Page 28 of Crown of the Courtesan

Wellcrest maintains eye contact as he states, “The procession starts in an hour. I suggest you arrive at the front gates in thirty minutes.” He turns around and leaves without a backward glance.

With a quick flutter of her blonde eyelashes, the princess surveys what the captain might have seen of me. She sighs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and begins to sort through the gowns on the bed.

With the door firmly shut, I stand up from the water, putting my dressing gown back on.

She holds a piece of black lace, inspecting it in the light.

“Princess,” I softly remind her, “was there something you wanted to say before we were interrupted?”

A pinkish hue remains across her delicate nose and cheeks. “I know we’ve only just met, but let’s treat one another as true family and call each other by our first names. We should forgo titles and formalities and simply be Tabitha and Klara. I can tell we’ll be fast friends.”

I shoot her a genuine smile. “I would like that very much.”

Thirteen

Sunbeams filter through the stained glass portrait of the Spirit Goddess above us, casting the cathedral in the glorious light that flows through her flaxen hair and pointed ears. Far below, the rays illuminate the king’s lifeless body atop his funeral pyre, with birch logs neatly stacked underneath his wrapped form.

A black lace veil tucks under my circlet while I wait behind a wall of water pouring from the ceiling into the circular fountain that frames the Priest Elder. Since male priests still possess their tongues, he chants in the Dead-Fae language, filling the space with his droning voice.

The stream overflows into four drainage channels winding around the belly of the sanctuary. I let out a small sigh of relief, as the waterfall and the veil offer some protection—a shield against the prying faces—because if they expect a show of grief, they’ll only be disappointed. The king was no more than a stranger to me. True to form, my eyes remain dry, while Klara openly weeps in the front row.

During our procession through the streets to the Spirit-Fae Cathedral, the crowds had hissed and booed, unhappy that I stole the heirdom. They called me conniving and other less favorable names, making Klara cover her face in shock. Their jeers still ring in my ears, and I can hardly blame them when I’ve taken away their pure-hearted heir—a princess who doesn’t need the Rite to glow.

Behind the wall of water, I sway on my feet until two priestesses take my hands and a third High Priestess carries my trailing veil as we march into the fountain and through the gentle waterfall. The water hits my skin, making me feel alive, but we emerge dry on the other side. They guide me down the center aisle, their steps in unison.

Mourners coming to pay their respects pack the cathedral. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some demon nobility sitting and whispering with Balor.

I’m sure Madame Phyrne and the Lady Courtesans are in attendance, but I do not dare search for them. With smoke from the burning wood stinging my eyes, I realize the pyre is lit.

The circlet grows heavier with each disapproving glance from the audience. I resist the urge to tear it off, tamping down my feelings and finish the stretch through the center aisle to the arched entrance.

Outside, the dazzling light is blinding as the priestesses help me into the royal carriage parked at the base of the stone steps. When I sit down, I startle, realizing I’m not alone inside the dark interior.

General Metalla also sits on the bench, not saying a word, patiently waiting. He raps on the ceiling, and we roll away. After a long silence, he says, “You should know Xander was a weak king. Too fond of words and braggery to be what Alexandria needed him to be.”

My shoulder muscles tense as I maintain a calm voice. “His people loved him.” The crowded streets are a testament to it.

Metalla sees my discomfort and exacerbates it by lowering his gaze over my body. Rage and frustration bubble up inside me in response as the memory of his boot striking my back flickers.

Soon, I promise myself, soon I’ll banish him to his country estate so he can waste away like the bitter old fool he is. But first, I’ll need to wait until the coronation is complete to enact any sort of change and have both him and Balor exiled.

“He didn’t have the stomach for the choices that needed to be made.”

Restraint lines every word as I counter, “And you do?”

He ignores my question. “You’re known to be a practical woman capable of making unsavory decisions, someone who knows how uncertain any title or position in life might become,” Metalla says quietly, like a spider crawling across silk.

My blood runs cold. “I’ll be the queen the Spirit Goddess commands me to be.” Having just left the cathedral, I use religion as a buffer.

“Be careful, girl, or you’ll drag this kingdom into ruin just as your mother tried to do. I haven’t dedicated my life to the service of the crown to watch you destroy everything I’ve worked for,” he rasps, leaning forward and closing the small distance between us.

I hold still, refusing to engage.

RAP, RAP, RAP.

He bangs on the ceiling. The driver pulls over just outside the harbor. A view of the bay opens, filled with naval ships of various shapes and sizes. Some sit quietly docked with their sails rolled up, while others move with full masts rippling in the wind, loudly blasting their cannons. The sound is so intense it vibrates my body. As they practice, I can’t help but think of Lir.

Without further conversation, General Metalla removes himself from the carriage and disappears toward the docks, his black mourning cape billowing behind him.