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Erida eyed them as she passed, ascending the steps of the Madrentine throne.
The Joy began to sing, her voice weaving through manylanguages. Gallish, Madrentine, Siscarian, Tyri, Ibalet. All the tongues of the Long Sea braided together until they became Paramount, known to all. Erida heard none of it, beautiful as the Joy’s voice was. She could only focus on the crowns, the throne, the sun setting red and burning.
There were too many faces, too many eyes. She fixed her gaze over the heads of the crowd, letting them blur before her. It was an old trick learned long ago in the court of Ascal. She looked stoic and resolute, even as she quivered within.
One of the dedicant priests put a scepter in her hand, a blooming flower made from silver and precious ruby. Another dotted her forehead with sacred oil that smelled of roses. They sang with the Joy, going through all the trappings of a Madrentine coronation. Somewhere, a harp trilled to life, filling the air with sweet music.
Inside, Erida tightened. She wanted the Gallish sword. She wanted the lion’s wrath, Syrek’s own strength and power beneath the patterned light of a mighty cathedral. Not this airy nonsense. But she kept still, back straight against her throne, the folds of her golden cape thrown aside to trail down the steps.At least I look like a conqueror, and not some minstrel on a stage.
The first crown settled over her brow, a braid of gold and emerald. It warmed against her skin and she relaxed. When the Joy raised the second crown, Erida sighed, letting all her nerves escape with her cool breath.
The silver circle, studded with rubies, slotted together with the gold braid, forming a double crown to encircle Erida’s head. It felt lighter than it should have, the double crown of two kingdoms,but Erida liked it that way. It would be easier to wear, and more would soon join.
The Joy finished her song, a gentle smile on her face, but her eyes were empty of any emotion. She bowed low and Erida stood, the jeweled flower clasped in her arms like a child.
“Arise, Erida, Twice Queen of Galland and Madrence,” the high priestess said, her face still tipped to the floor. Behind her, the courtiers echoed her words, dropping to their knees. “The glory of Old Cor reborn.”
Erida told herself not to smile. It would be unbecoming. Instead she stared over her nobles, the light of sunset nearly blinding them. They could not hold her gaze, positioned as she was, silhouetted against the blaze across the sky. But she could see them all, each courtier bent and sworn. None wavered.
None but Robart, still standing, his shackled wrists dangling at his sides.
“You will kneel,” Erida said, her voice high and clear. It was her first command as a twice-crowned queen.
He did not, his mouth hung wide, his eyelids drooping and empty. Robart was a shell, but even shells held power. Erida’s fist closed on the golden flower. She winced as the sharp petals drew blood.
Lord Thornwall reacted first, crossing the aisle to reach for Robart. “Kneel for the Twice Queen, the rising Empress,” he said sharply, and Erida felt a flush of delight.
But before Thornwall could reach him, Robart sprang, lunging forward. His chains clattered, ringing like bells. Behind him, the crowd of courtiers gasped and startled, wide-eyed.
The Lionguard jumped to attention, closing ranks in front of Erida even as she ducked, expecting the worst from a grieving father. Robart sprinted right past them, moving well despite his shackled feet and hands. He clanged with every lunging step. Thornwall gave chase but wasn’t quick enough, stumbling on old legs.
Among the nobles, Lady Harrsing shut her eyes.
Erida did not, watching through the gaps in her guard. The world seemed to slow as Robart ran, charging for the windows behind the throne. The glass gave beneath the force of his body, shattering out into the bay.
The old king followed, plunging into the lapping waters of the sea.
For a moment, Erida forgot herself and her crown. Gasping, she ran to the windows and looked out, expecting to see a ship or a boat beneath the palace. Some traitor sent to recover the fallen king. Maybe even Konegin himself. But there was nothing in the water, only the ripple of white where Robart had plunged in.
His chains were gold, and gold was heavy.
Thornwall leaned out next to her, stricken. His face went as gray as his hair. “He will not resurface, my lady.”
The ocean breeze kicked up, driving a wash of spray across Erida’s face. She shivered, still searching the golden waves. “Surely Robart can swim.”
“Swimming is not his aim,” Thornwall said thickly.
Erida wanted to spit into the sea but refrained. “How fitting. A present for my coronation,” she hissed, snatching herself back from the broken window. “Leave it to Robart to ruin my day, even in death.”
Disgust flashed across Thornwall’s face, but he knew better than to let it stick. He fell into step beside Erida, escorting her back to the throne in silence.
The Queen had far greater concerns than her old commander. She clenched her jaw, assessing the once-silent nobles now buzzing with interest. Most cared only for the gossip, craning their necks to try to see more than a broken window. But a few, both Madrentine and Gallish, looked worried—distressed, even. That rankled Erida more than the man drowning beneath her palace.
“All hail the Twice Queen,” Thornwall cried, rallying the courtiers as he would his troops.
Lady Harrsing was the first as always to take up the call, gesturing for others to follow.
Once, their loyalty would have been a balm to Erida. Now unease wriggled at the edge of her thoughts. Thornwall and Harrsing could not be trusted, as she could not trust any other noble in her court. They were courtiers too, veterans of long years in the royal household. They knew how to navigate as well as any, and survive.
