Chapter 22 Jess #2
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 fear exactly that, 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.
Nobles stood before benches in ascending rank, those highest in the order of succession standing nearest the dais. Most of the men wore powdered wigs, another tradition I had never understood or appreciated. Women wore gowns, outlandish hats, and jewelry designed to match every other woman in sight.
Rows of soldiers formed ranks along the aisle facing inward.
As the procession reached the far end where the throne had been installed for this day, I noticed foreign representatives standing before pews to my right.
Tribal leaders from the islands of Vint wore brightly colored blouses with wicker hats adorned by even brighter plumes.
Clan leaders from Baz were covered in dark fur from head to toe.
The continent’s easternmost nations of Amnel, Pantrel, Orn, and Drea had also sent delegations.
The ancient isle of Rea Utu sent only one representative, a bent old crone who leaned on a gnarled staff and smiled at me through gapped teeth. I couldn’t turn to view the woman with the procession moving forward but felt a keen intelligence in her ancient gaze.
Last among the foreign dignitaries stood a lone Melucian.
At least a head taller than any of the other representatives, Keelan was a beacon in the night.
The Palace staff had worked miracles with his uniform, and the golden Lieutenant’s chevron on his shoulder glittered nearly as brightly as my own trim.
Conscious of the hundreds of eyes anticipating his reaction to the young Queen, he did not turn his head, but I caught a slight widening of his eyes as I passed.
My lips rebelled and curled a bit.
Before the final seat in the final row, the seat traditionally reserved for the Crown Prince or Princess, stood a terrified-looking Kendall.
I shattered protocol of the tightly scripted ceremony and stopped to face my brother.
His wide eyes rose to meet mine, and the loneliness I saw in his gaze pierced my heart.
I bent and cupped his cheek, then whispered, “I love you, baby brother. I’m so proud of you.”
Kendall gripped my hand with his own, kissed it, and eyed the impatient High Priest, who struggled to get my attention. I squeezed the boy’s hand one last time, then turned toward my duty.
We stopped before the first step of the dais, staring eye level at the Throne of Spires: a gaudy, gilded monstrosity that bruised the bums of kings and queens for generations. It was an impressive piece of furniture, but no monarch had ever admired it for its comfort. My father certainly hadn’t.
I groaned.
The back is padded, why not the seat?
The randomness of my thoughts kept some of the nerves at bay but nearly caused me to laugh aloud as the chamber reached a moment of utter stillness.
That moment passed with the rap of the High Priest’s staff, a whip-crack that brought me back to the present. I bent to rest my knees on the pleasantly cushioned faldstool and continued gazing at the throne.
Minister of Justice Willa Parto, the first woman to ever serve on the Privy Council, appeared from behind the throne.
Unlike the High Priest’s simple garb, Minister Parto’s robes billowed with splendor.
Seven hues of green representing the seven forested regions of the Kingdom ebbed and flowed throughout her gold-trimmed gown, while three ancient chains of office dangled from her neck.