A swirl of emotions I cannot name circles in my chest—something heavier than sadness and darker than hope mixed in with a heaping dose of discomfort. At least I can feel Etusca behind me, always close, as Oclanna guides me to meet some of the other party.
She sweeps me through a dozen introductions, faces and names I frantically try to memorize. It’s tricky when I’m distracted by the way they each bow or curtsey to me and call me “Your Highness.”
One of the few names I do remember is Jocor Rosier, Oclanna’s husband. The pairing surprises me a little; Jocor’s thick brows and heavy gaze don’t quite mesh with Oclanna’s lightness. But then I spot the way he looks at her—like a lost sailor spotting the north star—and I understand them more.
“But we mustn’t stay standing out here in the chill,” Oclanna says. “I know this must seem like a lot, but I’m afraid there is a certain bit of business we must attend to right away. Even before we can discuss the coronation.”
I didn’t expect to be thrown into the thick of it quite so soon. Coronations? And what is this business that’s even more pressing? I have so many questions. I glance at Etusca, taking in her mottled skin. We have been traveling since dawn and are both tired, but her fatigue is clearly hitting her harder. As much as I want a familiar face by my side at a time like this, I also want her to rest.
“My lady’s maid, Etusca, isn’t needed, is she? Might she be shown to our rooms to recover from the journey?” I leave off the part about Etusca being my nurse, unsure how much I want my court to know yet about my upbringing, but I don’t doubt people can guess Etusca is no ordinary maid. Dryads in Trova almost exclusively work as healers.
Oclanna smiles warmly. “Of course.”
“Just go. Rest,please,” I murmur to Etusca, cutting her off before she can protest. “I’ll be fine.”
The palace is a maze of corridors and grand rooms. Gallawing always seemed big and luxurious in comparison to Otscold’s other buildings, but now I see that for all its grandeur, it was also gloomy and neglected. Here every surface shines, and stained-glass windows cast rainbows across the floors of light-filled rooms.
As Oclanna leads our party through them, I try to map it out in my mind, like I used to do with Will at Gallawing, but I soon give up. The thought of him sets me wondering about his time here—he mentioned working at the palace. Did my parents hire him to guard me at Gallawing because of that? Did he know them? My memories are toppling out of place one by one, having to rearrange themselves based on these new truths.
All I can take away from the endless succession of rooms is that Elmere palace is old—every pillar and painting feels like it’s already been here hundreds of years, so that everything has a sense of being heavy and immoveable. In contrast, I’m like a whisp on the wind.
“I’m afraid we have some formalities to address, Morgana.” Oclanna pauses at the entrance to a long room, looking embarrassed. “Can I call you Morgana?”
I think of Tira and her family—I was always Ana to them—but here in the palace, it doesn’t feel like I can be that girl anymore. Here, a name with more grandeur is called for. Something that fits the authority I supposedly have now.
“Yes, thank you.”
Oclanna beams and shows me into the chamber. It’s even bigger once we’re inside it, I see, as she directs me toward a table on top of a raised dais with a few steps up to it. Standing around it are a trio of men who couldn’t look more different from each other. The first is a tall, dark-skinned man with a pointed beard in black military gear, a breastplate across his chest and a sword at his hip. The second is a stocky man, pale white in crimson robes, his narrow eyes staring up at me from beneath his cleric’s hat. The third is a dryad holding a bound leather case in his green-skinned hands.
I’m aware of more people filing into the room around me, and I glance to my left and right to see what must be most of the lords and ladies of the Trovian court. There’s nearly a hundred of them, mostly dressed in black, mourning the fallen monarchs.
Their eyes burn holes into me, some curious and others more calculating. Whatever this “formality” is, I’m suddenly regretting sending Etusca away. I’ve never been in a room with this many people in my life, and I realize now the dais is raised so the people on top of it can be viewed from anywhere in the room.
You will survive this.
I dig my nails into my palm. It’s a technique I use sometimes when drinking my potion—the pain helps ground me a little.
“General Becane, if you please.” Oclanna gestures to the man in black, who neatly steps forward, his movements quick and precise as he turns to face the assembled nobles.
“Before you stands Princess Morgana Angevire. Daughter of Queen Elowen Angevire and King Alaric and heir to Queen Elowen’s throne. I was charged with the watch to keep her safe in her vulnerable years, and I now present her to you, her court. We gather here today to witness the attestation of the bloodline, so that there will be no doubt as to Her Highness’s birthright.”
I stare at the man who must’ve employed Will and then Marlowe when he retired. Did he know what kind of person he was entrusting my safety to? Did he care? Maybe he even visited Gallawing while I was there. So much was kept from me, and I can only trust now that Etusca will tell me the truth if I ask her.
He turns to Oclanna. “Lady regent, do you grant your permission to proceed?”
She smiles, nodding at me. “I do.”
The hundred pairs of eyes turning toward me tell me I’m meant to be doing something. Glancing at Oclanna, she gives me another encouraging nod, and I follow my gut, climbing the steps up to the table beside the dryad and cleric.
When I reach the top, the cleric grabs my arm, suddenly enough that I have to fight the urge to shove him away. The dryad opens his leather case to lay it flat on the table. Inside are several sharp-looking metal instruments and a vial of what looks suspiciously like blood. My heartbeat quickens, but everyone around me looks calm enough.
The cleric’s fingers dig tightly into my flesh as he stares me in the eye, raising a hand. For a moment I think he’s going to strike me, but he simply begins to intone in a deep voice I suspect isn’t entirely natural and is mostly put on for show.
“I, Anointer Nunias, call upon Ethira the Immortal to guide us in the light of his Temple. To strike down blasphemers, and bless the holy ones, so that we may seek truth and purity in all things. As the gods will it.”
“As the gods will it,”I murmur alongside every other person in the room, with the exception of the dryad. I know he’ll be responding to the prayer with the traditional phrase in his native Agathyrian. I can speak a fair bit of it thanks to Etusca.
“Aduar gain esquan,” I watch him mutter, which about translates to “May the gods restore us.” We all believe in the same gods, but the dryads and fae do things a little differently than us humans.
