33. Chapter 32
Chapter 32
A fter Sainte removed Adastrus’ head from his body, a stunned silence fell before chaos erupted. Nothar used him as a vessel, but his actions in decapitating my brother appeared to be his own… or so it seemed.
We left the training chamber in a whirlwind of guards amid mixed cries of joy and rage. In Sainte’s arms, each step he took jostled my body, wreaking havoc on my aching ribs. Every inhale was a struggle, shallow and rasped. My eyes would barely open, I assumed, because of severe swelling. Warm sticky blood streamed from my nose and a split in my lip, staining his tunic. Unable to do more than wince and hiss at each jab of pain, I focused on one breath at a time. I was alive.
Unlike my brother.
The high court called an emergency meeting, thankfully without me. Anderz advised that I stay in my quarters until summoned, a relief in my current state.
The door creaked open, and I squinted to see Sainte striding past four guards, his grip firm but careful as he carried me into my chambers.
“Fetch Master Healer, Gilead,” he bit out, his voice rough and cracking.
With a forceful kick, he shut the door behind him and stalked over to the table in my receiving room, laying me down. His face, usually so composed, now bore a deep frown, his brows knitted in frustration. He let out a heavy breath, reaching out to wipe away the blood that trickled down my cheek. I turned my head, attempting to avoid more of it sliding down my throat. I’d swallowed so much at this point that the coppery tang stained my mouth and churned my stomach.
“Did–”
“Shh.” Sainte silenced me with a finger over my lips. “Save your words.”
He offered me a sympathetic wince before he tore at the fabric of my bodice. Water pooled in my eyes, and I clamped them shut as a frigid coldness seeped into my bones, draining me, pulling me toward sleep. His sleeve brushed against my skin, wiping away blood to assess the wound along my ribs. I whimpered at the probing touch, longing for peace and quiet.
Time passed, marked by the creak of a chair as Sainte settled in.
At some point, Gilead entered, her voice a soothing murmur as she tended to my injuries. I bit down on a leather strap as she worked a needle through my flesh, stitching the gash shut. Once my wounds were clean and tended, Sainte moved me to the bed, his movements slow with care, as if I’d dissolve into dust in his arms. The tea Gilead gave me was bitter and foul. Its warmth barely touched the chill that ached through me.
And then there was nothing.
I glanced up from our card game as the door creaked open, admitting the handmaids and seamstress into my chambers at my call. Anderz entered alongside them, a familiar sight as of late. His updates, though cautious, kept me informed.
The past weeks were a whirlwind of events, yet progress seemed slow. Sainte faced a summons and endured a grueling interrogation by the entire court and their accompanying priests. They debated whether he had the authority to execute Adastrus. Nothar’s clear influence over him complicated matters, rendering the law almost irrelevant in his case. He belonged to Nothar as much as I did.
Aside from the business with Sainte, the council convened with the priests, debating my right to rule. The Rite of Combat hung in the balance, its sanctity questioned in the wake of divine intervention. Counselor Dyre didn’t hide his skepticism about the lack of support from Fiera’s followers. Their vocal opposition to my claim cast a shadow over the proceedings. While others hesitated to challenge Nothar so openly, they stood firm in their stance. Sainte’s bristling when Anderz discussed them spoke of something in his past, his lip curling in disdain at their mention.
Confined to my chambers, I awaited the high court’s summons, forbidden from venturing outside until their call came. Though, seeing the trio of women, I had to assume that moment finally came.
“The God Stones have surfaced.”
I snapped a card onto the table, startled by the revelation. Sainte pivoted in his seat, gaze locking on the newcomers as they rushed off to prepare my dressing room.
“The true God Stones?” I leaned forward, searching his features .
He responded with a pleased smile and slow nod. “Yes, my princess. They were concealed in Veiled Prince Adastrus’ chambers,” he said. “The high court requests a retrial of the Rite of Favor.”
A knot formed in my stomach, a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The gods’ decisions were never predictable. The last time I’d been in the presence of my people, I faltered. I failed them miserably, and the thought of disappointing them again drew a sour taste from my throat.
After a deep breath, steeling my nerves, I headed for my dressing room. Sainte trailed behind, and I took comfort in his silent presence. He was an anchor of reassurance amidst a storm. He offered his hand, helping me step onto the stool at the room’s center. As the handmaids set about removing my sitting dress, I caught his reflection in the mirror. He kept his back to me, for modesty’s sake, with a wary eye on the maids as they worked.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips as I took in the dark blotches marring my skin. Beneath my eyes, the fading bruises painted a sickly yellow-brown hue—a reminder of the recent violence I endured. My nose remained swollen and tender, a constant discomfort that woke me in the night whenever it brushed against my pillow. A thin, jagged line snaked from my side along the curve of my ribs down to my navel. The wound looked wicked, flat and warm to the touch, but Gilead’s expert stitching kept it together.
