21
WORK
“Uh-oh,” said Trick.
Aly, her eyes on Dove, said, “What oh?”
“Soldiers on horses ride up from city,” Trick replied. “Secret sees them. Soldiers and archers. And archers climb to walls near the Gate of the Sun.”
Aly cursed. The nobles who had taken refuge with Imajane in the Gray Palace must have left men in the guest barracks. If they were so healthy, they couldn't have eaten the food Vereyu's people had poisoned. Perhaps they'd brought their own rations? She'd find out later, if there was a later.
“Tell Nawat of the archers on the walls,” she ordered Trick. “Tell Fesgao that an attack comes up behind Ulasim. Nobody else, understand? Just those two.”
A squad of soldiers wearing the crest of a luarin noble house came toward her at the trot. As they swerved around Aly, she reached into her sash for a small packet of sleep dust. Suddenly a soldier screamed and went down, a crow-fletched arrow in his eye. Other arrows flew from a clump of trees, followed by the archers: Nawat's people, bows set aside and swords taken up.
“Stop!” Aly yelled. Everyone, the soldiers and Nawat's warriors, turned to stare at her. “Wouldn't it be nice to be able to trust the person on the throne?” she asked their enemies. “To not have to live wondering each day as you wake if your family is safe, or if your master is rotting by the harbor?”
Nawat's people waited.
“Do you really want to die for the Rittevons?” Aly asked more quietly.
Three soldiers raised weapons and fell, shot by Nawat's suspicious archers. The rest hesitated. Then one of them, a sergeant by the bright red bands on his breastplate, set down his sword and dagger. When he straightened, one of his own men tried to attack him. Two other luarin soldiers grabbed the attacker and wrestled him to the ground. He lay there, killed quietly by one of his fellows. They in turn dropped their weapons. Others followed suit.
A woman with crow feathers in her hair shrugged and took a coil of thin rope from her belt. “Our brother said if they surrendered, bind them and move on,” she said. She looked at the surrendering soldiers and grinned, teeth flashing in her lean face. “If I meet you again in battle, I won't be so nice,” she warned them.
Aly moved on. “Trick?”
“Crows drive archers from the wall and knock some off,” Trick replied. “Some crows are shot dead. Fesgao fights soldiers who attack Ulasim from behind. Nomru leads his people forward against Rubinyan's. Mages fight each other. Ochobu is saying many bad words to them.”
On and on it came, a flood of information. Aly finally had to stop helping her people, Nawat's, and Vereyu's clean out pockets of resistance in the greater palace. She hid in a corner of the Robing Pavilion and sorted out who needed to know what piece of information. Trick pooled in her lap, allowing images to form inside it. Now Aly could see what the darkings saw when she asked Trick to focus on each of them.
Dove and Secret gave Aly a view of the entire battle that raged all around the Luarin Wall. They pointed out breaks in the lines of enemy soldiers where Nomru, Fesgao, Ochobu, and Ulasim could swamp them, and when an attack came at them from the sides or the rear.
Dove told Aly that fifty of Nawat's people had cleared and opened the Gate of Carts and the Grain Gate, allowing the Fonfala and Temaida fighters to stream into the palace. Secret showed her Nawat and another band of his people, picking more defenders from the walls of the Gray Palace with arrows. Quartz, riding around Nawat's throat, showed Aly the front of the Gray Palace. The gates were shut and barred. It was finally serving the purpose for which it was built, a last stronghold for the luarin Crown.
Ochobu's darking reported that the old woman was ill, tottering as she pulled up all the strength she had in one last spell. Her heart burst as she flung it out, taking five luarin mages to the Peaceful Realms with her. Aly cringed as Ochobu's darking fell to the ground with her, seeing it all as the darking did. Keening its grief, the creature moved promptly to Ysul, who took command of the Chain. There was little he could command, as Trick and Aly could see. His cohorts were locked in their own battles. Ysul used his power briefly to direct them to new targets as they each finished wrestling one enemy mage to powerlessness or death. When the mages were occupied again, Ysul looked for a project of his own. Trick and Aly looked with him.
