‘Assembled Ravens.’ My mother’s voice rings through the vaulted space, echoing from ancient stones. The crowd becomes still, preternaturally so, as though collectively holding their breath. Perhaps because none of them, apart from Michael and me, actually need to breathe.
I can do this. He’s with me.
‘Just over two centuries ago, I stood before many of you assembled here tonight, and took my own vows to Raven,’ my mother continues. ‘To uphold the throne, to govern our vast realm, and fulfil my duty of providing an heir.’ She gives me a fond glance. ‘And so it has come to pass. Emelia, child of my blood, do you take this vow? Do you take this throne? Do you pledge your very life to our name?’
‘I do.’
Yes, I fucking take it. I fought for this, just as my mother did. Fought against it, too. I think of the costume room, the shadows of my ancestors, the power I sometimes feel, burning inside me. I draw on the shadows, just as I do the light. Stand tall as my mother comes to me, lifting the crown from her shimmering dark hair, holding it high above my head.
‘And so, in view of all gathered here, I pass on my crown. To my blood-borne child, heart of my heart, bone of my bone.’ Her eyes are lined with red and she blinks, the world in her onyx gaze. I’ll remember this for ever. This moment when she hands me her power, when she lets me know how much I’m loved. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her. I smile at her, my heart full.
She lowers the crown onto my head. It’s surprisingly heavy for such a delicate piece, like a band of ice around my head.
My mother drops into a low curtsey, her skirts crumpling like petals. She rises, taking my hand and leading me to the throne. I sit. Michael comes to me and, on one knee, presents the sceptre with both hands. His fingers brush mine, a brief touch, as he bows his head. A reminder of what I’m here for. Of what we’re going to try and do. Together.
‘All hail the Raven,’ Varin shouts, raising his sword.
‘All hail the Raven!’ The crowd, as one, drops to one knee, heads bowed. As do Varin and Michael. And my parents.
I remember my mother telling me, in a jewelled room, that power lies in performance, as much as anything. And I’m the star of this show.
It’s time for me to shine.
ChapterFifty-One
DARK WINGS
Iam Raven.
A year ago, hell, even six months ago, I would have raged at anyone who thought this would actually happen. Would have cried and gone to hide in my room, all the while plotting my escape. But that was before Kyle changed everything. If it wasn’t for him, I would never have known what I could become.
Never have met Michael.
I know I had a lot to do with it as well, through the choices I made. But Kyle helped me realise what was possible. And with that thought, something dark and hard inside me finally dissolves, as though I still held a little piece of him. I let it float away, sending a silent thank you, just in case he might be somewhere, listening.
The crowd is a swirling mass of brocade and silk, almost as though they’re dancing, as the families line up to swear fealty. I stand near the edge of the steps, Michael just behind me, my mother to one side. And, one by one, the Raven families come to offer me their swords.
It’s a blur of gleaming steel, of bows and curtseys and murmured congratulations, as each representative kneels before me with their blades. I take them, just as I did at the Gathering, accepting their loyalty to the throne. To me.
Then it’s Mistral’s turn. Oliver comes forward, sword in hand, candle-lamp light gleaming on his golden hair, so like that of his father and brothers.
I accept his fealty. And give him back his sword.
As I do I see it.
The tell. The small bunching of his muscles, like a breath drawn in.
The room explodes into a blur of movement.
Michael pulls me back, violently. At the same time there’s a ripping noise like silk tearing. A thin line of red droplets sinks into the white satin of my skirt. I stare at it, unable to comprehend what’s happening. Michael drags me away, blood on his hands smudging across my dress.
‘Get her out of here.’
My father’s voice sounds ancient, inhuman, like the creak of a glacier, the scream of an eagle. His sword is drawn, his face a mask of fury. More blood sprays.
But my mother…
Michael pulls me from the dais, through a doorway where I’m lifted into Bertrand’s strong arms and run at speed towards the fortified rooms. The screaming from the throne room gets quieter, yet doesn’t lessen in my mind.