I rotated my wrist, studying the healed ring of vines etched into my skin. Togamar’s mark calmed from its angry red to a calm, healed pink. I suspected it would eventually scar to white, like any other wound.
I eased into the skirt the seamstress offered, lifting my gaze back to my reflection. Despite being battered and wounded, Sainte and I were still among the living, and there would be a price to pay for the breath that flowed through our lungs.
When I shoved my arms through the tight sleeves, Floria, the seamstress, called to Sainte. He turned, leaned against the wall, and let his eyes trail my figure, his stare taking in every inch, unhurried by the company.
The maids busied themselves with pulling the lacing snug at the back, pausing when I winced at the slight pain. The white dress shimmered with a sheen of bluish-green, like ice. Gems of matching hue cascaded down, clustering at the hem. It reminded me of the gown I’d worn during the previous Rite of Favor, with its bare shouldered, elegant design.
Sainte’s gaze lingered on my exposed neck and I smiled as Anderz walked in with a hum of approval.
“You have outdone yourself, Floria.” Anderz’s laugh filled the room as he circled, observing the maids and the seamstress making their final adjustments.
“You are too kind, Counselor Dyre.”
“I assume there will be a crowd?” I asked, easing off the stool to sit so they could start on my short hair.
“Yes, Your Highness. Just as before.”
I sighed, bracing myself for the inevitable. I owed this to Nothar for his intervention. He was calling, and I would answer.
“This will relieve the high court’s concerns?”
“Indeed. Though their approval isn’t necessary if you are favored.” He seated himself, surrounded by his usual calm essence. “If the godking speaking through his vessel wasn’t confirmation enough, the Yail and Nain shall provide a clear response from the divine. Many will gather to bear witness—the more the better.”
Sainte pushed off the wall and moved to his chest of clothes. He picked out items with deliberate care, oblivious to my gaze that lingered over his body.
“And if the gods give their favor?” I asked, smiling as he compared two daggers, setting the smaller one aside.
“You may choose the day of your coronation. No counselor can stand in your way.”
That burden rested squarely on my shoulders.
I didn’t know the first thing about leading a kingdom, but I had Anderz by my side. His motivations remained a mystery, but he proved himself worthy of my trust. Leihim’s advice would guide economic decisions, albeit taken with a grain of salt. Sainte’s wisdom would help with matters of gods and men. Then Counselor Aliea would assist with navigating the intricacies of state affairs. Nothar wanted me on the throne. With their backing, I would rule. Their support was essential.
Somehow, we survived this. Lyana and Ethyan were safe in Landing’s End. I was alive and Sainte was well. It was more than I expected.
Sainte’s eyes caught mine, and he raised a brow, likely questioning the expression painted across my face. I responded with a smirk and a soft shake of my head, earning a tsk from the maids as they finished pinning my hair in place.
“That’s the best we can do, unfortunately,” Floria said, wringing her hands.
I grinned, ignoring the tightness of my lips as the smile tugged at my scar, then dipped into a small bow. “You’ve worked a miracle.”
Their eyes widened, and Floria flustered, returning the gesture before they hurried out the door. Anderz followed them out, his pace far more steady.
I eyed Sainte, trailing my gaze down his body as he looped his thumbs into his belt, waiting for me to leave and grant him his privacy. He dropped his chin, tilting his head with impatience. I snickered, then took my leave.
“With Nothar’s blessing, we should plan your coronation with haste,” Anderz said. “We must act quickly to prevent priests and counselors from casting doubt on your right to reign. ”
“If you think that’s best.”
I propped my hip against the table, hearing Sainte’s sheath and daggers clatter to the floor. He changed with the door open, ready to intervene if anything dared happen to me. As if Anderz would lift a finger to harm me.
“The ambassadors remain, and most of the foreign royalty Adastrus invited are still here. We could hold the coronation within the week, unless you wish to invite anyone else?”
“King Reid of Gladier,” I said. “If I don’t extend an invitation, he’ll stew in his bitter rage. If he’s here, I can soothe his ruffled feathers.”
Anderz studied me with his golden eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he placed a hand over his heart. “Look how far you’ve come, my petulant princess.”
I scoffed, shaking my head as I waited for Sainte to finish.
After a few moments, Sainte stepped into the receiving room, buckling his belt. His black, fine-embroidered overcoat and trousers stood out against my white dress. A dagger hung at his right hip, a longsword at his left. His polished boots gleamed, and I smiled, knowing he spent the previous night shining them—a small, private secret of his that no one else knew.
