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“Lord Fredrick Greythorne,” the herald called, “regent of Renalt, and his wife, Lady Elisa Greythorne.”
Fredrick, his wife on his arm, gave thoughtful nods to the gathering as they both walked the length of the nave and came to stand in front of their chairs behind the altar.
“Captain Kellan Greythorne,” the herald called, “head of the king’s guard.”
Kellan, white-gloved hand on the pommel of his sword, had his chin held high as he walked alone to the dais, stopping on the other side of the throne from Fredrick.
“And now, all rise for His Majesty, Conrad Costin Altenar, High Prince of Renalt.”
Kellan and Fredrick both drew their swords—Kellan bearing the gold-hilted blade of the king’s guard, and Fredrick bearing the Greythorne family’s blade, its hilt forged to look like twisted hawthorn. They crossed them over the king’s throne as my brother began the walk down the marble aisle of the nave, the final length of his journey toward the royal seat. Two ushers closed the doors behind him, and the hall settled into an expectant silence.
As he got closer, the curtains that covered the stained-glass window were parted, letting the image of the Empyrea look down upon our ascendant king. Light shone through and around her open arms, as if she were welcoming him into a heavenly embrace. At the end of his walk, Conrad bowed to Fredrick and Kellan, then turned. The glow from the window lit his golden hair like a halo; he didn’t even need a crown.
At that moment, there came a heavy pounding on the other side of the crimson doors.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Then the courtiers in the pews began to whisper, looking to one another in confusion. Who would dare interrupt this ceremony after it had begun?
The knocks came again.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Hair prickling on the back of my neck, I looked back to the dais, where Kellan and Fredrick were leaning protectively over Conrad. Their swords were no longer crossed above him but were held in a wary stance on each of his sides, a cage of two blades.
From within the crowd, people began to move, separating themselves from the rest of the onlookers, doffing capes and cloaks to reveal black-collared Tribunal uniforms beneath. I stood frozen as they all gathered at the transept—there must have been two dozen at least—and stood in a line. Side by side, they looked like the avenging angels depicted in the frescoes of the Grand Basilica clad in flesh and dispatched by the Empyrea to rain retribution down upon the proceedings from which they had been wrongfully excluded. One of them took Father Cesare by the cowl of his robe and laid a blade to his neck while another went to the doors and threw them open.
There stood a woman all in white, her hands clasped in an exaggerated approximation of prayer to the Empyrea. Slowly and sedately, she walked down the nave, stopping at the foot of the dais before swiveling to look up at the balcony.
Her gaze fixed itself on the person at the center of it. Me.
“Ah, Prin
cess Aurelia,” she said. “So glad you’re here.”
My voice did not shake. “Magistrate Arceneaux,” I replied. “I wish I could say the same.”
6
Isobel Arceneaux was beautiful. It was the first and easiest thing to assess about her, and the most deceiving.
She walked the dais with a dangerous grace, her hair pulled back from a high-cheekboned face, her eyes dark and flinty. As a magistrate, she’d always been one of the most stringent in her observations of the Founder’s Book of Commands, the least merciful in her judgments. Toris himself had singled her out from the other clerics early on in her career. Had she been a man, I’d have put money on her to take his place in the Magisterial Council. But she had the misfortune of being a woman; while the reports from Syric had mentioned her name once or twice in passing, I never thought she could wrest any real power from the tight fists of the cretinous old men who made up the magisterial majority. Those goblins would rather die than let a woman lead them.
That she was here now meant that they’d likely gotten their wish.
“Join us, Princess,” Arceneaux said. “Don’t hide in the shadows. It’s your brother’s coronation day!”
The people parted for me, making a path to the stairs. I took them slowly; whatever game Arceneaux was playing, I was in no hurry to become a pawn in it.
“Magistrate Arceneaux,” I said loudly, “how good of you to come. But the festivities started early this morning. You’re late. And as I recall”—I cast her a withering stare—“uninvited.”
A white cape hung from the stark line of her shoulders. Her high, stiff collar distinguished the strong line of her jaw and the severe sweep of her dark hair from her brow. She gave her cape a swish as she lifted her gaze to me. Her irises were a disconcerting, deep arctic blue—only a few shades darker than the cold, cornflower eyes that still sometimes troubled my dreams.
“My apologies,” Magistrate Arceneaux said. “I did not mean to interrupt, but the Tribunal has been officiating the Renaltan coronation ceremony for the last five hundred years. We come to honor that tradition.”
“The Tribunal’s time is over. This is the beginning of a new day. For Renalt. For all of us. You can’t stop this.”
She held me in her cool gaze for a long moment. “Strong words from you, Princess, caught as you are—excuse me, were—between two callow kings: one without a country, the other without a crown.”
