The Windward King, page 16
“A whole squadron.” Despite the situation, satisfaction fluttered through him at the recall of this information.
“Yes.” Korith elbowed him, but concern still creased his features. “What in the hills?”
Questions burned at the back of Shara’s throat. Was this an act of war? A precaution? Normal but worrying? Some form of tribute honoring Iliath’s coronation? Were they in disputed territory? Could these be pirates masquerading as Tethamari?
“Come on,” Korith said, pushing to his feet. “We need to get back.”
“Back?”
One look revealed that Korith knew what he was thinking. Folding his arms, his cave-brother bit his lip and let out a heavy sigh through his nose, then shook his head. “We don’t have time to search eight ships. Especially after last time.”
Shara cringed. They couldn’t afford another Faresh incident.
“If he is on one of those ships . . . As much as I hate to admit it, Gepar is right: if they kidnapped him, that likely means they want him alive. We’ll go back and work out what to do. Tell Admiral Thosena what we saw. Well, we’ll tell her something, anyway.”
Shara nodded and closed his eyes to shift, but they slit open for a last look. Even if the ships weren’t hiding Iliath, he could think of too many other alarming reasons they might be there.
Chapter 23
The Coronation
The weather didn’t care that a new Barathi king was being crowned.
Hazy mist clung to the city the next morning, threatening to wrap the coronation cheer in blankets of rain. Gusts of wind rattled the palace windows, and overhead, streaks of cloud gave way to tiny glimpses of blue sky that vanished the moment they were noticed. It was restless, uncertain weather, as if Shara’s emotions had spilled into the world.
The weather did nothing to halt the arrival of dozens of ships, everything from tiny rowboats to massive merchant vessels, though fortunately no Tethamari squadrons. Nor did it dampen the celebrations already underway throughout the city. Early in the morning, Shara had ventured onto a balcony and nearly panicked into his true form at the shouts and cheers and applause rippling up to meet him.
At least he’d remembered to wave briefly before fleeing.
Now he paced the length of the chapel opposite the throne room. If he moved quickly enough, loudly enough, he might be able to drown out the incessant murmur of the hundreds of people on the other side of the door, the patter of footsteps, the swish of fabrics, the occasional bursts of laughter.
The sounds faded as he reached the front of the chapel, and he sank again into one of the pews and leaned forward until his forehead rested against the seat in front of him. He was supposed to be praying, but he was doing a terrible job of it. More pleas than prayers, his thoughts as scattered and gloomy as the clouds. Once he’d even begun to apologize, but apologizing for his inadequacy seemed the height of ingratitude and disrespect, as though he were accusing his creator of having made a mistake.
Of course, that left the far more terrifying possibility that the Eagle hadn’t made a mistake.
He shoved to his feet and resumed pacing, breezing past beautiful wood-panelled walls, paintings of holy men and women, scenes depicting the Guide’s time on the earth. It was like watching a rushed play, a story that un-told itself every time he paced the other direction.
The door cracked open, interrupting his sixth prayer that Iliath might miraculously reappear, and Tishel stepped inside. She took one look at him, frozen halfway up the center aisle, and rolled her eyes. “You do realize this is the easy part, don’t you?”
He swallowed, tried to answer, and gave up. Three heartbeats ago, he’d thought the same. He’d told himself as much throughout the morning, and Korith had reminded him of the same fact last night.
But now the moment stared him down like a neeka. “Is it . . . ?”
“A few minutes.”
Nodding, he lowered himself onto the edge of a pew and brushed at his resplendent coronation garments. By the door, Tishel mirrored his motions, smoothing her dress uniform and plucking a dog hair from her pant leg. Did she ever wear anything but military clothing? Was she allowed to? Did she wish she could?
What would Lady Tishel have worn to the coronation?
A knock rattled the door, and he leapt to his feet as a royal guard spoke quietly to Tishel. Her gaze moved past Shara to the front of the chapel, and her lips moved silently before she nodded to him. “It’s time.”
