Nik’s lips twitched. Perla wasn’t wrong. The group of them in their fitted back leather, inked skin, and partly-shaven skulls looked like what the king had always accused the Red Hands of being: bad news from their worst nightmare.
His mother wrapped her arms around her middle, as if the very mention of the world they called Above gave her a chill.
Fair enough.
“We’ll really be able to just leave?” She looked around her, and Nik wondered what she saw. What was new and strange to him would be familiar to her. Comforting? Or hated?
Daemon sighed. “She also asks that we stick to Reykstoll for now, until she can establish a new High Council and reorder the Great Council. She’s reaffirmed her offer of seats on either or both—and frankly, I don’t think she has any other Blessed in mind for the remaining ones. We’re her only allies right now—and it’s going to take me a century or so to wrap my mind aroundthat. But if you want to leave, then leave. I don’t see what she could do about it.”
“Don’t. Please.” Cursing, now, that he was stuck in this tub of lava, Nik held up a hand, palm out. “Kyrja will bring changes Fjordlandi needs—changes we all need. Don’t judge her by her father or grandfather. Don’t cut her off at the knees on her first day as queen. And also…” He looked from one unfamiliar set of eyes to the other. “Don’t underestimate her. She just defeated the king who’d held you all prisoner for the last century, all twelve of the strongest Blessed, and did it all on a cliffside overlooking a volcano that should have melted her ice and turned the water she called to steam. She’s not the weakling her father thought her.”
Daemon gave a slow nod. “Your reminder is wise. She is clearly stronger than the other Blessed combined. That’s nothing to take lightly. As for what she’ll do with it? We’ll have to see. But make no mistake, little brother.” His gaze glowed with reflected fire. “We are her allies only as long as she keeps her promises to help all the Fjordic, thanes especially—and we children of fire included. The moment she turns on us, she learns what it feels like to burn.”
Nik lifted his chin, unable to explain why fire leapt to life inside of him, its sole purpose to defend her. “She won’t forget. She won’t betray us.”
His mother sighed and shifted toward the opening. “With all due respect, son, you’ve only known her a month.”
Nik tilted his head. “With all due respect, Elianne, that’s a month longer than I’ve known either of you.”
14
Kyrja stood by the window in the antechamber, Dania at her side and Nik studying the architecture behind her, watching the Fjorders gather in knots on the snowy street outside the Grand Kyrka. They all looked up at the steeple with knotted brows as they waited in the queue to come inside. From the narthex to which this small waiting room was attached came the rumble of voices, the most discernable of the lot being that of the old dominie.
Or, as she’d learned he wasactuallycalled, Erkebyshop Leif. Highest ranking of the sixty remaining clergymen in Fjordlandi, and a man who’d given up all pretense of infirmity when Kyrja had told him that she intended to lift all the mandates that limited the size of the religious order and the kyrkas. And the pew tax. And all edicts banning the carrying or owning of the Words. Apparently none had been full laws, taken through the Two Councils and voted upon, merely sovereign acts, signed into being solely by her father and grandfather.
Which meant she could undo them now, without waiting for a new High Council to be formed or taking it before the Great Council.
“What happened to King Isidor?” The voice came from outside, filtering through the glass. “Was he injured? I hadn’t noticed him aging, to indicate his magic had weakened.”
Another voice snorted. “Perhaps there was something unseen—he could have been weakened by the emotions from the terror attack. He did seem angry. Something must have happened, for Andresa’s pet to think she can take over.”
“Girl won’t last a day.”
Kyrja’s fingers knotted in her coronation robes.
Dania’s arm came around her. “Ignore them. They don’t know you—but they will. They’ll see.”
“What happens if they reject me?” Her breath made a fog on the pane of glass, clearing again in the next moment. She’d spent the whole night after the Challenge researching what she had to do now to make her claim to the throne official.
The usually clear-cut directives had a bit of a wrinkle, given that said Challenge hadn’t been publicly viewed in the arena designed to house it. She’d had to confer with the erkebyshop the next morning, as well as the six seats of the Great Council, all of whom had looked more than a little dubious of her claims.
They’d all agreed she needed to offer proof. The recording that Henrik had made, for one thing, but not just that.
Proof that the Giver had given her his anointing, according to the dominie.
Proof that she really could best any Blessed who came forth, according to the Great Council.
It meant a two-fold ceremony, and they’d wasted no time in calling for it, giving Reykstoll only a day to prepare and leaving no time for any Blessed or Fjorders in the other cities to make the journey. It was too critical.
First, here at the kyrka for the coronation, so that the same high society—the Blessed and the elite of the Fjorders—who’dsat stony-faced through her family’s funerals could bear witness to the Song in the columns.
Assuming it happened again.Giver, do I dare assume it will? I still have so much to learn about how to please you.
Even failing that, the erkebyshop would do his part of the ceremony, setting a white-gold circlet upon her head that she would turn into a crown of ice. No more dainty little tiaras—this one needed to be a full crown. With his guidance, she would swear the oath to Fjordlandi, promising to serve her people with all that was within her.
Then would come the part nearly as nerve-wracking as wondering if the Giver would send his anointing again.
The arena.
