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“I meant that you should smile,” Luca added, and had the grace to sound apologetic.
“Why?” Elma said. “What good will my happiness do them?”
“The monarch’s joy raises the spirits of her people,” her guard said, almost sing-song, as if it was something he’d heard repeated over and over. “This parade is for them as much as it is for you, Majesty.”
Poor things, Elma thought, turning to gaze out at the people watching, their upturned faces all blurring together like smeared paint.I am not the one to raise your spirits.
“Queen Elma!”
The voice was small, but it rose above the music and the horses, the loud rumble of the ballista on cobblestones.
Elma looked for the source of the voice but saw only a blur of faces, grey and cold.
“Queen Elma!”
This time there was movement — a pennant, waving wildly and brightly. A small hand held it up, and a bright-eyed smiling face gazed up at her… a little girl. Elma had never been around children and did not understand their ages. The child could have been five or twelve. But her eyes were shining, and as Elma watched, she pushed her way to the front of the crowd, accompanied by a harried-looking man. Her father, no doubt.
“Queen Elma!” the girl shouted again, jumping up and down. She held her pennant aloft as if it were a holy thing or possessed of some magic. As if, upon waving it enough, she might summon forth her queen’s attention.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rune asked, riding up beside her. “You look ill.”
But she ignored him, an ache rising in her chest. Why was this child so eager to see her? What did Elma know of the world, of sadness and pain?I am nothing to her. I’m a symbol. I will sit on the throne of her kingdom as it rots below me.
The parade rode slowly past, and as they drew closer, Elma could now see the girl’s face in full. She was smiling, but her cheeks were gaunt, her skin wan. Her father watched the parade with hollow eyes, and all at once the faces in the crowd became clear to Elma, no longer a smear of formless souls who expected too much of her. Instead, they were suddenly, painfully human. Many watched Elma with obvious resentment, while others gazed up at her with something like hope. Yet every one of them appeared to be unwell, their clothes were old and drab, their bodies sickly.
She turned in the saddle, seeking out Godwin. He rode not far behind her, dressed in his finest raiment, his beard full and dark, his eyes keen. Elma thought of the feast that had been held in her name, the food she had only picked at.
“Queen Elma!” came the girl’s voice again, though now Elma thought she heard a hint of disappointment, as the pennant’s waving slackened.
A hand seemed to tighten on Elma’s throat. Was this her legacy? Would this be how she carried out her years, watching these faces gaze up at her from below, and doing nothing to help them?
Elma pulled back on her horse’s reins, coming to a stop.There were shouts as the guards, and the rest of the parade behind her, warned of a sudden halt.
“Your Majesty,” said Luca, “What—”
But Elma was already swinging her leg over the saddle, her feet landing hard on the cobblestones. She wasn’t dressed for walking, but she didn’t care. Gathering her heavy skirts in one hand, she strode around the horses and the trumpeters, the guards and all their pomp, and went to stand before the little girl.
Rune followed without a word, Luca not far behind him, Elma’s shadows.
“Queen Elma,” said the girl, her pennant now hanging motionless, her eyes wide, and her mouth hanging open in surprise.
Elma hesitated. She had never spoken to a child like this, let alone a strange one from the city. Her heart hammered in her chest.What would my mothers have done?They had always treated Elma as an equal, a girl whose voice deserved to be heard.
“Your Majesty,” Luca said, his tone urgent. “You cannot… you must return to your—”
But she only held up a hand to silence him and lowered herself to one knee until she was eye-to-eye with the girl. She held out a hand to the pennant, which was hanging limp at the girl’s side now. “May I see?”
The girl’s face lit up as she held out the pennant, and Elma saw that it was handmade, a patchwork of many smaller bits of fabric all sewn together with twine. It was black and red, the Volta colors, and in the center of it were a trio of letters: E.V.I.
“Elma Volta the First,” Elma breathed, brushing a finger over the rough cloth. She lookedup at the girl, who was vibrating with barely contained excitement. “Did you make this?”
“Yes,” gasped the girl, as if she’d been waiting for this very question. “I’ve never had a queen before. Papa says—”
The man standing behind her, presumably her father, laid a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Remember your manners,” he murmured.
“Oh,” said the girl, “sorry.” Then she dipped a curtsey and said, “Your Majesty, Papa says your reign will be… oss… ospi…”
“Auspicious, Your Majesty,” said her father, bowing his head in deference.