Behind Rubinyan and his troops loomed the Gate of Victory, shut tight, locked with heavy timbers, written over with spells of protection. Ysul's darking told Aly that he was “up to something.” While it could feel magic course through the raka mage, that was a sensation it couldn't pass along to Trick or Aly. Instead the two looked around, prepared to warn Ysul if someone was about to attack him. No one was. As if they sensed the power Ysul summoned, the people who battled near him left him alone at the center of a rare open space. Once Ysul sent his magic out into the ground, hidden like most raka magic, Aly could See it course through the earth. It passed under the fighting men of both sides. The luarin mages didn't even notice it, hidden as Ysul's spell was. His magic streamed up into the Gate of Victory. Aly held her breath. Suddenly the dense, bespelled wood of the gate burst into white devouring flames.
Lace broke in, showing its views of the battle. Ulasim, wielding a longsword, had cut his way through the last of Rubinyan's protectors. Aly and Trick watched as Rubinyan closed with Ulasim, hacking at him from horseback. Lace dropped from Ulasim's neck to batten onto the cinch strap on Rubinyan's saddle. For some moments all Aly could see were Ulasim's straining legs. Then the saddle slid. Down tumbled Rubinyan, twisting to fall on his back. In lunged Ulasim, his blade passing through an opening in Rubinyan's armor to cut deep. Rubinyan, grimacing, rolled and thrust his sword through Ulasim. For a moment the two men stared at one another.
Then Ulasim looked up. Dove swooped in on her kudarung, venturing close to the enemy's archers in her need to save him.
“Look!” Ulasim bellowed, pointing up to her. His voice rang over the clash of weapons and the shrieks of warriors and Stormwings. “Look at her! There! See our future? See how we can be great?”
He swayed and fell as his darking keened. Beneath him lay Rubinyan, already dead.
Aly didn't realize tears streamed down her face as she told Fesgao's darking what had befallen their general. Fesgao didn't hesitate. He plowed through the warriors, crying for them to follow him, in the queen's name. As the raka, howling, surged forward, the Gate of Victory collapsed, burned to cinders by Ysul. Behind it, the Raka Gate, too, burned.
Ysul dropped to his knees. When the Raka Gate fell to ashes, he lay down. Two rebels ran to pick him up. His darking told Aly that Ysul was alive, but worn out. The creature went to the next mage to take command of the Chain.
From Dove's position Aly saw that the fighting had slowed in many places close to where Ulasim now lay. Seeing that Rubinyan was dead, a dozen or more luarin warriors raised their hands in surrender. The other Crown troops, mauled by the attacking Fesgao and his fighters, had borne enough. They turned and ran through the destroyed gates. Nawat's warriors and the Fonfala and Temaida troops met them there. Caught between Fesgao's rebels and the forces that had taken the palace grounds, the luarin soldiers fought or surrendered, as they preferred. The more soldiers farther back who saw them put up their hands, the more surrendered.
Aly wiped her eyes, gathered up Trick, and began the weary trudge from the pavilion to Rittevon's Lance. They weren't finished yet. Chenaol caught up to her. The cook and her weapons were smeared with blood. Silently they joined the rest of their people, watching as the last of the Crown's forces inside the walls gave up. Soon Nawat, sweat-soaked and disheveled, came to stand with them. The Fonfala and Temaida warriors stripped the weapons from those soldiers who had surrendered and herded them against the wall to be held under guard.
At last Fesgao strode through the gate, Nomru behind him. They joined Aly, Chenaol, and Nawat, looking with dull eyes at the ruin that surrounded them. None of them was unmarked. Even Aly had picked up a handful of cuts, though she couldn't remember when. Fesgao looked them over and nodded, as if they'd just met in the marketplace. As soon as those mages of the Chain still able to work caught up, he turned and led the way to the wall that surrounded the Gray Palace. Nomru, Aly, Chenaol, Nawat, and the rebel warriors followed him, weapons in their hands.