I stepped closer, mindful of the stitches tugging at my side as I adjusted the chain around his neck. I pulled the center loop held by the wild cats’ fangs to rest in the hollow of his collarbone. His eyes darkened, following my movements, his face a mask of calm.
With a small smile, I turned toward the door.
Once I saw the God Stones, I knew without a shadow of a doubt the previous set was nothing but simple rocks, a trick of witchcraft.
A weight of importance thickened the air, charged with tension and reverence absent the last time I was here. Perhaps the cause was my brother’s death, combined with the weight of this moment. Yet when I saw those stones, I sensed it was far more profound. Just being in the same room with them was unnerving, as though the gods themselves scrutinized every soul present, probing our past actions and motives.
I schooled my face as I studied Yail. Placed atop a cushioned pillow, carried by a priest, its smooth white surface bore an icy frost. Despite the room’s warmth, his fingers appeared pale and blue.
Nain, however, told a different story. I understood now why the Priest of Nothar asked to see my hands all those weeks ago. No bigger than my palm, it bristled with sharp spines, resembling creatures from the tide pools on the coast—except this was hard stone, not a soft fleshy beast .
Facing the crowd, I fixed my gaze on the far wall. Deep breaths steadied my nerves as the cloak settled on my shoulders and the stones found their sockets. I inhaled again, forcing my hands to remain steady as I crossed my arms and touched each stone.
Pain seared through my palms. Nain’s spikes lanced into my palm, tearing with impossible ease. Despite my gentle pressure, it cut my flesh to ribbons. Yail’s fierce cold burned beneath my hand, sending an ache through my fingers and up my arm.
With my chin raised high, my eyes closed, shutting out the crowd and the pain. I searched for the feeling of rightness, the sense of home I felt when Nothar touched me.
“I, Elspeth Wynterborne, Second Born of Veiled King Vardis, call on the Favor of Nothar. Heed my plea. Answer my call as I would answer yours.”
My voice echoed through the chamber, resounding over the crowd that thrummed with tangible anticipation. Heart pounding, I paused for a breath, two breaths, waiting for something—anything. I opened my eyes and dared to peer over at Nain. It looked unchanged, save for the blood trickling down my wrist, over Togamar’s mark, staining my dress.
A searing burn shot through my left palm. I gasped, whipping my head around. My hand, frozen solid to Yail, glowed with an eerie green light. Frost crept from the stone, crawling up my fingers, spreading across my skin in a fern-like pattern. I took shuddering breaths, struggling to maintain composure as the agony intensified.
Murmurs and whispers rippled through the crowded room as a pained whine escaped my throat. I couldn’t stifle the sound or keep my hand from jerking free of the stone. Stumbling, I took shaking breaths and sought Sainte’s reassurance. From his place crouched on the stairs, he dipped his head in a bow, and when he lifted his eyes, they were alight with joy.
With a breathless laugh, I straightened. The priests approached, removing the stones with care, then eased the cloak off my shoulders. The chill on my exposed skin paled in comparison to the deep ache throbbing through my left hand.
I raised my palms high for all to see.
“Wynterborne, your gods have spoken! I, Elspeth, am chosen of the godhead, marked by Togamar and Nothar!”
Cheers erupted, and my heart swelled with pleasure at the show of support, not only from the crowd, but nobles and ambassadors, as well. My grin hurt my cheeks as I scanned the throng, noting a few who didn’t share in the excitement. This was just the beginning of my story.
As I lowered my hands, I turned to face Sainte, and gestured for him to join me. A slight smile curled the corner of his lips as he obliged. With purpose in his strides, he approached, his gaze never leaving mine, as if offering me one last chance to back out.
My grin grew, if that were possible, as I clasped his hand in mine. The crowd stirred, a wave of murmurs and hushed words spreading like a ripple through a pond. Cheers died out one by one as people craned their necks to witness the unfolding scene.
“Good folk of Wynterborne,” I proclaimed, shoulders relaxing as Sainte’s warm touch chased away the chill. “Our divine sovereign, the godking Nothar, has made his decree. He has chosen Sainte Nytestorm as his hand, and I, Elspeth, as his voice. Together, we shall guide your paths and steer our realm toward a bright future.
“Wynterians, I take this great moment in our history to announce my betrothal to Sainte Nytestorm, Nothar’s appointed vessel. I present your future queen’s consort!”
In one swift motion, I raised Sainte’s hand alongside mine, lifting them high above, a gesture that triggered a blend of astonishment and delight among the onlookers, marked by stunned gasps and polite applause.
With a glance his way, I caught his composed blue gaze, a subtle gleam of satisfaction twinkling within, while my heart drummed a fierce, unwavering rhythm.
Yes… this was only the beginning of my story.
The End.