Chapter 13
Thirteen
Sunbeams filter through the stained glass portrait of the Spirit Goddess above us, casting the cathedral in the glorious light that flows through her flaxen hair and pointed ears.
Far below, the rays illuminate the king’s lifeless body atop his funeral pyre, with birch logs neatly stacked underneath his wrapped form.
A black lace veil tucks under my circlet while I wait behind a wall of water pouring from the ceiling into the circular fountain that frames the Priest Elder. Since male priests still possess their tongues, he chants in the Dead-Fae language, filling the space with his droning voice.
The stream overflows into four drainage channels winding around the belly of the sanctuary.
I let out a small sigh of relief, as the waterfall and the veil offer some protection—a shield against the prying faces—because if they expect a show of grief, they’ll only be disappointed.
The king was no more than a stranger to me.
True to form, my eyes remain dry, while Klara openly weeps in the front row.
During our procession through the streets to the Spirit-Fae Cathedral, the crowds had hissed and booed, unhappy that I stole the heirdom.
They called me conniving and other less favorable names, making Klara cover her face in shock.
Their jeers still ring in my ears, and I can hardly blame them when I’ve taken away their pure-hearted heir—a princess who doesn’t need the Rite to glow.
Behind the wall of water, I sway on my feet until two priestesses take my hands and a third High Priestess carries my trailing veil as we march into the fountain and through the gentle waterfall.
The water hits my skin, making me feel alive, but we emerge dry on the other side.
They guide me down the center aisle, their steps in unison.
Mourners coming to pay their respects pack the cathedral. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some demon nobility sitting and whispering with Balor.
I’m sure Madame Phyrne and the Lady Courtesans are in attendance, but I do not dare search for them. With smoke from the burning wood stinging my eyes, I realize the pyre is lit.
The circlet grows heavier with each disapproving glance from the audience. I resist the urge to tear it off, tamping down my feelings and finish the stretch through the center aisle to the arched entrance.
Outside, the dazzling light is blinding as the priestesses help me into the royal carriage parked at the base of the stone steps. When I sit down, I startle, realizing I’m not alone inside the dark interior.
General Metalla also sits on the bench, not saying a word, patiently waiting. He raps on the ceiling, and we roll away. After a long silence, he says, “You should know Xander was a weak king. Too fond of words and braggery to be what Alexandria needed him to be.”
My shoulder muscles tense as I maintain a calm voice. “His people loved him.” The crowded streets are a testament to it.
Metalla sees my discomfort and exacerbates it by lowering his gaze over my body. Rage and frustration bubble up inside me in response as the memory of his boot striking my back flickers.
Soon, I promise myself, soon I’ll banish him to his country estate so he can waste away like the bitter old fool he is. But first, I’ll need to wait until the coronation is complete to enact any sort of change and have both him and Balor exiled.
“He didn’t have the stomach for the choices that needed to be made.”
Restraint lines every word as I counter, “And you do?”
He ignores my question. “You’re known to be a practical woman capable of making unsavory decisions, someone who knows how uncertain any title or position in life might become,” Metalla says quietly, like a spider crawling across silk.
My blood runs cold. “I’ll be the queen the Spirit Goddess commands me to be.” Having just left the cathedral, I use religion as a buffer.
“Be careful, girl, or you’ll drag this kingdom into ruin just as your mother tried to do. I haven’t dedicated my life to the service of the crown to watch you destroy everything I’ve worked for,” he rasps, leaning forward and closing the small distance between us.
I hold still, refusing to engage.
RAP, RAP, RAP.
He bangs on the ceiling. The driver pulls over just outside the harbor.
A view of the bay opens, filled with naval ships of various shapes and sizes.
Some sit quietly docked with their sails rolled up, while others move with full masts rippling in the wind, loudly blasting their cannons.
The sound is so intense it vibrates my body.
As they practice, I can’t help but think of Lir.
Without further conversation, General Metalla removes himself from the carriage and disappears toward the docks, his black mourning cape billowing behind him.
I let out a stifled breath.
Deep voices rumble outside. I assume the driver is briefly talking to someone before we leave again, but the muffled sounds grow louder and more agitated. The cab sways back and forth as if it’s being pushed.
I stick my head out the window, hair whipping in the wind. My driver’s shouts reach my ears, but I can’t see him.
“’Tis the royal carriage, m’boy! Unhand it!”
The crack of a whip punctuates his words as the horses whinny and hurtle forward. Nausea drops into the pit of my stomach. The driver chases behind us, flailing his arms and rapidly shrinking in the distance.
Back inside and gripping the leather interior, I’m thrown from wall to wall. The wheels bounce violently over each cobblestone as we race downhill at a breakneck pace for far too long.
Weightlessness rises within me as the carriage lifts and tips entirely. The world upends in a dizzying blur. My body smashes against the ceiling, then the window, as the carriage tumbles down and down, rolling repeatedly.
It halts with a bone-jarring crash. I’m frozen, every muscle screaming. The taste of copper fills my mouth. When I touch my head beneath the humming circlet, my fingertips come away sticky with blood.
