Page 24 of Valdemar

The coronation was to be held outdoors, in front of the—well, it wasn’t the manor anymore, it was now officially the Palace. As they exited the main front doors, the crowd that packed every inch of space between the raised steps and the vast expanse of grass (normally used to graze sheep) between the Palace and the wall erupted into a deafening cheer that brought blood to his face in a blush. It was an unexpectedly colorful crowd—he hadn’t been used to seeing massed people as anything but a brown, tan, gray, and cream patchwork for the longest time. Polished metal glinted, and colors that had been safely kept in storage for the last ten years flaunted their brightness in the sun, like a massive—and noisy—ornamental flower garden. Among them was Pebble, who slowly waved a massive arm, while the elemental’s other arm and both shoulders bore a half-dozen revelers.

For once, Kordas was speechless. There was a flutter in his stomach and his heart pounded; he strode out in confidence, but was struck by the feelings that cheer brought on. He had never been more embarrassed or more gratified. And at the same time, the weight of his new responsibility settled on his shoulders like a too-heavy cloak.

Kordas felt the invisible defenses set up to defend the event with each step he took, a sensation that made him feel a bit like a rag squeezed through rollers. A glimpse with mage-sight showed arches and domes of force grown upon each other as far as he could see, arrayed in geometric patterns as high as a sparrow’s flight—a sure sign that the Hawkbrothers’ mages had been at work.

“No procession,” he had decreed. And so, indeed, there was no procession for him and Isla. They simply exited the front door, and stopped beneath the portico. But as they came into view, the massed trumpeters of the ten heralds to the left (led by Beltran) began a brand-new fanfare and processional song anyway—written by Rothas Sunsinger, with help from his mentor. They weren’t all his heralds; he’d borrowed them from some of his highborn. But today they all wore the blue and white Valdemar-crest tabards that had also been taken from storage. And to the right, a massed choir made up of anyone with a decent voice and a good memory sang the words.

That choir had been a stroke of genius on Isla’s part. It was a microcosm of all of Valdemar, with people from every possible background and profession, and every age from adolescent to Old Man. He felt his eyes burn with tears of pride as he looked at them.

Voices together, a shared song. This is real. It’s all come to this, and it is real.

And up a cleared path leading from the gate to the Palace came the various religious dignitaries led by Father Jorj, and including Silvermoon, who represented the Hawkbrothers’ Star-Eyed Goddess Kal’enel. And the cat, Sydney-You-Asshole, who marched ahead of them as if he was their leader. Improbably old—especially considering his bold life of mischief—white hairs sprinkled his coat like stars in the night sky, but age had not diminished his sense of self-worth in the slightest. Which was, of course, that he, Sydney, was worth ten of any human god-botherers, and he, being cat, would go first.

All of them were clad more or less magnificently, except Father Jorj. Silvermoon was particularly resplendent in flowing green robes cut to resemble leaves and made of silk taken, it was said, from very cooperative spiders. His long silver hair had been turned into an artwork of braids, beads, crystals, and feathers from his bondbird, and he sparkled in the sunlight, putting some of the more soberly dressed clerics in the shade.

Rather than start any kind of a quarrel among the various representatives of the various religions of his people about who was to do the actual crowning, Kordas had, from the start, put his foot down again and dictated that part of the coronation, at least. “My family has always had the patronage of Lady Epona, the Goddess of Horses,” he had said the moment the entire Council and all of the representatives had met for the initial discussion. “Isla and I will be crowned by Father Jorj.”

They’d all been taken aback at first, but after a moment of reflection, everyone agreed immediately, and not just because Kordas had made his feelings clear. Of all of the religious figures in the—now Kingdom of Valdemar—Father Jorj was probably the most humble and the least inclined to put himself forward or engage in disputes, and was universally regarded as a peacemaker. And no one could deny the long patronage that the Temple of Epona had had from the Dukes of Valdemar. Virtually every possible religious function in the Duchy household had been conducted by the religious leaders of Epona.

Now . . . this was not just a ploy to keep dissension to a minimum. Kordas was deliberately setting an example by choosing Father Jorj to preside over the event—beginning his reign as he meant to go on, displaying that he was serving his people rather than being served by them. So the relatively young Jorj strode along in front of the rest, just behind Sydney, blond head high, and his outfit could not have been more different from that of his fellows if he had tried. It was all of light tan-colored leather except for a white linen shirt: sleeved, front-laced tunic, riding trousers, boots. The metalwork was all brass and resembled horse furniture. The leather of the tunic had been tooled with a border of horses. There was nothing in his hands to represent power or authority, and nothing on his belt but a ceremonial riding crop. Behind him came a boy and a girl in versions of Jorj’s ceremonial clothes, bearing the two crowns on miniature horse blankets made of the mane and tail hair from Valdemar Golds.

