When the cessation course ended, the most important of diurnals began beneath Nerezeth’s night sky. Three things of import were to take place: the joint coronation, the public sentencing of the prisoners responsible for Lady Lyra’s attempted murder, and of course the wedding. Madame Dyadia had deigned the upcoming blink of dawn the ideal juncture at which to have the ceremony that everyone hoped would invoke a heavenly phenomenon. It stood to reason, being the precise moment when both Eldoria and Nerezeth shared a glimpse of one another’s skies.
Within four hours of waking, and having dressed and eaten, the castle’s occupants filled the halls and corridors, eager for the joint coronation to get underway. The ceremony took place in the throne room—a cavernous space defined by walls, ceiling, and floor of black marble flecked with silver. Sconces cast a soft, flickering glow, and crickets chirped. Moths puttered about the vaulted ceiling, some dipping down where partitioned balconies lined the walls from corner to corner, forming a second story for extra viewing spaces. Silver and sky-blue valances hung in entwined curves from the railings. Flush against the farthest wall sat a large dais. Gold and red ribbons hung around the edges, interlaced with a variety of flowers from Nerezeth’s arboretum. The ribbons, in Eldoria’s colors, were Griselda’s contribution to honor the princess finally gaining her crown. Ironic, that the beautiful decor placed by the regent’s own hands for her daughter would now pay tribute to the niece she despised instead. In the center of the platform, two silver thrones sat against the wall between opposing pillars carved of dark, sparkling crystal in the form of thorny vines. These provided a vertical perch for the royal salamanders which hung from their suctioned toes like brightly colored fruits. Their pearlescent and bejeweled stripes, blotches, and dots stood out against the black background, catching the eye.
True to Nerezethite tradition, the thrones doubled as coronation chairs for the incoming monarchs. Lyra and Vesper were seated beside one another, holding hands. On Lyra’s left, Prime Minister Albous balanced Queen Arael’s white-gold crown—encrusted with diamonds upon a frame as delicate as lace and ivy—atop her daughter’s head. Following his lead, Queen Nova set King Orion’s amethyst-studded crown—forged of black iron that resembled jagged spikes tipped in silver—upon her son’s head.
Applause and shouts of joy resonated across the vastness and sent the moths and salamanders scrambling to new hiding places. The subjects of both kingdoms formed long, winding lines to pay homage to the new king and queen. Afterward, a luncheon feast was held in the great hall.
Some three hours later, the crowds disbursed into the corridors to seek naps in their chambers or guided tours of the arboretum where the wedding festivities would later be held.
Lyra and Vesper planned an appearance at the castle infirmary for those too ill to attend the coronation or nuptials. But first they took a detour to the Star Turret within the highest tower to retrieve her long-lost memories, the box containing them having released its lock the moment Lyra’s head received its crown.
Luce accompanied their ascension up the wide, winding staircase.
Lyra vied for a glimpse around her chaperone. Vesper met her gaze and nodded.
Luce looked from one to the other and lowered a red feathery wing to cut off their visual. “Having a crown upon your noggins doesn’t make your silent lovelorn declarations any less inappropriate and rude when in my company, Majesties.”
No, we weren’t mentally chatting . . . about anything. Lyra’s wide orchid-lace cuffs rubbed against one another as she answered. The movement reminded her of the crickets in the throne room earlier, filling her with contentment. She belonged. She belonged here, and she belonged in Eldoria. Now, if only she could master looking regal while walking in a gown and royal robes.
She concentrated on taking the stairs in the sage-colored, velvet gown without stepping on the orchid ruffles of lace peering out from beneath the ankle-high hem.
Vesper tilted his head to get her attention once more, and she was the one who nodded this time.
The king and I . . . her signing to Luce stalled in midair as she shared a smile with Vesper, seeing him beam at the title. Her wild Pegasus, ruling a kingdom. She never would’ve thought it.
Luce rustled his illusory feathers behind him and sighed. “The king and you . . . what? Can’t keep your eyes off one another? I’ve noticed. So long as it’s not your hands or lips, I’ll overlook it.”
