutters.
All of a sudden, my rage falls away, and I realize I’m about to kill a woman in front of the very people who are meant to follow me.
My chest heaves—I can’t kill her. Not here. Not like this. And, dammit, she knows it.
I force my attention off her smug hint of a smile and to the little maid. My rage softens at the edges, and I lift my hands skyward.
I shoot out fey toward the dark clouds. They part at my command, letting the sun pour down. From the trees come white doves, marigold petals clutched in their beaks. They scatter blossoms over the crowd like the day I got married.
The crowd gasps. Cheers swell.
My pulse hammers. I feel the weight of hundreds of eyes scrutinizing me, evaluating me, inspecting me, fearing me, adoring me.
This is exactly what I didn’t want. To lose control of my own story.
Kendan motions to the low benches on the dais expectantly.
I only stare, still flooded by so much attention and conflicting feelings, until Basten gently takes my hand.
“Together,” he whispers. “We’ll get through this—I’m here for you, always.”
I turn my wide eyes on him, clutch his arm harder, and finally let out a tight breath.
“Before gods and men,” Kendan announces, lifting his hands heavenward. “Today marks the change from one reign to another. One Astagnon to another. We come together not in a time of peace, but peril. Our city bleeds. Its people tremble. And yet, a bold new hope for our future has risen!”
My face feels hot as I gather the antique gown’s heavy skirt and, holding Basten’s arm for support, lower to my knees on one of the low benches. He does the same, and side by side, we stare out at the crowd.
It feels so vulnerable, like this. On my knees. The cold late fall air on my bare neck. The truth about my fae nature revealed now to everyone.
Kendan continues, “We place upon you, Lord Basten, a crown of crow feathers, the ancient symbol of wisdom and justice. Not as a reward, but as a charge. To protect this great kingdom against all enemies, human and immortal.”
Kendan signals to Matron White, who lifts the crow-feather crown from the velvet pillow and lowers it ceremonially over Basten’s head.
Kendan pronounces, “From this day forth, you shall be known as King Basten Valvere of Astagnon.”
Applause erupts throughout the Reliquary Garden with enough force to make the headstones tremble. Tears glisten in elderly maids’ eyes as they clasp hands with one another. The heralds posted on the castle walls raise their flags.
For a moment, I forget to breathe—then Kendan lowers his hands to signal to the crowd to quiet.
In that silence, all my worry creeps back into me.
“And now, we place upon you, Lady Sabine, our Goddess of Nature, Immortal Solene, the crown of the feather of truth.” Kendan signals to Matron White again, who holds the crown over my Immortal Crown braid.
“Henceforth, may you shield this kingdom against its darkest enemies. Let us crown our new regent, Queen Sabine Valvere of Astagnon.”
Matron White lowers the crown on my head. Her movements are perfectly reverential, but I don’t believe her act for a second—it’s impossible to know if she supports me or not, if she sees me as a traitor or a true savior.
I hold my breath, staring out at the audience.
“The Winged Lady!” A young man cries.
The Winged Lady symbol spreads like wildfire, until I’m gazing out at dozens of lifted hands in my honor. My chest aches with relief, with gratitude.
Sure, not everyone in the audience seems pleased—there are the old generals still scowling, a troop of soldiers who remain stony-faced. But still. It’s enough.
They accept me—as I truly am.
Basten takes my hand in his, his bright eyes more adoring than the stars themselves.
A sea of Winged Lady gestures flutters below me. I feel it—the weight of their trust in me.
And I think to myself: I can do this.
Matron White leans close to fasten the crown on my head with a brass pin, and whispers in my ear, “I still own you, girl. Fae or not.”
I don’t look at her. I look past her—to the young maid with the Winged Lady gesture marveling up at the falling petals.
I may be the one kneeling now—but soon enough, Matron White is going to bow to me.