The coronation song—which, to be fair, mostly consisted of variations on “May the Gods save and protect the King and Queen, and the Land, Beasts, and Peoples of Valdemar”—ended as the procession of priestly types reached the steps. It was Jorj alone who ascended the steps, followed by the children.

The crowd fell silent. A light breeze sprang up, bringing with it the scent of trampled grass. Kordas had to control himself to keep his hands from shaking; this felt an awful lot like terror to him, and he reached for Isla’s hand only to find her reaching for his, and squeezing it comfortingly. And I am just waiting for something to go horribly wrong. This is the moment in wonder tales where something goes horribly wrong.

Jorj turned to face the crowd. Kordas had no idea what he was going to say, only that he knew Jorj was a good speaker, and a good speechmaker, and he trusted the man completely.

And Jorj did not disappoint.

“Ten years ago, we all faced a dire threat, and yet very few of us were aware of that fact,” his voice boomed out in the silence. “The Emperor had cast his greedy eyes on our peaceful home, and had decided that the time had come to pillage it for his endless wars. For decades, the Dukes of Valdemar had protected us from the rapaciousness of the Emperor by keeping us prosperous, but not too prosperous, by making us dull and uninteresting to their Court, and by keeping the politics of the Empire as far from us as they could. But that was to be no more.”

Jorj summed up the story with admirable brevity, and although Kordas had to suppress several winces when Jorj trumpeted out what was commonly known, rather than the actual truth, the fact was only he and Beltran knew the truth and that was how he wanted to keep it. So Jorj said nothing about how he had murdered the Emperor—only that he’d freed the child-Elemental they now called “Pebble,” and the Emperor had perished, along with the Capital, when Pebble’s mother came to Pebble’s rescue.

Then Jorj gave an even briefer summary of the temporary home at Crescent Lake, why they’d had to leave, and how Kordas had kept them safe until the Hawkbrothers appeared to offer them their new home.

Only then did he wax somewhat rhapsodic, thanking the Tayledras for their protection and hospitality, enough that he actually brought a faint blush to Silvermoon’s cheeks. Kordas had to repress a grin, and felt any incipient terror bleed off to see someone else as the focus of all attention. Good! Let Silvermoon suffer a little too! And so far, nothing had gone horribly wrong.

“Together with our allies, we have prevailed against misfortunes that came our way. We drove off the green beetles. We survived the arrowclicks. We managed to eradicate the nimworms. The magic-Changed creatures of the Pelagirs discovered they had become the hunted rather than the hunters, and the cry of ‘Tonight we eat pork!’ rang through the land.” He paused for the chuckles his tension-breaker called forth. “This was not an easy land of milk and honey, but it was, and is, a good land, and after its judgment, this land eventually welcomed us.”

He paused to let everyone mull that over.

“But as we expand, we will inevitably meet more strangers, and there will inevitably be conflicts, though our intent be peaceful. These strangers will need to see that though we are many, we are one, united beneath an inspiring leader with proven vision, cleverness, and strength.”

Kordas could not help but notice that Jorj had not said one word about the thousand or so who had broken away to form their own little colonies—and, if the Hawkbrothers were correct, a fair number had joined forces with a mage rumored to be quite powerful. Probably a good idea. Let’s not bring dissent into the picture at this moment.

Jorj cast a glance behind him, and there was a twinkle in his eye that made Kordas suddenly wary of what the man was about to say. “So we need a King. And you, all of the people of Valdemar, backed by the Court, have agreed. That King shall be Kordas. It is said in the Book of Epona that the best leader is the man who resists being crowned, and I am sure you all have noticed that he has resisted with all his might and wit.”

A roar of laughter greeted this statement, and it was Kordas’s turn to blush and drop his chin a little.

Jorj waited until the laughter had died down before continuing. “And I have been given the blessed duty of crowning him on this day. Kordas, please come before me. And do not bow nor kneel, for you yourself have decreed that there shall be neither of these things in Valdemar, except as a courtesy, and not to show subservience.”

Kordas took a single step forward and bowed his head slightly in respect. Jorj took the crown from the girl’s pillow, held it up so that it gleamed in the sunlight, and placed it firmly on Kordas’s head.

“And so I crown you King Valdemar, the first of his name. May you reign over us and guide us with wisdom, courage, and compassion!”

As Kordas stepped back, Rothas led the choir in a burst of “Gods save and bless the King!” Kordas had deliberately chosen his family name as his coronation name. It seemed fitting, since the plot to bring all of the Duchy’s people out of the greedy hands of the Emperor had begun and been undertaken by his father, and his father’s father. If things had gone differently, it might have been an adult Restil who stands here now, and not me.

When the choir was done, Jorj’s voice boomed out again, enhanced and projected by magic, of course. And that telecaster that had provided so much entertainment at Crescent Lake had been unpacked and set up, so that all the people on the other side of the wall and down in Haven could see and hear what was going on—probably better than those massed in front of him.