Chapter 49.5 The Princess
My coronation is held at moonrise on the first of the month, which also happens to be the evening of my twenty-second birthday.
The actual coronation passes in a blur of finery and vaguely familiar faces of the noble families, my grip white knuckled on the coronation regalia as a powdered-wigged officiant places a gold tiara on my head.
Marton and Vakhrin's smiling faces swim in the crowd, and they are what I focus on to get past the discomfort of being looked at by hundreds of people while wearing a heavy bustled dress and stays.
The palace guards are stolid at the event, though in our private rooms later as Cherry and I prepare for the coronation reception, they are an absolute riot of congratulations and good wishes.
The fact that Cherry has made me their princess seems to have endeared her to them even further, their human queen and champion.
It satisfies me to see how loyal they are to her, to think how well they will protect her.
The reception for my coronation—I have trouble getting my head around that, the fact that I've been coronated—is held in the gardens. Cherry has sent all but a few of the nobles and courtiers back to their own residences, and this gathering is meant to be relaxed and intimate. Just for friends.
The palace guards make up a significant portion of the guest list, and it becomes clear to me when I arrive in the gardens—lit with a hundred flickering lanterns spaced throughout the flower-strewn paths—that most of them are unaccustomed to social settings.
They are not awkward or hesitant. It is the opposite. They are amusingly excited to be at a party, tearing through the garden paths like children or standing around talking to one another at a volume several notches louder than normal.
Half of them have changed into what I suppose passes for street wear among them.
Some appear to be in pajamas while others wear a bizarre mishmash of clothing items. A patterned scarf over a leather armored vest. A threadbare tunic and an ornate hat.
One gorgon woman wears nothing but a slip and a pair of elbow-length evening gloves.
They all stop to congratulate me and wish me well.
Some of them even hug me, which makes me awkward and sweaty.
Others bow or swear fealty to me, which by far makes me the most uncomfortable.
It is a relief when I spot Marton and Vakhrin, involved with a pair of Dragomira in what looks to be a game of dice but seems to also involve drinking out of a set of cups arranged in a star shape in the middle of the table.
Marton's cheeks are flushed.
"I'll remind you that humans don't have the same tolerance for alcohol as we do," I say as I sidle up to the group, slipping my arm around Marton's waist. He leans into me.
I am gifted a warm, sticky kiss on the side of my face.
One of the players, a dragon, goggles and stammers at my admonishment.
"Apologies, my la—my majesty. I mean your.
Your Majesty."
"Princesses are called Your Highness," hisses their wyvern tablemate.
The dragon pales.
Vakh just looks amused.
"Alright?" I ask him.
He huffs an exasperated laugh.
He is sick to death of me checking on him; he's told me so.
But I can't help that I feel responsible for the injuries he suffered during the battle with the king.
I was responsible for them.
In an attempt at humor not long after the battle, he had said to me, "Maybe I should stop spending so much time with you lot.
I never used to get this many head injuries.
" That was back when he was still suffering from headaches and short term memory issues.
He's fully recovered now. But those words are always there in the back of my mind to sucker punch me if I get too comfortable.
"I'm fine," says Vakh, shooing Marton and I away.
"Take your date and go enjoy the party. And happy birthday, Tarah.
No one deserves a happy one more than you.
"
The sincere wish, focused not on the fact that I'm a princess, but on the fact that it is my birthday, is oddly touching.
I thank him, smiling, and Marton and I go wandering through the party together.
Marton points out the types of flowers blooming along the garden paths.
Goldenrod, asters, pansies, and sweet alyssum, petals lit up in shades of silver and gray by the moon.
The party is interesting.
Everywhere are drinking games and loud conversations taking place.
A group of dragons compete at elaborate tricks with a flaming baton. Marton and I stop to watch for a while.
"Are you drunk?" I ask Marton at one point, but he insists that he isn't. He is cuddlier than usual, and laughs more often, but other than that I opt to believe him.
Cherry's arrival, timed to be just after all the other guests arrive, causes quite the stir.
She is luminous in a dress of reflective silver beads, refracting lantern light like a beacon.
