“A tunnel,” Arcolin said. “Think you could find the entrance again by daylight?”
“Certainly, Captain. By daylight or dark. I’ve no doubt it’s concealed, though.”
Arcolin considered telling the militia captain about it, but he’d been hired for a different job and past experience with Vonja suggested it would be more profitable to let the Vonjans deal with any smuggling themselves. Likely some of the militia were involved.
24
At the heart of Chaya towered the King’s Grove. Ten of the tallest trees grew in a circle around a mossy mound where the coronation would actually take place. Kieri had been told of it, and forbidden to go near it. Now—on the morning of his coronation—he looked out the window to see the trees massed beyond the palace walls. Already he heard a distant bustle in the palace, and soft scuff of those who would bathe and dress him coming along the passage …
Kieri came down the steps of the palace in his coronation robes over new clothes from the skin. Before him, the Council that had sent Paks to find their king; on one side his uncle Amrothlin, the elven ambassador, and on the other the Captain-General of Falk. Immediately behind them, two King’s Squires and Paks. Behind them, the other Siers and lesser nobility, including Aliam and Estil—he’d insisted they be part of the procession, over Aliam’s protests. Merchants and crafters, too, this time over the protest of his Council, but he wanted everyone. Even—along with all the other ambassadors and envoys—Hanlin of Pargun.
Palace staff lined the way to the gate, and beyond was a crowd, held back by a green rope in the hands of rangers in russet and green. Kieri would have walked faster on his own, but measured his pace to that of the Council.
Left out the gate … along the street … and then an abrupt turn into a narrow lane winding between and around great trees, in a dim green coolness. The fragrance of sunlit meadows, of spring flowers, vanished into the rich, complex odors of forest.
Finally, the King’s Grove. The ground rose slightly under his feet as they approached tree trunks wider than houses; the path lifted over knotted roots, dipped between them.
He felt the taig here, far more strongly than he ever had; the flavor of each individual tree, its essential being, touched him. Ahead, his Councilors lurched and scrambled, the oldest helped by the younger, but to Kieri the path felt smooth, welcoming. On either side, great boles rose, furrowed bark shaggy with moss and tiny ferns near the ground, but higher showing multiple shades of red-brown, lavender, green-gray, where lichens patched the bark. A rich fragrance enveloped him, complex and enticing.
Beyond the trees, the ground rose smoothly, the path marked out with round white cobbles on moss and grass intermixed with tiny flowers, pink and white and blue. The top of the mound rose to the height of two men, level there with a single stone on it. The Council paused, then split into two lines, each moving to the side. Only the most senior, Sier Halveric, led the way up the mound. Kieri followed, and the Captain-General of Falk and the elf ambassador moved with him. Behind him, he could hear his Squires and Paks, but the others, he’d been told, would join those marking the human half of the circle.
As he climbed, he could see files of elves lining up on the other side of the circle. With every step he felt the same strangeness he’d felt in the battle on the way … the hairs stood up on his arms, his neck, and the sunlight pouring into the center of the opening acquired a silvery shimmer. Every leaf, every flower, seemed to glow from within. More fragrance rose from the moss, from the grass, as if the earth itself breathed welcome and delight. And now he could see the Lady of the Ladysforest, bringing with her the elvenhome light, with her attendants behind her. He came to the lip of the mound’s flat top and saw the stone, a polished slab inlaid with the flowing patterns elves favored.
Trumpets sounded. Kieri stiffened. He had seen no musicians … and yet the sound seemed to come from everywhere.
“Present the king-to-be,” the Lady said. “Is he acceptable to all?”
“Great and gracious Lady,” Sier Halveric said, “this is Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan, seed-son of Falkieri, fourth king before, and born-son of his elven queen. The Council of Men accepts him as king, with joy.”
The Captain-General bowed. “The Company of Falk accepts him as king, with all joy, in the name of all his human kindreds.”
“I present him to the Lady Flessinathlin of the Ladysforest,” said the elf ambassador. “He is known to us, as my Lady knows, and I will ask: Is he acceptable to the elven kindred?”
“The Ladysforest accepts him, with all joy. Let the elfane taig witness, and the forest taig witness, and the people of this realm witness: All accept him.”
Kieri felt his eyes stinging.
She bent her gaze on him. “Come forward, Falkieri my beloved grandson, and make those pledges that bind our peoples together. And accept the blessing of the Singer, the High Lord, and all gods who serve the good. It is time.”
The Halveric and the elf ambassador stepped aside, and Kieri went forward alone, to stand across the stone from the Lady. “Your dagger,” she said, drawing a slim silver knife from her waistband. Kieri handed her his dagger—new, like the rest of his outfit but the elf-blade at his side—and took hers.
The words—he had learned the words of the pledges—but speaking them in chorus with her, in that mix of light, in that place, he felt them piercing his heart. “I, Falkieri Amrothlin Artfielan, pledge my life to this realm, to the welfare of all its people of every race. I pledge to renew and protect the taig to the end of my ability …”
And as they spoke, Kieri followed the Lady’s lead as she pricked her finger with his blade, and he pricked his finger with hers, and the mingled drops of blood fell on the stone, in the exact center of the design on its upper surface.
Kieri had never seen elf-blood before; he had heard the phrase “silver blood” but had not known what it meant—now the silvery glints danced in that drop, and when the drops landed, they shone a moment on the surface, then disappeared. In that moment, a lance of light shot upward from the stone, bright even in the sunlight. Kieri felt for a moment that he had been clasped in strong arms and given a knight’s buffet. Then he was standing, blinking against the afterimage of intolerable brightness, and the Lady across from him blinked back.
“The gods have blessed you indeed, Grandson,” she said. “I think we may safely say the pledge was witnessed.”
Kieri found it hard to speak. “I … did not expect that.”
“It is not usual,” she said. “Only a few coronations have had such a response from the stone. But now—you need a crown on that head.” She gestured.
The crown was of green-tinged gold, a circlet of leaves—each one unique. On it were set rubies dark as blood. It sat lightly on his brow, as he came back down the mound, this time on the elves’ side of the circle, walking arm-in-arm with his grandmother. Together, they circled the mound, and the courtiers of both bowed low, then mounted the hill again. There they bowed to one another, and the Lady said, “It is your day, Kieri; make your procession and then I will join you for the feast.”
Kieri went back down the human side, this time to cheers. Now his Squires led the way, and the whole Council walked behind. Back down the lane, and into the city, its streets lined with cheering crowds. Banners hung from the windows, flowers were thrown down before him. He’d seen triumphant processions before; he’d walked in some. This was different, and not just because he was now king. He felt around him—behind, where the King’s Grove lay, and ahead, where the forest curved around the far side of the city, and beneath, where the waters trickled through stone to emerge as springs nearer the river—the taig, stronger than ever. His awareness seemed to deepen with every step, and yet it did not distract him from his people, pressing as near as the rangers allowed.