High above Stormwings shrieked in ecstasy. Seeing the bulk of the soldiers were surrendering, they began to swoop down, to plunder the dead. Nawat raised his voice in a raucous crow bawl, a sound that told other crows a hawk had come to steal from them. Cawing in one thunderous voice, hundreds of crows rose into the sky above the palace and turned, heading for the Stormwings.
Aly looked at Nawat. “I could not bear for Stormwings to touch the old woman,” Nawat admitted, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Or Ulasim.”
Aly touched his cheek, her own lips quivering. “If she thought you cried over her, Ochobu would just throw magic at you again.”
“That is why I waited until the death god had her to do it,” replied Nawat.
At last they stood before the granite walls of the Gray Palace. Aly looked at their heights and blinked. There was no guard in view. For a moment Fesgao waited, unsure of what happened now.
“Trick?” Aly asked. “What do the palace darkings say?”
“Surprise,” Trick replied. Extending a tentacle, it pointed to the top of the wall.
“We need to make a ram,” Fesgao said wearily. Nomru nodded. Aly stepped up to them and put a hand on each man's arm. When they looked at her, their eyes reddened from the dust, she pointed to the wall. Taybur Sibigat stood there at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. He looked down at them and nodded, his face expressionless.
Slowly the gate to the Gray Palace swung open. Soldiers in the black clothes and mail of the King's Guard, all of whom looked the worse for heavy fighting, lined the flagstone road that led to the residence with dead men all around them. It was four of the Guard who had opened the gate.
“Those troops still loyal to the Rittevons are locked up. So too are those noble families and servants who remained loyal,” Taybur called, his voice and face as emotionless as if he read a marketing list. “I surrender the Gray Palace to your war chief. Queen Imajane is being held.”
“Does he lie?” Fesgao asked Aly without taking his eyes from Taybur.
“No, sir,” Aly replied. “He tells the truth.”
A long shadow fell over them. Everyone looked up, then backed away to clear a space as Dove's mount slowly descended. At last the kudarung stallion stood on solid ground, its sides streaked with sweat. Fesgao strode over to help Dove from the saddle.
At the corner of her eye Aly registered a wave of motion. She looked around. First those of raka blood went to their knees. Slowly the luarin troops, even stubborn Duke Nomru, followed suit. Aly knelt slowly. At last only Nawat and those who looked as if they had recently been crows stayed on their feet.
Dove saw them and grinned, her small face lighting up. “Cousins,” she said with a nod.
The rattle of chain mail drew Aly's gaze to the men of the King's Guard on the flagstone road. They, too, knelt and bowed their heads. Taybur, who had descended from the walkway overhead, knelt at the center of the open gate.
Dove looked at him. “Imajane?” she asked, her voice steady.
“In her rooms,” Taybur replied. “Your Majesty.”
Aly glimpsed a flutter of pink high on the side of the residence, on a balcony that overlooked its small garden. “There's a balcony outside her chambers,” she said, refusing to look at that spot with her close-in Sight, amazed her voice did not quaver at what the deposed queen was about to do.
“I know,” replied Taybur as the bit of pink plummeted from the balcony rail.
“At least we don't have to pay to house and try her,” Jimarn murmured from somewhere behind Aly.
Fesgao pointed at the sky. The white veil that showed the Goddess's battles with Kyprioth and his allies was shrinking. The long, swordlike rays that framed the sun, Mithros's sign, were shrinking, too. The brilliant sparkles that had shown the Trickster's growing power flew together to form a single multicolored globe, with a handful of brilliant stars scattered around it: the lesser tricksters, Aly thought. The Goddess's veil and Mithros's rays did not vanish.
There's still work to do, Aly thought. We haven't won, not completely.
