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?”
