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The names they had used, so many years before, when running from Markus Khandarr’s assassins. It would be their private signal, a sign that despite the demands of kingship and queenship, they could maintain a secret bubble for themselves alone.
* * *
THE BREAKFAST DONE, Raul vanished to his own quarters to dress for the public ceremonies. Another bout of panic overtook Ilse, and she wished she had Nadine to mock her, Kathe to talk quietly and sensibly, but she knew both her friends were busy with their own preparations. And so she submitted to her attendants, who anointed her with rosewater perfume, who lined her eyes and lips with golden paint, and who guided her into the many layers of her bridal costume: the linen shift, undergown of patterned ivory silk, the long tunic that fell to her knees, the grand robes of gold cloth that overlaid the rest. They unplaited her hair, brushed it smooth, and worked it into tighter braids, which they wound around into a low crown to echo the golden crown she would receive later that day. The rest they let fall in a loose waterfall down her back, which they adorned with miniature diamonds. That, too, was a custom, a reminder of Lir’s tears spent on her brother’s, her lover’s, death and set as stars in the sky.
A second breakfast followed, one attended by the senior members of Veraene’s Court, both from Armand’s reign, as well as those who would serve Ilse and Raul. Next came a ceremony dedicated to Lir and Toc, held in a small chamber with those same councillors as witnesses, then another in memory of all the past kings and queens of Veraene.
How many died by treachery? Ilse wondered. How many by undiscovered rebellion?
An unprofitable line of thought. Raul must have guessed, because he pressed a hand against hers, and when she glanced up, he smiled wryly.
Back to their separate rooms, where attendants washed and dressed and adorned them a third time. More jewels. More paint, with silver to accent the gold. Ilse thought she might weep from exhaustion, but then she remembered she loved Raul and wished to marry him, and that sustained her.
And then it was time.
The bells of Duenne chimed the hour, a bright cascade of melody pouring over the city, like sunlight over the horizon. Ilse’s senior attendant scanned her one last time. She touched her fingertips to Ilse’s cheek—and now her expression changed from remote to amazed, as if she suddenly realized herself what the day portended. Ilse drew a deep breath and smiled. No longer a fixed one, or one she summoned for the moment, but one in truth.
It was time and past.
Ilse proceeded forward. An attendant accompanied her on either side, unobtrusive guides along the web of corridors and passageways. They passed from the royal wing into a more private region in the center of the palace, through another series of corridors, and then at last to the grand public chamber where kings and queens had bowed for their coronations.
Raul had arrived first. He stood to one side, clad in darkest indigo, with no other decoration except diamonds set in both earlobes. His glance swung up, pinned Ilse with an expression of joy and desire combined.
She stepped to his side. “My beloved.”
“My beloved and my queen.”
The ceremony they had arranged months before, in spite of arguments with all their advisers. Even now, Ilse was not certain the guardians of tradition would relinquish their hold upon the old and honored ways. Only when her attendants, and Raul’s, stepped aside, leaving them to march toward the thrones by themselves, could she believe they had done it.
Down the aisle, with all the guests watching, from either side and from the balconies above.
Up the seven steps to the dais. There, the thrones awaited, and on their cushions, the two plain crowns that she and Raul had insisted upon.
“My beloved,” Raul said. His voice was clear and loud. “Will you be my wife?”
Her throat caught in sudden happiness. She swallowed and managed a smile. “I will. And you, my beloved, will you be my husband?”
His voice wavered, steadied. “I will.”
They lifted the crowns from the thrones. Facing each other, they knelt. It was a maneuver they had practiced a dozen or more times, but Ilse’s hand shook as she set the crown upon Raul’s head, while he did the same for her. The haze of terror and amazement lifted a moment, and she saw that he was trembling, too.
“You are weeping,” Raul whispered.
“For joy,” she replied in a voice as soft as his. Then she reached up to cup his cheek, which was damp with tears as well. Without a thought, she drew him close and kissed him on the lips. He wrapped both arms around her in a tight embrace and returned her kiss.
That last was not tradition, but she hardly cared.
* * *
THE CEREMONY CONTINUED with each ranking noble and all the servants of the court kneeling before the new king and queen, and vowing their allegiance. First came the regional governors in order of seniority. Lord Alberich de Ytel of Laufvenberc, governor of the city of Duenne, led them all, having served Baerne of Angersee as commander, then in court and council, until Baerne had appointed him to his post as governor. Lord Alberich’s skin lay in deep folds, his complexion mottled with brown and black spots, but his eyes were keen as the servant assisted him up the steps and onto his knees.
I am too young, too ignorant to accept this man’s allegiance, Ilse thought.
Nevertheless, she clasped her hands around his, and listened with at least the outward seeming of calm as he recited his vows.
“My queen, my liege, my sovereign, and mother to our people, I offer my heart, my honor, my strength. All that is mine to give, in this life and all those to come, I lay before you…”
It was an ornately worded formula, thick with imagery. The words had not changed since that first vow, spoken by the clan chiefs to the first king of Erythandra. Lord Ytel spoke in halting phrases, his voice breathy and almost inaudible, but Ilse had the impression of a great will behind that frail mask of flesh. What he swore was the truth, in Lir’s name and Toc’s blood. She could do no less for him.