In the weeks that followed, Aly learned the truth of something both her parents said: cleaning up always seemed to take much longer than the fighting. She would have told them it only seemed that way because everyone was tired, except that she was too weary to write a letter home.
The Islanders buried their dead quietly, with services held for a week in the temples of the Black God. Dove insisted that Ulasim have a grave beside the steps to the Throne Hall, covered over in malachite and bronze, with a white marble marker stating his name, dates of birth and death, and the simple epitaph THE STRONG ONE. Ochobu was buried on the far side of the steps from her son, her grave covered in lapis and bronze. Her epitaph read THE WISE ONE. In time, Fesgao would join them as the warrior of the old prophecy. Aly knew where she fit in, but she wasn't sure that she wanted a marker on her grave that read THE CUNNING ONE. It seemed to her most fitting that no one know where she was buried at all.
Ulasim and Ochobu were not their only losses. Vereyu was alive but would limp all her days; Imajane had slashed the tendons behind her knee when Vereyu went to take her prisoner, and the healers had not reached her in time to completely mend the damage. Of Aly's pack, seven had been killed in the fighting: Lokak, Hiraos, and Ukali among the men, and Guchol, Eyun, Kioka, and Junai among the women. Aly mourned them bitterly where no one could see her. Junai had watched her back all that summer at Tanair. The others had been her pack. Only Nawat understood how cruel it was to lose them, just as she understood his grief for sixteen of his flock-mates, as he called the humans and transformed crows he had led.
The priestess Imgehai Qeshi had perished in her burning temple, Lord Obemaek in the fighting. Countess Genore Tomang was dead, killed helping to defend Balitang House. Her son Ferdy lost an eye in the battle before the palace gates. Aunt Nuritin had kept looters from breaking through the servants' gate at the house before a stroke felled her. She was working now to speak again, but the healers said her left hand would never regain its strength.
Once the fires were put out and the palace secure, Dove met with the captive luarin nobles. Chenaol, the duchess, Quedanga, Ysul, and Duke Nomru were present to advise her. From those who surrendered and acknowledged her as queen, she required a blood oath on the spot. She did not ask for one from Taybur.
“They murdered his king,” she explained to her council of advisors. “As far as he was concerned, their authority over him ended there. I will trust him.”
Her elders argued. They told Dove that, having betrayed one set of monarchs, Taybur could never again be trusted, but Dove would not be swayed. Aly said nothing in front of the others. She had already convinced Dove that Taybur deserved a chance.
Dove also sent out messages to the commanders of the Rittevon forces in the outlying Isles, and to the rebel raka. She received replies in trickles, promises of surrender or vows of resistance. A number of noble luarin hurried to court, anxious to convince their unofficial new queen that they deserved to keep their wealth and lands. Dove told them, every time the subject came up, that property would be redistributed. The luarin could be content with less wealth than they had possessed before, or they could leave the Isles. Most chose to stay, particularly as the Nomrus, Balitangs, Fonfalas, Obemaeks, and Tomangs began to divide their own lands with those who had a legal claim.
For the challenges to her rule, Dove sent out troops led by Fesgao, Nomru, and others. Nawat, who wore a multicolored, incredibly gaudy necklace these days, as did every crow Aly saw, also went out to persuade the fighters to stop. As summer deepened and began to wane, crops were far more important than battle. By the end of August most of the Isles had decided to see how they'd manage with a half-raka queen. Only Ikang and parts of Malubesang and Lombyn continued to resist.
Aly worked even harder than she had before the fighting. Rubinyan's old study, with its well-executed maps and many useful books, became her office. Soon she had to clear rooms on either side to make space for her deputies, Vitorcine, Yoyox, Olkey, and Atisa. They took in the information that arrived each day and rendered it in a form that could be presented to Dove and her counselors. When she could leave things in their hands, Aly ventured out into the Isles, turning the spies of the raka conspiracy into her agents. She chose people from every walk of life. By the start of September she had broken the Kingdom into districts and appointed an agent to take charge of each.
