For the first time, she was meant to have the upper hand. Fie tried not to panic. She’d already told the man she would go, hadn’t she?
But a Sparrow servant wouldn’t give a Peacock orders. He was waiting on her approval.
It was a very strange feeling.
“It pleases me,” Fie echoed. “Lead on.”
The Sparrow man bowed once more and guided her through the crowds as seamlessly as a needle through gauze, evading trains of satin that spilled like rivers across the marble, unsteady crystal goblets swung for emphasis in silver-crusted hands, fellow servants darting to and fro on business of the Splendid Castes. Finally he deposited her at the edge of the front row of onlookers with another bow and a sweep of his arm. “Does Your Ladyship desire anything else?”
She could barely hear him over the musicians nearby, who had begun a jig that rang too cheery in this grand sprawling hall. About to ask for a different spot, she changed her mind. Other nobles were sneaking glances at her behind palm fans and elaborate collars. Surely they wondered about her and what it meant that a prince would want her to see him become a king.
But this close to the music, no one would try to make conversation with her, which meant she could leave Niemi’s voice out of her head that much longer. She’d also have no need to fear someone bumping against her and finding a sword where there was only supposed to be silk.
She shook her head and then, as an added touch, flicked her hand in dismissal. The servant melted into the crowd almost too swift, andFie realized most of the Sparrows had to be calling on their Birthright. Even though they couldn’t vanish outright like their witches, anytime Fie tried to look straight at a servant, she found her attention skidding off to land on a sparkling jewel or a pounding drum.
Whether that was the Sparrows’ choice she couldn’t say, but she remembered Niemi’s blithe derision that morning. It was equally likely the gentry only wanted to be offered trays of delicacies without having to think too hard about who held them.
The pounding drum swelled in Fie’s ears as the sunlight began to dim. Solstice had kept the sun long in the sky, but finally it touched the edge of the cliffs looming over the royal quarters at the west end of the palace. The drum fell silent. A hush flooded the hall as two lines of gold-cloaked priests filed in, one from either side of the thrones.
Khoda had told Fie of the ceremony details, and she’d committed it to her memory with one more Owl tooth to be safe. All the priests before her now had been born royal Phoenixes, but either they’d been too far from the line of succession to hope for a crown, or they’d assessed—correctly, Fie would say—the average life expectancy of a monarch and decided it not worth the risk. Instead, they’d sworn a Covenant oath forsaking any claim to the throne and bound themselves to the service of a dead Phoenix god instead.
Once they were in place, the Phoenix Priesthood regarded the room with an odd kind of sobriety, Fie thought. There was a peculiar charge to the silence in the Hall of the Dawn, glances flicking between painted nobles like little shocks of static, as if to ask,Is this really happening?
Khoda had warned Fie of this, too; Rhusana was not universally beloved, and with so many of the most powerful families in the nation present, there was a chance they might take matters into their own hands.
But no one stirred, save the sun that sank a little lower, and save the priests who, after a long moment of unease, raised their arms and cried in one voice, “Now begins the night before the dawn!”
Music burst forth from the galleries, forcefully joyful and triumphant, as the Phoenix Priesthood began to sing. The first hymn praised the rulers of the past, the next Mother of the Dawn, and then the rest of the dead Phoenix gods got their due, and so on, until Fie was certain the only thing keeping her from falling asleep on her feet was the musical accompaniment blaring in her ears. Finally, the last of the sunlight drained away and the priests fell silent. All but two filed away, then returned, bearing two basins of sharp-smelling oil and two long, narrow strips of plain, undyed silk.
The two priests who had stayed positioned themselves before each of the empty thrones. They both picked up silk strips, then submerged them in the golden oil. “Warriors, have you chosen who rules you?” the priests asked as one.
With a pang, Fie saw they were addressing Draga, who stood near the center of the room. The master-general’s face glistened with sweat, like she wanted to vomit. Whether that meant she was still straining against Rhusana’s will, Fie couldn’t say. Draga gritted out, “We have chosen.”
A ripple went through the crowd, almost like a sigh. The priests called, “Noble houses, have you chosen who rules you?”
There was a pause. For a moment, Fie thought perhaps no one might answer and she wouldn’t have to do aught to foul up the ceremony at all.
Then a man called from behind Fie in a cold, decisive voice, “We have chosen.”
Heads turned, and Fie couldn’t help it; she turned, too. The man stood only a few paces behind her, and he wore a fine robe in deep Peacock green, but she was close enough to read the elegant pattern ofpearl, jade, and gold embroidered in petals and leaves over his shoulders. It formed a mantle of oleanders.
Her breath caught even as her own sense made her whip back around. Oleanders were no threat to a Peacock girl. Even though her hair stood on end, she couldn’t let it show.
More mutters of “we have chosen” pattered through the hall like reluctant rain, rising to a hum, until the priests were satisfied. “People of Sabor,” the priests cried, “have you chosen who rules you?”
This time the answer came like thunder, rolling about the room from soldier and noble alike: “WE HAVE CHOSEN.”
Fie couldn’t help but notice the lines of Sparrow servants banished to wait at the walls until the ceremony was over. Not a one had so much as mouthed the words.
“Let them come forward.” The priests nodded to either side of the dais.
Fie caught a shuffle nearby. Tavin was being led from beneath the shadows of the nearby gallery in a simple, well-made tunic and trousers of undyed, unadorned linen. Once again, his eyes found her. The corner of his mouth lifted.
Then, as he passed by, he gave her a slow, deliberate wink.
Some small, miserable worm of hope in her had clung to the notion that earlier had been a fluke; that she didn’t understand the ways of princes and palaces; that, at the very least, since Jasimir didn’t shine to girls like that, Tavin would have the sense to refrain.
She had been granted one small boon, though: any who saw her cheeks darken now would take it for the blush of a flattered young noblewoman, and not the rising bitter-burnt fury of a girl whose last scrap of faith had shriveled.
