Wings of Wrath (20 page)

But today all that mourning was to be set aside. That was part of Aurelius tradition, and difficult as it was, Gwynofar recognized the wisdom of it. Commoners might have the luxury of living in the past, but monarchs had to look ahead, to anticipate trouble and be prepared for it. Greater kingdoms than Danton's had fallen to ruin when their rulers forgot that simple rule. Or were perceived to have forgotten it.

Next to be announced were Gwynofar's own parents, the Lord and Lady Kierdwyn. Tall and elegant and effortlessly graceful, the couple smiled as they walked arm-in-arm down the aisle, finally taking their place to one side of the Aurelius brood. How different they seemed from Danton's hawk-faced get! Sometimes Gwynofar suspected that Danton had taken her for bride not only for the sake of political expediency, but to mellow the harsh features of his line.

And then it was her turn.

“Her Royal Majesty, High Queen Gwynofar Kierdwyn Aurelius.”

Slowly she walked down the long aisle, her long formal gown and ceremonial mantle trailing behind her, a uniformed honor guard flanking her on each side. Heads were lowered respectfully as she passed by, but she looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor did she even glance downward as she gathered up her skirts to ascend to the dais. A servant stepped forward and lifted the mantle of state from her shoulders, stepping back into the shadows with it as she seated herself upon the throne. The chair had been built to accommodate Danton's formidable frame, not such a slender build as her own, but she had enough nobility of spirit to fill its seat. Likewise Danton's crown seemed to sit comfortably upon her head, although in fact she'd had to add an inner band of quilting to make it fit. For this ceremony she could not wear her own.

And for that one moment she was, without question, the single most powerful person on the continent. High Queen in her own right, heir to the greatest empire in recent centuries. Tradition might require that one of Danton's male descendants claim his father's throne, but until that transfer took place, it was hers. A heady elixir, if a temporary one.

There was silence for a moment, tense and anticipatory, and then a stirring of movement at the back of the tent. No trumpets sounded this time, as thirteen monks in long brown robes walked up the center aisle, two lines of six with a single tall figure at the head of the formation. Brown wool brushed the ground around coarse hemp sandals, deep hoods casting faces into shadow, rendering the monks anonymous. As they approached the dais the twelve stopped walking, their leader taking a few steps more to set himself apart from them, much as they had done outside Danton's palace when Salvator had first arrived.

Heart pounding, Gwynofar stood. She had always found the rituals of state strangely intoxicating, and this one was no exception.

Gazing into the depths of the shadowed face, she pitched her voice to be heard by all those who watched.

“Who comes before me to claim the throne of the High King?”

Slowly the figure reached up and pushed the hood back from his face. Many of those assembled had never seen Danton's second child in the flesh, and a rustling sound filled the tent as people craned their necks trying to get a clear view of him. “I am Salvator Aurelius,” he said, “eldest living son of Danton Aurelius, and rightful heir to his kingdom.”

The secondary dais lent Gwynofar enough height that she could meet him eye to eye. There was no warmth in her mien, nor any sign of affection, only a cold and formal dignity.

“You are the son of a king,” she pronounced, “but you wear the uniform of another calling. No man can serve two destinies at once.” Sternly she folded her arms across her chest. “The time has come to choose your path, Salvator Aurelius.”

In answer, he reached up to the neck of his robe and began to unfasten it. Two servants hurried forward, one on each side of him, and as he opened the front of the voluminous garment they lifted it off his shoulders, allowing him to slide free of it, while a third removed his hood.

Beneath the brown woolen robe Salvator wore a long white gown, stark in its simplicity. Set against the peacock complexity of the court surrounding him, its plain white surface seemed to blaze with a pure and perfect light, drawing all eyes to him. He wore no jewelry save for a simple leather belt, also white, with the Aurelius hawk worked in gold upon the buckle.

Turning away from Gwynofar—and toward his audience—Salvator took his discarded robes from the servants, folded them reverently, and held them out to the monks.

“Bear word to your brothers that the priest they once knew as Father Constance has left their fold, and is no more. The vows of a monk that he once offered in your company are exchanged this day for the vows of a prince, and for his oath of service to his subjects.”

The two monks nearest him bowed their heads respectfully as they received the discarded robe. Then the small company of brothers turned as one and left in the same manner they had come: silently.

Salvator turned back to face his mother. Despite her attempts to maintain a stoic expression, Gwynofar could not wholly mask the glow of pride in her eyes.

Reaching up to her head, she lifted Danton's crown in both hands, slipping out the band of quilting as she did so. “Accept the crown of Danton Aurelius, and with it the burden of leadership.”

“I do so accept it,” Salvator said. And because she was standing a level above him, she was able to place the crown upon his brow without having to strain.

She reached about her neck to remove the newly-embroidered stole that she wore—it was long enough to brush against her ankles—and placed it around his neck instead. The gold-encrusted embroideries were all the more dramatic for being set against the brilliant white of his gown. “Accept the stole of Danton Aurelius, and with it the lessons of history.”

“I do so accept it,” Salvator said.

She motioned to the servants who had removed the mantle from her; they draped it over Salvator's shoulders now and fastened it with golden cords across his chest. “Accept the mantle of Danton Aurelius, and with it the charge of law.”

“I do so accept it,” he responded.