His mouth went dry, and like Tishel, he turned to the altar. At its side stood a much larger version of the little statue in Korith’s shrine: an old, bearded man with a travelling cloak and walking stick, a magnificent eagle perched on his shoulder with its wings outstretched.
Eagle, shelter me. Guide, lead me. They were ultimately the same, but he’d take as many types of help as he could get.
Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward, jutting his chin high. “I can do this.”
Tishel’s lips pursed, but it wasn’t a frown. “Since the esteemed Lord Aman isn’t here to say it . . . Of course you can.”
His nerves settled a fraction, and he threw her a brief smile before stepping into the hall. Guards lined the walls, all standing perfectly straight, each holding a sword crossed over his or her chest. Eyes followed as he passed. Tishel’s boots clipped quietly on the stone, and his coat train hissed in his wake.
At the entrance to the throne room stood a little girl, not much older than Thia, holding a basin of water. Shara paused and dipped his hands into it. The chill seeped up his arms and into his chest, steadying him. Water sloshed over his fingers, washing away his past—Iliath’s past, Iliath’s mistakes.
And his own? Could he do that?
He gave the girl a fleeting smile and continued forward, leaving a gentle trail of water droplets to mark his progress into the sumptuously decorated room. Several hundred people watched from either side of the central aisle, whispering and shifting like a curious ocean.
The common people lucky enough to have been invited stood here in the back. There was Amesal, beaming brightly. There Na Fanshe and Eleth, both bouncing with excitement. Shara barely stopped himself from smiling at the Mithel family—perhaps they had crafted the bouquets of liverleaf and snowdrops, or twined the kingsblossom garlands adorning the walls.
The colors grew increasingly bright as he moved up the aisle, the scents sweeter and headier. Nobles greeted him now, faces he recognized vaguely as the men and women who had been pledging their loyalty over the last however many days. Faresh lurked in their midst, all careless arrogance but for his neeka-sharp eyes. No pledge of loyalty there.
And finally Korith, standing a few rows back from Princess Nashai and her entourage. His face glowed with pride and encouragement. Shara’s stomach knotted; even if they did find Iliath—no, when they found him—there would be no second coronation. Korith was watching his sovereign and mentor become king as much as he was watching Shara.
Rolling his shoulders back, he took the final steps.
Upon the dais at the front of the room stood Walker Galthi in his simple brown robes, his expression brimming with fondness. Shara knelt on a thick blue cushion at his feet and stared at the floor, which seemed preferable to looking at the throne looming behind Galthi.
Quiet, measured steps brought two young men to the priest’s side. One held a large, open book; the other handed over a round object hanging from a chain, its contents smoking and sharply sweet.
As Galthi waved the censer over him and solemnly murmured prayers from the book, Shara fought to keep his eyes from watering. He might have dipped his head in an ocean of incense and drawn a deep breath, so thick was the fog of spicy-sweet smoke that enveloped him.
One of the acolytes gave a quiet, guilty cough, and an equally guilty grin stole over Shara’s face. His taut muscles loosened, and the initial overwhelm began to fade. The aroma seeped through him, soothing his nerves.
Galthi passed the censer to the acolyte and turned his attention entirely to the book. He said a prayer of thanks to the Guide, then addressed the crowd, bestowing a blessing upon all who had gathered to witness the coronation of their next king. Then a prayer for Barath’s peace and prosperity, one for the king’s wisdom, another for . . .
“Prince Iliath, are you willing to take the oath?”
Panic seized him in its talons. No! Not yet!
What person in their right mind would do this? What if they never found Iliath, and Shara was doomed to spend the rest of his life impersonating Barath’s king? A whole country following a teveth, someone so deep beneath the waves that no form would prevent him from drowning.
Breathe, Shara. He could almost feel Korith poking him in the back, prodding him out of that deep sea. “I am.”
He hardly recognized the sure, resonant voice with which he answered. Again and again it left his mouth as if of its own will, making Prince Iliath’s vows for him. Vows to rule with justice and fairness . . . to uphold the laws of Barath . . . to preserve its customs . . . to protect the country and its people . . .