The royal seamstresses have been working overtime to construct a wardrobe worthy of a queen, and this is their latest gem.
I shudder to think they may do the same for me now that I'm a princess. The title still causes a strange glitching in my thoughts.
I'm dressed simply tonight, in a floor-length gown of dark silk, comfortable and easy to move in.
Seeing Cherry's barely concealing dress, I am glad for the torches and pit fires burning throughout the gardens, to provide warmth for the humans and others susceptible to the chill bite of autumn in the air.
Marton and I have a drink with Cherry, my first of the night.
Vakhrin joins us and the four of us talk and laugh together.
We reminisce a bit on the long road it took to get here, but mostly we speak of the future.
About everything Cherry may build now that the kingdom is hers.
The night wears on, bubbling and happy and bright.
Marton and I end up wandering away from the rest of the party, deeper into the garden.
It strikes me that this is the first time the two of us have been alone together since the defeat of the king.
Out of nowhere, I begin to grow nervous.
There is so much between us now, so many experience and memories.
So many confessions and shared truths. And one great big giant omission.
"Marton," I begin haltingly.
"I wanted to tell you. I've been meaning to say.
.. When the king—" I cringe, realizing I do not want to discuss what I confessed to him when his mind was under the king's control.
I want this to be about something different.
I want to give him words as generous and beautiful as the ones that he gives me.
"Marton," I try again. "You are— You are the kindest person I have ever met.
And the most patient. You—"
"Tarah," Marton raises his hands as if to stop me, his tone sympathetic.
"You do not have to—"
"No, listen," I say.
"It's alright, Tarah. I know you don't—"
"I am trying to tell you that I love you!
" I snap at him, churlish and fearful.
His lips part in surprise, every inch of him falling still.
We have paused in a round garden courtyard with a burbling fountain at its center, the smell of flowers thick in the air.
The sky begins to lighten with coming dawn.
I force myself to go on, words stilted, heart hammering.
"I know you said love doesn't have to have a reason, and maybe that's true.
But I have reasons, Marton. So many of them.
You've made it impossible not to love you. " Somehow, the words come out accusing.
I am doing this all wrong, but Marton's lips twitch into a hesitant smile.
"I think you are one of the best people in the world," I tell him.
"Tarah."
"You have been like the dearest friend to me, and supported me through every situation.
You are one of the only people who makes me feel.
..good, about myself. Like I'm not—like there's nothing wrong with me, most of the time.
"
"There isn't anything wrong with you.
Ever." His expression is all warmth. He takes a step forward like he wants to reach for me.
"You would say that." I dance back out of his reach.
I am sniffling. Am I crying? Dear gods.
"You are—" I try to go on, but Marton catches me, his arms going around me, enveloping me in his warmth and his scent.
"There's more," I tell him.
"I don't care.
"
He bends down and kisses me.
It is a long kiss, plundering and wet. I am still crying.
"Tell me this is not you saying goodbye," whispers Marton when we separate, his arms still circling my waist. He is peering down at me with a hopeful but sad expression.
"Goodbye," I repeat, dumbfounded.
"But I'm not—" I stop abruptly. "Are you saying goodbye?
Are you leaving?"
He winces, his grip tightening for a moment before he releases me, stepping back.
"I wouldn't leave immediately. I'd stay to see the city settled, to see Cherry more secure in her new role.
But after that... This city isn't my home.
This palace isn't. And my future isn't here.
" His words do not surprise me, though they create an ache in my chest. "I would come back," he tells me seriously.
"I would visit. I would always return, if you were here.
But there's a world out there, and I've always intended to see it.
There's so much to learn. And I..."
And he's always wanted to learn it.
It's his life's calling. His future. I could never take that from him.
And I could never go with him, I realize.
Not now that Cherry has made me the Princess of Ithyma.
Not now when she needs me more than ever.
From the look on Marton's face, I think he realizes that.
But he says the words, anyway, as if he can't not say them.
Like a spell, they are uttered low as the morning dawns over the palace spires in the distance.
"Come with me, Tarah."
"I-I can't."