The people of Jeru lined the long road leading from the cathedral to the castle, and I walked all the way, my back stiff, my eyes level, the long train of my pale blue dress trailing behind me for a full thirty feet. The people cheered and threw flower petals on my train, symbolizing the goodwill and wishes they wanted me to take with me on this new journey. White and pink and yellow and red, petals of every color imaginable, and so thick that my train was completely obscured and a few pounds heavier. I walked slowly, lifting my hands in regal greeting as I’d been instructed.
The people had already lined the path before me with the same flowers, protecting my bare feet—a representation of my vulnerability and humility as I walked among the people I would rule. My head was heavy with the jewels woven through my hip-length hair, but I didn’t allow it to droop, and I didn’t lower my eyes.
When I reached the cathedral on the hill, I was met by a veiled matron, the oldest woman in Jeru city, who knelt at my blackened feet and washed them with trembling hands. In a voice that cracked and broke as she spoke, she bestowed a blessing of long life upon me and the feet that would carry me through it.
The oil from her flask dribbled into the dirt as she anointed one foot and then the other, muttering about patience and zeal and health in every step. When she finished her blessing she peered up at me and said simply, “Wait for him.”
She raised her arms like a child asking to be lifted up, and immediately two guards stepped forward to assist her. She clutched my hands in hers and repeated her advice, an old woman telling a young woman to take care of her husband.
“Wait for him,” she pressed, and there was an urgency that belied her simple advice.
Wait for who? I asked, unable to help myself, even if she couldn’t hear my question.
“The King, Milady,” she answered instantly, and a smile broke across her face, creating a thousand creases to hide her secrets. And mine. I smiled back.
For how long?
“As long as it takes.”
She inclined her head, a regal nod, and stepped back from me, letting the guards draw her away. I wished she would return and tell me more, tell me how to wait when I wanted only to run. I needed a mother, or at the very least a guide, and I had neither. I took a deep breath, filling my chest with the courage to move forward. Then I stepped into the cool darkness of the cathedral, the sinking sun at my back.
The horizontal rays pierced the stained glass on either side of the huge arched door and made kaleidoscope colors on the black stone aisle that led to the raised altar. Circular stone benches in ever-widening rings created a ripple effect from the center where I was to kneel with my back to the entrance, waiting for the king to arrive. He was not to see my face until he knelt across from me, and I was not to see his.
The benches were filled with the rich and well-connected from every province, the Council of Lords sitting on the first rows, Lady Firi and four others to my left, four to my right. The prior, a royal advisor appointed by the king to perform Jeruvian rituals and rites, stood at the altar, waiting for me to approach. His robes were black with an emerald undertone of Jeruvian green. He wore a tall, gold dome on his head, carved with the ancient symbols of Jeru. The mouth, the hand, the heart, and the eye—the Teller, the Spinner, the Healer, and the Changer.
The prior greeted me by name and bid me kneel as he touched my lips, my hand, my chest, and each closed lid, bestowing blessings on each, and lighting a candle over incense that made my temples throb and my throat itch.
Then he stood back and faced the entrance expectantly. The heads on every man and woman in attendance swiveled as well, watching eagerly, awaiting the king. Except my father. He did not turn his head. Neither did Lord Bin Dar or Lord Gaul. In fact, not a single member of the council turned toward the door. They all sat with their faces forward, waiting. A black knowledge sat on their features like ink, and I read it with growing alarm. They couldn’t know for certain that Tiras would not arrive unless they knew the king’s secret and had trapped him with it.
We waited in silence, the room a tomb of growing speculation. The questions of the congregation became so engorged, they burst the confines of private thought and pressed against me, stealing my space. Seconds became minutes, and minutes became an eternity. The curiosity in the cathedral reached its peak and started to wane, the burning query clearly answered. The king was not coming.
“Holy Prior, have mercy on the girl,” my father said, rising. “Dismiss the gathering.”
The prior nodded, his eyes wide beneath his domed hat. “Of course, Milord. As you wish.”
He raised his hands, bidding the people to be useful and well, a Jeruvian blessing, and the congregation rose, almost as one.
I did not rise from the altar.
“Milady, are you well?”
I lifted my eyes to his and nodded once, slowly, precisely.
“Do you understand, Milady? The king is not coming.”
I nodded again, in exactly the same manner, but I did not rise.
“Can you not even whisper?” the prior chided me.
I couldn’t. My lips could form words, my tongue could move around the shapes and sounds, but I could not release them, not even on a whisper.
“Is she deaf as well as dumb?” the people murmured, and Lord Bilwick repeated the question, raising his voice so it bounced off the stone walls. A few people gasped and some laughed, stifling uncomfortable giggles into the palms of their hands.
“Lady Corvyn, the king is not coming. You will rise,” Lord Bin Dar demanded.
I will wait.
He couldn’t hear me, but the words gave me courage, and I said them again, making them a mantra.
I will wait.
“You have been dismissed,” Lord Gaul insisted.
I will wait on the king, just as I was instructed.
“The law states the lady must reach the altar before the sun sets. But there is no law that dictates when the king shall arrive. Let her wait.” It was Lady Firi, her voice rising above the fray, and for a moment the congregation was silent.
Boojohni spoke my name from a dark corner, his worry making the word fly like an arrow through the assembly and pierce my quaking heart, but I didn’t turn toward him, though I took courage in his presence.
“Rise, daughter.” My father gripped my arm, his fingers biting, attempting to force my withdrawal.
I heard the hushed grate of metal hissing against the leather of a sheath. Then another sword was drawn nearby, and another.
“The lady will wait as long as she wishes. I will stay with her,” Kjell called out, and I could hear him approaching from the entrance where he’d stood to await the king.
“As will I,” another warrior cried out.
“And I,” Boojohni cried, moving toward the altar.
“Stupid girl.” My father’s desperate hiss was a sharp slap, far worse than his grip. He released my arm and stepped away. But he didn’t leave.
No one left.
I bowed my head and closed my eyes, and the murmuring around me faded with my concentration. I’d called the Volgar birdmen. I could ask the birds of Jeru to help me save the king.
All the birds in Jeru come,
Sing a song of martyrdom.
Every cage and every tree,
Set the birds of Jeru free.
If the king among you flies,
If the king among you dies,
Lift him up and bring him here,
To claim his troth to every ear.