He would walk, he knew, the bounds of the city, ending again at the palace gate. “Bounds must always be walked to dawn first,” Belvarin had explained. “It is not the direction of the circle, but the direction of the first turn that matters—it must be the shortest way to the rising sun and the elvenhome kingdoms.” Now they were nearing the city’s margin, with forest beyond gardens and orchards. A cloud of birds rose singing from the trees—tiny birds, brilliantly colored, fluttering like butterflies. They swooped nearer, flew in a spiral over his head, and returned to the trees as the procession turned toward the river. Butterflies then took over, out of the gardens and orchards, arching over the lane, then settling on his shoulders and arms as lightly as air, as if he wore a cloak of jeweled wings. As they neared the river side of the city, the butterflies lifted away, and out of the water meadows rose flying creatures as brightly colored as the birds and butterflies … glittering gauzy wings, metallic greens, golds, blues, scarlet. Kieri put up his hand and one landed there long enough for him to see it clearly. Great green eyes, a body boldly striped in black, gold, and green, with a green tail. The head cocked toward him; he could see tiny jaws move. Was it talking? He could hear nothing, but the creature looked as if it were listening.
It was a long walk, and his new boots—comfortable enough that morning—were far less so by the time they reached the palace gates again. He could smell the fragrance of roast meats and bread, but next he had the ritual visit to the royal ossuary, and spoke vows into that listening silence, to those who had given him bone and blood, vows no one else would hear.
He came up again to find the feast spread in the King’s Ride, long tables stretching away into the distance. On either side, the trees rose up; he could feel them, feel their roots below the cushiony sod that welcomed his feet. His place lay at the farthest table, with the Lady, and that led him past the others, where men and women—and not a few children—bowed as he walked by.
At the head table, set across the line of other tables, he left a seat between himself and Aliam Halveric, and bent his knee to the Lady. She had withdrawn her glamour, as someone might fold in a cloak, but he was aware of the line of it connecting her through ground and air to the elvenhome kingdom she ruled.
“You are happy, Sir King?” she asked. He heard real affection in her voice.
“I am,” he said. “Still somewhat mazed, though.”
She chuckled. “So I would think. Bards elven and human will make songs of all this for a thousand years. Your paladin looks well.”
“She is not my paladin,” Kieri said. “She belongs to her gods.”
“Ah, but you were her … there is no word in human language that I know … I believe you were there when Ardhiel told her the story of the harp growing?”
“Yes …”
“Well—you are one of those who can grow people. It is not the same with individuals, of course, because unlike a tree, humans have choices they can make.”
“It was not my doing,” Kieri said, watching Paks come up the line of tables, laughing and chatting with people. “She was extraordinary from the start. I wish you could have met my wife, though …”
“I, too, Grandson.” She turned to face him and for a moment he saw compassion in her face. “You had children, and lost them. We both did. It is my dearest hope that the Singer grants you another love, and I know—because of my losses—that new children will not replace the old in your heart.”
Just as Kieri felt tears sting his eyes, Paks arrived at the table and came to his side. “Sir King? Are you well?”
“Very well,” he said, swallowing the tears, bitter and salt together. “Sit here between Aliam and me, will you not?”
“Of course, Sir King.” She sat, and as they ate, she chatted more with Aliam than with him, giving him space to talk to his grandmother. The afternoon wore on with music and song and—as he had promised Kirgan Marrakai—dancing.
At one point, the Pargunese envoy, Lady Hanlin, paused beside his chair. “I see not all the beautiful girls are in Pargun,” she said, with a sly grin. “But some are. I have nieces, you know.” Then she passed on, smiling and chatting with anyone who would speak to her, and smiling pleasantly at those who would not.
“If all Pargunese were like her,” Aliam said, leaning across, “we would have far less trouble with them.”
“We would have different trouble,” Kieri said. “Open enmity is easier to recognize.”
“I do not believe she intends evil,” said his grandmother. “And I believe I would know.”
“Then I suppose she wants to marry me off to a Pargunese girl,” Kieri said.
“Perhaps. It is a traditional way of cementing friendship between peoples, though—” She paused, one eyebrow rising. “—it does not always work. Especially if one does not wish it.” Then she smiled, a smile that seemed to fill the entire world for a moment. “But I must not lessen the joy of this occasion.”
The next two days were filled with Lyonyan traditions: showing the coronation gifts—now covering many tables—to anyone who wanted to walk past them. Guild processions wound through the city, ending at the palace with a presentation to the new king. Twice, small children escaped and got lost somewhere in the palace; these were quickly found and restored to their parents. Three times, adventurous adolescents tried to sneak upstairs, only to be foiled by alert guards and escorted outside the palace walls. In all this, Kieri had no time for a long talk with Aliam Halveric, and Aliam and Estil had not come to the palace since the coronation itself. On the third day, he sent a message and asked them to come. He was sure the Council would not meet that day, even if he convened them; everyone was tired by now.
When they were announced, Kieri led them upstairs to the royal suite.
“I’m still not used to this,” Kieri said, waving his hand at the room. “This and all that goes with it. I wasn’t trained for it.”
“You’ll do well,” Estil Halveric said. Aliam grunted, running a finger along the carved back of a chair. “It’s nothing but a larger domain, after all …”
“Oh, it’s not the responsibility,” Kieri said, though he felt the weight of it hovering over him. “It’s this—this palace, this ceremony. Your steading, Aliam, or mine … comfortable enough, beautiful—yours anyway—but no more luxury than anyone needs. This is …”
“Royal,” Estil said, with a touch of firmness. “Royal, like you, Sir King.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Aliam said. “You are, and you always were, and this is your house—you belong here, and you will adapt to it sooner than you think.”
“I must not forget,” Kieri said, turning to look out the window. “I must not let it …” He searched for the right words, could not find them. “You always said, Aliam, that a soldier must never get too used to comfort—”
“So I did, and it’s true.”
“But this—” With him, they looked around the sitting room of the royal suite. Soft cushions, upholstered chairs, another one of those incredible carpets figured with flowers and vines and trees and birds and butterflies … “This, if I let it—”
“You won’t let it,” Estil said. Kieri saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes. “Kieri, Kieri—you are not that kind of man. You were not that kind of boy. That is why you will be a good king—are a good king already. This is all due the king’s majesty: it is meet and right, the measure of a royal house, but you will not dishonor it by thinking it is yours alone. Trust yourself, Kieri.”
“I … am not sure. When I think of how I got here …”
“It’s my fault,” Aliam said. “Those years of not knowing. If only I’d figured it out, and how to go at proving it—”