One September morning she woke up—she had fallen asleep on her desktop again—to find Trick squeaking in her ear and Dove settled in a chair in front of her desk. Aly, her brain muddled, struggled to push herself to her feet.
“Stop that,” Dove said crossly. “When was the last time you slept in a bed, not at your desk?”
Aly yawned. “Recently, Your Majesty.”
“When was the last time you saw Nawat?”
Aly grinned. “Very recently, Your Majesty.” She touched the antipregnancy charm he'd given to her. She wore it on a chain long enough that she could tuck it into her breast band under her sarong.
“Better. When are you getting married?”
“Before I lay eggs,” Aly said, awake at last. “Why is Your Majesty asking me these questions?”
“Do you plan to nest here or at home?” Dove wanted to know. “Because of all those I have worked with, you are the only one who hasn't sworn to me. Are you going back to Tortall?”
Aly bit her lip. Why couldn't Dove have started this after Aly had spent a night sleeping in a bed? At last she replied, “I wouldn't sell your secrets to other realms, Your Majesty.”
“That isn't why I'm asking,” Dove snapped. Secret squeaked from its position around her throat. She and the small darking had been inseparable since their first meeting, just like Aly and Trick. “I'm sorry, Secret. But really, Aly, one moment you're braiding my hair and the next you're at least a table length away, giving reports. It's not the same.” She looked down at her bronze silk lap. “I thought you were my friend,” she added quietly. “I still need a friend.”
Aly sighed. It was time to make choices about her future. “Taybur would do very well as your new spymaster,” she said, shuffling papers. “He's got the right shifty turn of mind.”
“Until the Isles are at peace, I need Taybur with the Queen's Guard,” retorted Dove. “He's thorough. If I'm to visit some of the Isles next week, I want him preparing the way. I want you for spymaster.”
Aly looked at her sadly. “There are things about me you don't know,” she told Dove, her belly clenched with tension. “Things that make it impossible for me to be your spymaster. Things that as your permanent spymaster I must tell you.”
“Oh, stop bouncing and say it.” Kyprioth appeared in a window seat, dressed in a jacket and sarong like woven copper, jangling with jewelry. “You know you want to.”
Aly scowled at him. “I thought you were going to be really large if you won.”
“I am large,” retorted the god. “This is only the part you see. I imbue this palace with my essence, every stone and every drop. My visit will do wonders for the flowers.”
Aly propped her chin on her hand. “So does manure,” she observed.
Kyprioth chuckled. “Whyever would you want to leave me, my dear? We're made for each other, in a god-to-servant way.” He looked at Dove. “I see you're removing those statues of my sister and brother outside.” His face lit with anticipation. “Will you have them melted down?”
“Perhaps you can afford to offend them,” Dove replied. “I can't. They're going to the temples of Mithros and the Goddess in Rajmuat, as is proper. Do you want me to put up a statue to you? Our custom says it's very unlucky.”
“Put a statue up of me? Nonsense,” scoffed the god. “I am multitudes. You see but one of my faces. I am—”
“Vast,” Aly interrupted. “Yes, you've mentioned it.”
“So when's the big day?” Kyprioth asked Dove, unmoved by Aly's sarcasm. “When is my queen to be crowned?”
“The day after Midwinter,” Dove replied, a smile tweaking her mouth. “So my official reign begins with the rebirth of the year.”
“With the rebirth of the sun,” the god corrected her. “Not that I begrudge him, poor fellow. He still hasn't gotten his shield back. That thief I got is truly talented.” He raised an eyebrow. “Ah. A summons.” He looked at Aly, black eyes dancing. “If she's crowned at Midwinter, the foreign delegations will have to come by the end of October and stay the season,” he pointed out. “Your monarchs are sending their very favorite people. You had better hurry up and tell her.” He vanished, leaving a thin layer of copper sparkles where he'd sat.