Lastly, she held out her hand for Danton's sword of state and a servant gave it to her. Its jeweled sheath glittered as she held it out to Salvator. “Accept the sword of Danton Aurelius, and with it the authority of war, which carries with it the hope of peace.”

“I do so accept it,” he said, and he took the sword into his own hands.

How like a king he looked in that moment! She wished that Danton could see him thus. He would have been proud.

Finally she stepped away from the throne itself. “Accept the throne of Danton Aurelius,” she said solemnly, “and with it, sovereignty over the High Kingdom, and all its lands, people, and projects.”

He stepped up to the dais, turned, and sat down in the great carved chair. “I do so claim my father's kingdom,” he said.

Only one more thing was needed now.

“The heirs of Aurelius will judge your claim,” she told him.

One by one, his brother and sisters came and knelt before him, acknowledging his sovereignty over their father's kingdom. One by one they publicly relinquished any claim they might have had to Danton's throne, and offered him their support and loyalty. For most of them it was merely a formality, but she did watch Valemar closely, alert for any sign that he thought his monkish elder brother should have left the field of politics to him. But there was nothing. Last but not least the Lord and Lady Kierdwyn came forward, and though they did not kneel, and owed him no subservience, offered formal recognition of their grandchild in his new role.

It was done.

Fanfares blared from both sides of the great tent. The herald announced the new High King in his finest voice. Salvator took it all in as if he had spent the last four years preparing for this moment, and in that moment he looked so much like his father that Gwynofar had to fight to hold back tears from her eyes.
Not yet,
she told herself.
Soon you can seek out some more private place. Time enough then to weep
.

And then came the final announcement. Those vassals who wished to offer their obeisance might do so now; those allies who wished to receive formal acknowledgment of their treaties might also come forward. It was a public call for acknowledgment of the new monarch and it might have been a risky maneuver under other circumstances. But Gwynofar had arranged in advance for a goodly number of nobles to respond properly, so there was little danger of embarrassment. By the time a dozen princes had stepped forward to acknowledge Salvator's new rank, it would be too public an insult for anyone else to refuse to do so. Whoever might have his doubts about whether a religious hermit could rule Danton's kingdom effectively would hold his peace for now.

Nonetheless she watched alertly for a few key faces, and not until the prince of Corialanus had come forward and offered his respectful congratulations did she dare to take a deep breath.

He is going to be all right,
she thought, feeling a knot in her chest loosen for the first time in weeks.
Everything is going to be all right. . . .

The sky overhead was black with only a single moon inhabiting a field of stars. All over the field surrounding the palace lanterns were being shuttered, bonfires banked, torches extinguished.

The long day was finally ending.

Salvator's face ached from the unaccustomed stress of controlling his expression for hours at a time. His mind ached from trying to remember all the names and faces he had met since his elevation. His body ached from ending four years of celibacy without so much as a parting nod, and then diving right back into the pool of temptation as if he had never left it. Dozens of noble ladies had been presented to him by well-meaning brothers, fathers, and regents in the hope he would find them appealing when the time came to contemplate his marriage options. Half of them had dressed like courtesans, in the hope he would find their jewel-bedecked assets tempting, and the other half were covered up from neck to ankle in the hope that they would be viewed as morally respectful choices. Not one of them had a clue what he was really about.

There had been one who stood out, though. A pretty little thing from one of the Free States—what was her name, Petrana?—who had seemed genuine enough. In the midst of the political maelstrom, with factions on all sides of him fighting to manipulate him, such a presence was refreshing. Of course it might well be a studied subterfuge, as so much in the world of royal politics was, but still, she was an intriguing prospect. And a tie to the Free States could be advantageous for him, provided their informal confederation did not fracture in Danton's absence. His father had never had access to those ports, or their attendant markets, though he had coveted them. Perhaps marital diplomacy could accomplish what war had failed to do.

But there was no reason to rush any of that. The more mystery there was about what sort of woman he might choose for his queen, the more his allies would be attentive and his enemies would be kept off guard. Patience in this case was the most effective strategy.

Soon enough he would retire and be released from this exhausting day. It was a respite long overdue for an ex-monk who had spent the last four years rising and setting with the sun. In the morning, of course, it would all begin anew. All sorts of festivities would be hosted by one delegation or another, as befitted a crowd that had traveled so long and so far to get here. And Salvator could not afford to relax—genuinely relax—for a single minute of it. The future of his empire depended upon the impression he made in these few days, on men who were watching like vultures for any sign of weakness or inconstancy. A heavy burden to bear.

But there was still one piece of business left for this evening, unless he mistook that game. And so he had left the halls of his palace, where guests still wandered in twos and threes, laughter resonating between the ancient stone walls, to seek a more private place, atop the highest tower in the palace complex. Long ago armed sentries had kept their watch here, with the land spread out bare and vulnerable on all sides, so that no enemy could find shelter from their scrutiny. Then the threat of war had moved to distant places and a forest had been allowed to take root. Now the land was bare of trees once more, burned to the ground by a servant of corruption. When the last torch was extinguished and the last guest departed, there would remain only that stark reality.

The land itself prepares for war,
he thought darkly.

The soft whisper of silk on silk alerted him to another presence on the rooftop. He turned to face its owner.

The Witch-Queen of Sankara appeared surprised. Of course. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not know you were up here.” Her voice was soft and musical in cadence, artfully pleasing to the ear. “I did not mean to disturb you.”