Lyra misjudged a step and her lacy hem caught beneath her toe. She ducked her head while retaining balance. Her crown slid askew, but Luce righted it atop her hair before it could crash to the floor.
There, that. Lyra gesticulated, using his swift reaction as her segue. That’s precisely what I was trying to say. The king and I have noticed how you’re always there to salvage my crown.
Luce smirked. “A necessary task, seeing as you’ve no horns to hold it on as the other princess did.”
The jibe wasn’t in the best taste, but both Lyra and Vesper smiled, mainly because it felt so good to have the violence and deceptions almost behind them. Vesper’s stags would never be harmed in secret again, now that his mental communications with them had been restored.
Luce, I’m being serious. You’ve proven your loyalty to me a thousand times over. The fact that her fingers moved so stiffly was surprising. She never imagined feeling nervous in this moment. Earlier, when Cyprian was organizing the subjects to greet Vesper and me on our thrones, I realized I should have a first knight of my own. And I would like it to be you.
Luce stepped down from the stair they’d just taken, his backward retreat so swift it caused Lyra and Vesper to rise a step above before they noticed.
His orange gaze centered on Lyra alone. “I’m not sure someone of my . . . nature . . . is cut for such an honor.”
Of course you are. You’d make a wonderful first knight. She looked to Vesper, begging his help with her eyes.
“I agree wholeheartedly. Can’t think of anyone I’d trust more to guard my queen when I can’t be there. Your part in the princess test alone earned you the position.”
Even more, Lyra reclaimed the conversation, my trust and faith in you demands that no other man could rival you for the position.
Luce mussed his hair while rubbing the side of his head in thought. The gesture exposed one of his fuzzy, pointed ears and reminded Lyra of all the times he’d run alongside her as the fox, and how much she would miss that.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped up between them and they resumed climbing the stairs. A wreath of tension wrapped around them.
“If you need training with a sword”—Vesper broke the silence—“Cyprian and my guard would be glad to assist.”
“A sylph’s weapon is his tongue,” Luce groused. “And I’ve more than proven my proficiency in wielding whispers.” He turned to Lyra, an uncharacteristically repentant look upon his face. “I’m not the right man, little one.”
Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry. Having been without tears for so long, she was stingy with them. To weep at each little disappointment in life was a waste. Thus, she had decided never to break down except in extreme moments of bliss or woe.
As it stood, Vesper had prepared her for this response. He himself understood how wind and weightlessness could bind a soul in a way few other things could.
It was selfish, she knew, to want the sylph to stay in her life. Too much to ask from an air elemental who’d only recently won his wings back, when all he wanted for the rest of his ageless years was to fly across endless skies.
Luce caught her elbow as they ascended. “It might serve you not to have a man as your protector at all. Have you considered asking Lady Selena?”
Vesper’s attention perked. “She is an excellent swordsman.”
Lyra shook her head. But she’s a princess. She’s royalty. She shouldn’t serve me.
Vesper furrowed his eyebrows. “She would consider it an ennoblement, not a demotion. With her not being the crown heir, there’s a lack of responsibilities that often bores her,” he assured. “However, tradition dictates we devise a new title for any new position. And princess-knight isn’t quite stately or unique enough.”
“First Knightress has a nice ring,” Luce offered. They all grinned at that, then fell into silent contemplation.
When they arrived at the Star Turret, the door stood ajar and the three seated themselves at a round table. A lone candle flickered in the center, warm wax scenting the air as it melted into a small dish.
The domed room had once been the solar. It was humble in size with a welcoming fireplace. Tapestries, hung upon half of the circular wall, depicted sun-swept fields in summer and snowy mountain peaks beneath starry skies. Shelves curved around the other half in rows of six, holding a variety of jars, vials, boxes, and crockeries with ingredients varying between the commonplace, the gruesome, and the mystical—reminding Lyra of the dirt room in Eldoria’s castle.