“I solemnly swear so to do.”
Over and over, the same words. Between each vow, Galthi dipped a thumb into a little bowl of scented oil and drew it across Shara’s forehead.
At last, all the words had been said, all the rituals performed. No more pieces of fabric draped over his shoulders or objects pressed into his hands. No more oil, no more prayers.
Only the crown.
Galthi held it within Shara’s line of sight, his hands still and sure. Three layers of some dark, nearly blue metal had been fashioned into a miniature Barath—gracefully cresting waves washing against the gentle rise of hills and the jagged peaks of mountains. Two metal discs, one gold and one silver, marked the sun and moon, and the tiny silhouette of a bird soared over one of the islands.
“Iliath Aven Adani, son of Isith and Losel, you have pledged your life in service of Barath and its people. May the Guide’s blessing come upon you, and may he lead you on his Path through your reign.”
With no hesitation, no warning, no anything, he settled the crown upon Shara’s head.
A rippling hush swallowed the room. Galthi reached out a hand and helped him to his feet. With a steadying breath, he turned to face the room and nearly jumped when Galthi cried, “Hail His Majesty, King Iliath!”
The room echoed the words, solemnly at first but soon with more cheerful abandon, until as one they erupted into applause to rival any storm of sky or sea.
Shara had finally managed a daunted smile when the window behind him exploded.
Chapter 24
The Shattered Throne
Glass rained through the air. Shara threw his arms over his head, and the world spun in a blur of fabric, startled screams, and the eerie song of glass on stone.
Then silence. Hundreds of wide eyes stared. Guards hastened up the aisles. Galthi stepped protectively toward him.
“Your Maj—”
Something small and dark sailed between them. It clattered to the ground and rolled toward the throne, shrieking with a high, thin—
The throne exploded in a spray of shrapnel.
Shara reeled back, tripped, fell. His skull slammed against the stone amidst broken glass and the remains of the throne. The world went dull, then erupted. Shrieks and shouts, the angry bellowing of chair legs dragging over the floor, the thunder of footfalls, more explosions. Barks of pistol-fire stabbed at his ears, and a soft hiss filled the room like a den of snakes.
A pair of hands seized his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “Your Majesty!” Galthi’s wide eyes trailed to Shara’s shoulder, where a jagged piece of wood protruded like a tree growing up from a lake of blood.
Pulse racing, Shara yanked it out with a grunt and buried the alvithi traits trying to burst through his skin in response to the pain and threat. “I’m fine.”
Fine. He’d been listening to Korith far too long if he could say such—
Korith.
He spun, searching. People bolted for whichever exit was nearest, tripping over chairs and knocking them aside as they scrambled to be the first to safety. Princess Nashai disappeared within her entourage, one arm wrapped protectively around Lady Masar’s shoulders. Thick, billowing smoke enveloped it all, stinging his eyes and nose.
Flashes of red uniforms filled his hazing vision. A woman grabbed his arm, and a swarm of guards ushered him across the dais toward a door ahead. Through the barrier and the smoke, Shara glimpsed Malothi, her blue coat swirling like a patch of calm sky as she tried to keep the stampeding crowd in some semblance of order.
His eyes snagged on Korith, and he staggered, dragging his guard to a halt. His cave-brother strode across the room, determined gaze fixed on something Shara couldn’t see. Not the attacker. Korith, don’t—
Movement pulled his attention from Korith. A black-clothed shape pushed in the wrong direction, weaving strangely, melting into the smoke and reemerging. A familiar voice shouted angrily. A flash of blue, another crack of gunfire.
Malothi crumpled to the floor at the attacker’s feet.
“No!” Shara shoved against his protective wall, snarling with fury. “Let me—”
The attacker’s head lifted; the fabric obscuring her—his?—face had come loose, and—
Shara flinched, slamming his eyes shut with a gasp of pain. But no, he had to see. He pried his eyes back open, but with every second they stung worse, refusing to focus properly.
