Page 197 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

Banners hung from the walls in long green-and-gold falls. Someone had woven evergreen boughs through the railings on the balconies above and along the backs of the chairs reserved for the noble guests. The cold air was heavy with the scent of coming snow, bonfire smoke, and the clean, sharp perfume of pine.

As one, the crowd turned when we stepped through the doors.

The hush wasn’t quite the same as at a wedding, but it had the same quality. Word had traveled fast. I caught hints in the way people looked at Owain. Older nobles watched with careful neutrality, measuring him against Berian and Gruffid’s memory. The younger ones leaned forward, hungry for something new and stronger. The soldiers were the easiest to read. They already belonged to him.

Owain had put himself between his people and the armed men who’d come into their capital. He’d talked half an occupying force into standing down, while slaughtering the other half in secret tunnels beneath the keep. And he’d come out the other side of it having earned the trust of his nobility.

They were calling him the Dread Reaver of Larethia now. I hadn’t leaked the title the ancient Fae used for his kind, so I suspected it was Camrick’s doing. I offered no protest, because it was the kind of name people gave a man they believed would survive anything that came his way. At long last, the people saw that he’d been the man who’d acted as their shield and sword against any danger all along.

As we walked down the aisle of onlookers, I kept my chin up. The shoes cooperated. And Owain’s arm was steady under my hand.

I tried to step away with quiet decorum as we neared the front row of seats, but his arm didn’t release mine. It was nothing less than a public declaration of choice. And because he didn’t let go, neither did I.

So I ended up at the front where Camrick was waiting, trying to look as stately as possible.

I’d seen Camrick in armor before, but today he wore ceremonial plate. It was dark steel etched with filigree so fine it looked like lace, the design curling and interlocking across the pauldrons and bracers in patterns that were somehow both martial and beautiful. The cuirass bore a rearing stag, so deeply and obsessively worked by its craftsman that it seemed to breathe. His house’s symbol reappeared on his helm and greaves.

With only sparsely practiced religion in Larethia, power granted the crown. And as leader of the armies, General Camrick Allard was the one to do it. Now he was basking in the future he’d always imagined for Owain coming true. From the top of the dais, he watched on as the kingdom came to terms with the fact that he’d been right about his best friend all along.

When we stopped in front of him, Camrick’s magic-enhanced voice carried across the courtyard, speaking of the historical precedence, Berian, and their parents.

Then Camrick drew his sword with a showmanship that surpassed anything I’d seen from him before.

The courtyard stilled so completely at the glinting steel that I heard the banners flutter. He held the blade upright between them, point toward the gray winter sky.

“Owain ap Gruffid,” Camrick said, his voice carrying to every wall and window around us, “son of Amara, blood of Nocthel, heir of Larethia. Before crown, court, army, and people, do you swear yourself to this kingdom?”

Owain bowed his head. “I swear it.”

“Will you guard her borders, uphold her laws, shelter her people under your protection?”

Owain lifted his chin to look into his friend’s eyes. “No matter what it takes, I will.”

Though Camrick’s expression didn’t change, a subtle softening appeared in his eyes. “And should darkness come for Larethia?”

Owain’s voice lowered, deep enough that the words seemed to settle into the snow-covered flagstones beneath us. “Then it will find mine first.”

Every person in that courtyard believed him. The terrible truth was that it already had. The ring of steel and swords surrounding the seated guests straightened as one, almost leaning in like they were waiting for something.

Sword still raised, Camrick shouted, “Who witnesses this oath?”

The sound that rose from the soldiers was devotion sharpened to a point. Every one in the courtyard struck a fist to his chest. The sound cracked through the cold air like thunder.

“We witness,” they answered as one.

A lump formed in my throat.

Next, assent rose from silk-clad lords, from servants gathered near the archways, and from guards lining the walls, until the affirmation turned from ceremony to celebration.

Even as Owain sank to his knees, he kept hold of my hand.

Camrick reverently lowered the crown onto his head with both hands. The bright gold and emeralds shone vividly against Owain’s dark brown hair. To me, it looked like it had been waiting to find the right place to rest all along.

Camrick stepped back. “Rise, King Owain of Larethia.” Then Camrick dropped to one knee, sword held out in presentation. In this, he wasn’t Owain’s friend or confidant. He was the general of Larethia’s armies.

This time, the soldiers sent up a roar.

Yet as Owain rose, Camrick said, “But no man should rule alone. His Majesty’s Fae blood has recognized Lady Lunette’s, just as King Gruffid recognized Queen Amara. Fate herself has ordained it. They share a fabled mate bond. In the eyes of the gods, they are already one.”