My heart begins to beat in a frenzied panic as I realize the carriage lies on its side and that I’m splayed across a pile of broken glass.
Shards dig into my palms and knees as swirling shadows steal my vision.
I carefully rise, hunched over, before pushing on the crumpled door above—but it’s too damaged to budge.
The air grows tight in the cab, constricting my chest.
I close my eyes, fearing I’ll faint from the confinement. I can hear a crowd gathering. Someone jostles the broken latch, but they fail to open it. The movement intensifies along with my rapid breathing.
A deep, velvety voice orders the others, “Move aside.”
The carriage lifts slightly. There’s a growling grunt as the door wrenches away. A handsome emerald face framed by curly, burgundy hair looks at me through the doorway. He flashes a toothy smile.
With a jolt, I recognize him.
He’s the same arrogant orc lord who stepped on my dress after the Bidding Ceremony. He lowers a hand to offer assistance, and I don’t hesitate to take it—anything to get out.
He lifts me by one arm with such a smooth glide of force that I sail into the air slightly before he catches me at the waist. His agility surprises me as he jumps down and gently sets me on my feet.
I wobble for a second before looking up at his towering form, dressed in expensive red-plated armor that shimmers silver in the sun.
He’s taller than any human man I’ve ever known, but just as handsome. Maybe even more so.
Two men from the crowd unleash the horses from their tangled harnesses, and the geldings take off frantically down the street, bucking like mad.
The crowd of onlookers grows in size now that I’m out of the cab. Their scrutiny is the last thing I want so soon after leaving the king’s pyre—their harsh words still fresh in my mind.
The handsome orc lord is still smiling at me as the sunlight catches his eyes at an angle, making his orange irises gleam brightly.
I do not have time for this.
“It’s okay. You needn’t thank me yet. I know you’re probably in shock.”
I blink hard. “I’m not in shock.”
“Sounds like something someone in shock would say.”
“Sure,” I snap, pushing my fallen hair from my eyes.
He hands me a beautifully embroidered handkerchief.
“What’s this for?”
“You’re bleeding.”
Oh, right. I take it and pat my forehead.
“Since you wouldn’t give me your name at the castle, would you be so kind as to grace me with it now as a token of your appreciation?”
I eye him, unsure of his intentions. It’s surprising, even insulting, that he didn’t already know my identity, but I don’t have the time or energy to deal with his apparent flirtations—or perhaps plain stupidity.
“Your Grace,” shouts Captain Wellcrest from atop his stallion as the other members of the Queensguard surround the accident.
“General Metalla failed to adhere to protocol. He should never have left without securing our guard.” He gives my orc hero an assessing stare before returning his attention to me. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, a few loose curls bouncing on my shoulders. “Not seriously, but I wish to leave immediately.”
The chittering crowd gathering around has no qualms about watching our every move. Captain Wellcrest motions to one of his guards, who dismounts his horse. Wellcrest also jumps down, clanking and rustling in his full-body armor, before lifting me onto the volunteered saddle and remounting his own.
Once I’m comfortable with the reins in one hand, I straighten out my black satin skirt before noticing the orc lord still standing there. He gives me an impertinent wink and then bows and murmurs, “Your Grace.”
“I appreciate your efforts,” I tell him, nodding only a little, not wanting to encourage his forward behavior. “You have my gratitude, my lord.”
Before he can say anything in return, Captain Wellcrest whistles, and the horses trot away. Minutes pass as we ride back to the castle in comfortable silence.
I hesitate but ask the question I can’t stop ruminating on. “Do you think General Metalla planned the carriage heist? He was right there before it happened.”
“No. I don’t…”
After a long pause, I breathe words into my fear. “He doesn’t want me on the throne. He’d do anything to put his daughter on it instead.”
“While I agree with you, I still don’t think he’s responsible for this.”
“But why?”
He takes a moment, his voice calm and reassuring. “Because General Metalla’s not careless. If he wanted you dead, you’d already be, and we never would have suspected his involvement.”
“Then who would do something like this?”
“My queen, we have been at war with the Kingdom of Ashland for three hundred years, and the fighting only intensifies with the Witch-King’s attacks across our borders.” My stomach clenches tight. I know nothing about battles or war.
With my veil fluttering in the wind, we crest a hill that overlooks the turquoise sea to our left.
Sunlight reflects off the water, making me squint at Alexandria sprawling to our right, with the Hetaira River snaking through the city center before flowing north.
The towering castle looms in the distance.
I look down at the bloodied handkerchief I squeeze in my fist.
I contemplate Wellcrest’s words and try to remember the facts from my sparse history lessons as a girl, but little comes to me.
Alexandria and Ashland have been at war since before I was born, so it’s always been a fact of life and easy to ignore.
One that hasn’t affected me much. Not unless you count having to listen to decrepit men in uniforms drone on about naval ships and troop movements at balls.
“Could you bring me some textbooks about the history of our conflict with Ashland?” I ask as we approach the castle gates, the guards scrambling to open them.
“My focus is your safety, not books, but if you wish to learn more, find Mistress Wella in the library. She’ll want to meet you. I think the king also would have desired it.”