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“My servant, my brother and child of blood, I swear my allegiance in turn, heart and body and soul, to you and to the children of your flesh and of your soul, in service to our kingdom and its welfare…”
She almost faltered when she declared herself his mother. Merely symbolism, she told herself. The heart of that vow was not beyond her. Her heart and life were the kingdom’s. The words themselves were merely confirmation.
She was glad, however, when she could withdraw so that Raul could receive the man’s vows and give his in turn. Only when the servant approached once more to help Lord Ytel stand, did the old governor send her one searching glance, a slight nod, before he turned to descend the many steps and allow the next governor to approach.
More governors—Stephane Tomassi of Pommersien, Vieth of Gallenz and Tiralien, the rulers of various provinces—Ournes, Morauvín, Jurazmec, and more. Ilse thought she would become numb to the ritual, but no, each time her hands rea
ched out, she felt a shiver run through her, scalp to toes, as if Lir and Toc had laid their hands upon hers as well.
Only twice did the smooth procession pause. Once, as Nicol Joannis from Fortezzien mounted the steps. He kept his eyes lowered as he knelt before Ilse and gave his vows, but just once, as he shifted to face Raul, his gaze flicked up. Raul’s expression, already painted smooth and impassive, took on an even more remote cast. Ilse could almost hear their unspoken conversation.
You abandoned me. You abandoned us all.
I was afraid. I have no other excuse.
Then, almost imperceptibly, Raul’s stiff expression relented. He pressed his hands around Nicol Joannis’s, who in turn bowed deeper before his new king. Ilse breathed a sigh of relief. We are no longer enemies or conspirators. We are king and queen and liege. So we must act for the good of the kingdom.
The second pause came once the queue of governors wound to its end, and the first of the ranking nobles came forward, in an order determined by yet another arcane formula dictated by eight centuries of custom and pride.
First among them was Duke Alvaro Andreas Bertold Kosenmark, who marched haltingly up the steps. In spite of the mage surgeon’s efforts, Raul’s father still limped, and his knuckles were pale as he gripped his cane. He waved away the hovering servants, and dragged his left foot up the last step. His gaze met his son’s in a brief and searching exchange. Then the old duke eased himself onto his knees before Ilse to give his vows of allegiance.
And so it continued throughout the morning, the line winding to its end as the sun crossed overhead. When the last minor lord gave and received his oath, and withdrew, Ilse closed her eyes for a moment. Only now was she aware that her feet throbbed from standing.
Raul pressed his hand against hers. “Tonight,” he murmured.
“If we survive the remainder of this day,” she answered softly.
“Oh, we shall. I swear it. I have,” he added, “a great deal of practice in making vows.”
She would have laughed, except she knew she must not laugh in front of the vast audience witnessing this event. She only smiled, and pressed her palm briefly against his, turning the gesture into one more formal as they clasped hands and lifted them as though to start a dance.
A dance it was, she thought, as they descended the steps. The masses of nobles and courtiers parted before them—she was dimly aware of many, many faces to either side, all of them in constant movement as the audience flowed away and to either side, to take their places in a grand procession from the vast throne room to an even more enormous hall where the first feast would commence.
The feast. The speeches given by various lords to Raul and Ilse, and theirs in return. The formal exchange of wine cups between king and queen, between the new rulers and their honored guests at the first table. The whispering of magic, like a cool stream, to relieve the sweltering summer air. The servants bearing dish after opulent dish, while musicians, placed in small groups throughout the hall, played a complicated tune upon oblique and transverse flutes, connected through part and counterpart, while a single water flute threaded its voice among them. Theirs was but one feast among others, too. A dozen more took place within the palace itself, and more yet throughout the city. Each one linked to another, Ilse thought, like a chain of words linked together, like a river of souls throughout history.
As twilight dropped over the city, Ilse and Raul stood for a last exchange of wine cups. Servants removed the tables from the hall, and the musicians took up new stations in corners and alcoves. Dancing commenced with the king and queen, a simple pattern of steps, palm against palm, circling around the center of the floor. One by one, other partners joined them, and the pattern grew to include them. Nadine and Heloïse, both shining with giddy joy. Raul’s other two sisters, Olivia and Marte. Emma and Benno Iani. Baron Mann. Klara. Baron Eckard. And off in a far corner, Kathe coaxing her husband, Gerek, to dance.
It was not until the bells rang midnight that Ilse and Raul departed from their guests, and returned with slow weary steps to the king’s chambers. As they passed through the outer rooms, a dozen attendants rose to their feet. Raul dismissed them with a silent gesture. Then he and Ilse passed through the doors into the bedchamber.
He closed the door. Ilse turned toward him and felt her heart leap high against her chest. “My king.”
“My queen.” His voice was breathless with laughter. More. Anticipation.
She thought she knew the reason.
They were not new lovers. They knew each other’s bodies, in this life and in countless others. But all had changed in that promise given each to each. Now they were husband and wife, king and queen.
Raul laid his crown upon a table, raked his fingers through his cropped hair. He glanced up, a laughing smile breaking through the gravity that had clothed him these past seven months. It was like the sun flooding a cloud-streaked sky. Her breath came easier. “My love,” she said.
“My love,” he said. “I come to you unadorned. Incomplete. Will you have me?”
“I will. And you?”
“With all my heart.” As she lifted a hand to remove her crown, he shook his head. “Not yet.”
She waited, suddenly breathless again.
He removed the diamonds from his earlobes. Laid them beside the crown. Next came the long coat of stiffened silk and its belt. Ilse watched with quick-beating pulse as he undid the buttons of his shirt, his trousers. Piece by piece, he removed all decoration, all clothing, until he stood before her bare-skinned, the candlelight painting his body with silver and gold.