Everything disappeared into a white stone corridor and the blood-red uniforms of the guards dragging him to safety. He threw them off, spun—and collided with the just-closed door. Staggering back, he hit a pair of hands that gripped his arms and guided him, none too gently, down the hall.
More doors, more paintings, more guards, everything flashing past. Whatever had held him together in the throne room began to splinter. Each noise raked his ears like claws. The coronation garments rubbed against his skin, and blood and smoke and sweat burned his nostrils.
Senses scraped raw, he closed his eyes and let the guards lead him.
Their pace eventually slowed, and he found himself in a large room bustling with people who maneuvered through rows of simple cots, their arms full of bowls and bundles of fabric. The stinging scents of medicines and blood mingled in the air. Shara’s throat closed, and he stumbled back into the hall.
Tishel caught his arm. “Your Majesty, you’re injured.”
Injured? He glanced down at his bloodied coat.
“Oh. Right.”
With a poorly concealed roll of her eyes, Tishel escorted him to a cot and scowled until he sat. A young doctor began pushing the layered coronation garments carefully aside, and Shara jolted—he’d forgotten his injury because it had already begun healing. As the doctor bared his shoulder, he forced it to tear itself back open, hissing in pain and frustration.
Molting fragile humans.
Motion and noise crowded the edges of his senses. Doctors called to their assistants, and Tishel reeled off orders to her guards. Though Shara did not care to listen, he heard enough to know that the attack had ended. Guards were searching for the would-be assassin, keeping watch over Nashai and her entourage, and ensuring that all the coronation guests made it safely from the palace.
All but Malothi. Malothi and . . .
His nails bit into his palms, and the sting shoved a sudden idea to the front of his mind. “Captain.”
Tishel detached herself from the activity in the hall and came to stand at his side.
He lowered his voice, though the doctor was busy mixing some sort of sharp-smelling liquid. “Can you send Lord Aman a message with wind? Find out if he’s all right?”
Pity flashed in her eyes. “Lieutenant Mereth invented that. He’s the only one who’s managed to do it properly so far. I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” She hesitated. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
She stepped away, and Shara sagged.
“I’m afraid this will hurt, Your Majesty.” The doctor lifted a cloth soaked in the liquid.
He closed his eyes, growling through clenched teeth though he hardly felt the sting. The moment the doctor finished tying his bandage, he leapt to his feet. He didn’t want to be here when they brought in other injured people. When they brought in Malothi.
“Your Majesty.” Tishel stepped away from a pair of guards and watched Shara as he adjusted his clothing, her expression unreadable. “If you’ll come with us, please.”
He followed her down yet another corridor, marvelling in a detached corner of his mind at how consistently everyone was calling him Your Majesty. And just when he’d finally started responding promptly to Your Highness . . .
Tishel bowed him onto a balcony overlooking the city, and he squinted into a grey world. Early spring foliage hung heavy with rain, and dark streaks lined the palace walls as though the whole place were bleeding with its king. Cold seeped through him. A natural cold. Not a reminder that he’d nearly been killed, that Malothi was dead, that others might be as well.
Tishel prodded him in the back. “Wave.”
“What?”
“They need to see you’re alive and well. Rumors will have already begun to fly.”
Flanked by the two guards, he stepped into the chill of spring rain and lifted a hand. A vast crowd waited beneath hoods and umbrellas and celebratory banners, and raucous cheers swept up to meet him.
He stood in the rain for several minutes while Tishel held hushed conversations and received reports of new developments. At the word body, Shara shoved the voices firmly away and strained to hear individual shouts from the crowd, as if he were actually their king and had resolved to learn all their problems one by one. Despite the rain, a glider dove past the balcony, and one of the guards raised his pistol and shouted a warning. Shara shrank back, heart thundering, ears ringing . . .
The pilot banked hastily away and veered off toward the palace’s signal tower, and the guard holstered his pistol with a protective look at Shara.