“What did he mean by that?” Dove wanted to know.
Aly had a very bad feeling. “I'd like to tell Winna at the same time, if I may,” she said wearily. “I think you both should hear it from me. Trick?”
Trick sat up on her shoulder. “She comes,” it said. Like the other darkings given to specific people, Winnamine's had chosen to remain with her as the duchess took over the running of the domestic side of the palace. She had long since ordered Aly to call her by her nickname.
Waiting for her, Aly and Dove talked over plans for Dove's visit to the nearby Isles. The chief problem lay in finding ways for her attendants to keep up, since she would be riding the winged stallion she had named Kypry. “I just won't land until I know the place is safe,” she was telling Aly as Winnamine swept in.
The duchess had set a new fashion, wearing her darking as a glossy band twined throughout her hair. Other ladies of Dove's new court were trying the same style, without success, since a darking could grip better than a satin ribbon. “Midget says you two want to discuss something with me,” she said as she settled into a chair. “It's not bad news from the outer Isles, is it?”
“You should wait,” said Trick. “Fesgao and Chenaol come, too. We told them.”
“Why?” Aly wanted to know.
“The darkings are right,” said Dove. “They were with us at the beginning. They should hear whatever it is, too.”
Aly changed position, hiding the fact that she was making sure the knives in her sash and under the top of her desk were ready to hand. Sheer self-preservation had made her flinch from telling members of the old raka conspiracy. Of all the people Aly had dealt with since her arrival in the Isles, she felt they had the most right to be vexed when they learned the truth about her.
“While we're waiting,” the duchess said, pulling a folded parchment from a pocket. Dove and Aly recognized the bold writing right away.
“Sarai!” cried Dove, and grabbed the letter.
As Dove read greedily, Winna told Aly, “They married when they reached Carthak. Sarai is expecting a child next spring.” She smiled, her lips trembling. “If it is a boy, they do mean to name him Mequen. They won't be here for the coronation, but they promise to visit as soon as it's safe.”
Chenaol arrived from the kitchens, her arms covered to the elbows in flour. Dove had pressed her to accept a more important position, but the raka had refused flatly. Her place was in the kitchen, she'd told Dove. If people wanted to talk weapons, they would find her there.
Fesgao was not far behind the cook. As commander of the queen's armies, he kept an office at the headquarters building near the Rittevon enclosure. He had settled into his work, spending his days like Aly, sorting through papers to decide what mattered and what did not. He'd told Aly that he looked forward to Dove's trip as a break from documents.
When the door was closed behind them, Aly took a deep breath. “Your Majesty, friends,” she said quietly, her hands resting on her sash, “I cannot be your spymaster. I am the daughter and granddaughter of Tortall's spymasters, and the daughter of Tortall's King's Champion. The god did not teach me most of what I know—I learned it at my father's knee. I am not working on Tortall's behalf. Kyprioth claimed me after I'd foolishly left my home, and set me to work with you. That is the truth of it.” She looked down, listening for the slightest hint of movement. The knives in her sash were the quickest to reach, but if it was Fesgao who came for her, she'd need the sword secured under the desktop.
For a very long moment, much too long for Aly's taste, no one spoke or moved. Then Chenaol hoisted herself to her feet. “If that's all, I've got two wagonloads of flour coming from Digger Brothers' mill. I want them to explain how I found gravel stitched into the bottoms of the bags last time. Then I need to decide how much I'll take out of them in blood.”
Aly stared at her. “That's it?” she demanded, shocked. “Or will I find you waiting for me in some dark night with one of those thousand and three new carving knives you bought for the kitchens?”
Chenaol rolled her eyes. “Half for the kitchen, half for the armory,” she explained. “Why should I care? The god picked you. How many times do you have to prove whose side you're on? Oh, I remember—you've already done that.” She stomped out.
