“She will, baby.”
Maxon looks over his shoulder at Hildy, who stands against the farthest wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, scrunching up his little face in the process.
Across the room, Hildy’s eyes turn all white, the sign that she and Maxon are having one of their telepathic chats. Another flicker of anxiety tightens my chest. I don’t like the idea of Maxon having conversations that I can’t hear.
Lincoln gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, too, you know.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“To me, you are.”
“Are we doing the right thing?”
“At this point, we only have bad choices in front of us. Our only hope is to pick the prettiest pig.”
My mouth quirks up into a smile. “Well, once you bring farm animals into the analogy, it all makes sense.”
“Thought so.”
Maxon pulls on my skirt again. “Mommy, I want Hildy to walk with us-with us. She keeps saying she has to be last.”
I kneel down to look at Maxon at eye level. In the process, I can’t help but straighten his little tunic, chain mail and crown. He looks so freaking adorable in his high prince get-up. “How about if she walks right behind us, the first guard in line?”
“Yeah.” Maxon closes his eyes and then opens them again. “Hildy says that’s okay.”
I ruffle his hair with my tail. “Glad to hear it.”
Processional music swells from inside the main cathedral. That’s our cue. Pushing through the tall doors, we step into a long arched space that leads up to the altar. Above us, the ceiling is carved with scenes of war; frescoes of famous Acca leaders decorate the walls. Long benches line either side of the processional aisle, all of them filled with witnesses for today’s Anointing. There must be two thousand attendees here, including my parents, Connor, Octavia, Walker, and Cissy.
The three of us step down the long aisle, the golden carpet glittering beneath our feet. Audience members rise to stand as we pass by their rows. Our walk ends at the raised platform that makes up the cathedral’s ceremonial space. It’s a large circular stage with an altar, two amber thrones, and a smaller chair set up for Maxon.
As the music finishes, Lincoln and I move to stand at center stage. Maxon takes his chair, with Hildy standing just behind him.
Once we’re all in place, Lincoln raises his arms in his classic ‘I’m the King and I have something to say’ move. The room falls silent.
“It is with great excitement that I greet you here today,” Lincoln announces to the crowd. “Ever since my Queen and I took the throne three years ago, we’ve worked to return Acca to its former glory as one of the most powerful and loyal houses in Antrum.” Lincoln lowers his arms and turns to me.
I continue the speech. “Today, the King and I will anoint new leadership for Acca, with all of you here as our valued witnesses. May the future Earl and Duchess guide this house along the path of strength, honor and good judgment.”
I pick up the small vial of oil that rests on the altar behind us.
“Will those to be anointed come forward?” asks Lincoln.
The Earl and Duchess step across the stage. I dip my thumb in the bowl of oil and wipe some of the sacred liquid onto the Duchess’s lips, forehead and palms. “May you speak truth to your people, rule with wisdom in your mind, and work hard with your hands for the future of all thrax.”
I hand the bowl to Lincoln, who repeats the ritual with the Earl. After that, we all turn to address the assembly.
“On behalf of thrax everywhere,” says Lincoln. “We introduce you to the new Earl and Duchess of Acca!”
The audience breaks out into a riot of applause. I survey the crowd and sigh. It’s been a long journey to reach this day but now, at last, Acca has new, loyal leadership.
A strange sound soon mingles in with the applause. It’s quiet, yet impossible to miss. A soft cracking echoes through the cathedral. I scan the space, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.
Huh. I could swear it’s coming from the ceiling.
I turn to Lincoln. “Do you hear anything?”
“Yes.” Lincoln’s gaze is already fixed at the amber roof over our heads, his face set into stern lines. I know that look. Danger is near.
It’s an effort to keep my voice low. “What’s going on?”
“Someone’s casting a spell.”
My gaze snaps to the Striga royal guard. They’re already murmuring counter-spells to block the intruding magic. By the worried looks on their faces, they aren’t succeeding at their task.
“Why aren’t they stopping the spell?” These are the best casters in Striga, and twelve of them, no less.
“I’m not sure, unless—” Lincoln’s gaze stays glued to the ceiling.
My heartbeat kicks into overdrive. What kind of spell could bypass the Striga royal guard?