Fesgao called after her, “Wait.” To Aly he said, “She's right, you know. The god wouldn't saddle us with someone who worked for a rival country. I wonder what happens now. Will your father spank you for playing with the neighbors?” He followed Chenaol. “I thought I asked for a thousand knives for the armory,” he told her.
“Five hundred is what you get with the treasury in the mess it is,” they heard her reply. “Talk to Quedanga, if you want to hear her moan about all the money spent on food supplies for those whose crops didn't make it.”
Aly blinked, then looked at Winna and Dove. “Maybe the god's recommendation is good enough for you, Your Majesty,” she said to the queen. To the duchess she respected she added, “But, Your Grace . . .”
Winnamine smiled and rose to her feet. “Chenaol is right. You have more than proved who has your allegiance, Aly.” She came over and leaned down, in a puff of lily-of-the-valley scent, to kiss Aly's cheek. “I would hate to force you to choose between your family and us, but it goes without saying that we need you more.” She smiled at Dove and left them, gently closing the door behind her.
Aly looked at Dove.
“Are you going to be my spymaster or not?” demanded the younger girl. “Winna's right. We need you more. We met your father, didn't we? Last year, at Tanair. Only he said he was a merchant.”
“Your Majesty, he lies,” Aly said, shaking her head with regret. “He lies all the time. I think sometimes he lies just to stay in practice.”
Dove smiled and stood. “And to protect his daughter, alone in the enemy's country,” she pointed out. “Will you be my spymaster, please? I still do need a friend.”
Aly got up and walked over to her, then knelt, took Dove's hand, and pressed her forehead against the younger girl's fingers. “I will serve you all my days, Your Majesty,” she told Dove softly, meaning it with her whole heart. Then she looked up. “You're wearing five rings. You promised you'd never wear more than three.”
Dove giggled. “Boulaj says they look nice.” The young woman had decided that she liked the post of bodyguard-maid and kept it.
“She's Kyprin,” Aly scolded. “They think twelve necklaces on one neck is nice.”
Dove pulled a ring off, a gold band with a piece of basalt set in it. Embedded in the smooth, matte black stone was a small copper kudarung. “Then here,” she said, holding the ring worn by her personal household to Aly. “You wear this one.”
For once Aly had nothing to say. She could only nod, and slide the ring onto her index finger.
Someone pounded on the door. “Your Majesty!” called Nuritin, pronouncing each word with care. “You have an audience in the Throne Hall this morning. Will you be late to your own audience?”
Dove grimaced and walked out to meet her obligations.
Aly looked at her jumbled desk. “Well,” she said wearily, “if I'm staying, I'd better recruit some more help.”
The day after the end of Midwinter, the Throne Hall of the royal palace blazed with the light cast by a thousand lamps and candles. It glittered on gold and silver jewelry, hoards of gemstones, silks and satins, and in the hundreds of pairs of eyes that were fixed on the dais. Incense rose to form clouds against the high ceilings, scenting the air. Chimes tinkled as breezes moved through the hall.
Taybur Sibigat, captain of the Queen's Guard, knelt on the second-highest step of the dais, holding a cushion above his head. On it shone gold shaped as a crowned headdress at the front, with a spray of copper sprigs at the back, each dangling gold drops. Copper drops hung from a forehead plate. Dovasary Haiming Temaida Balitang, dressed all in silver satin patterned in black, reached for the Crown, made from old descriptions to look like the original Crown of the Isles. With hands that trembled, she raised it for her audience to see, then carefully lowered it to rest on her own head. It was how the Kyprin queens had always been crowned, since no one wanted to offend their peculiar god by claiming his priesthood.
The onlookers, noble and common born, sent up a thunder of applause and cheers that startled the small winged horses from the beams overhead. They swooped around the new queen, who stood there patiently, waiting for quiet.
To the side, tucked into the shadow of a pillar, her spymaster leaned against Nawat Crow with a happy sigh.