The little Saadella is carried into the square first, and I hear whispers of delight and relief from the people around us. It’s her. She’s been found. Praise the stars. As soon as I see her, there’s a fierce, throbbing ache in my chest, and I have the strangest urge to shove my way over to her and take her in my arms. She can’t be more than four or five, but she sits straight and stiff in her grand chair, borne high by her attendants, her tiny child’s body clad in the same small, copper-and-red dress that I once wore. Her pale eyes are round and somber. She has a wide, smooth brow, and her little face is painted white, crimson lips and swirls of gleaming copper powder along her temples and eyelids. Her coils of coppery hair are pinned in place, and on her head rests the agate-studded circlet. I wonder if Mim stayed on as her handmaiden, coaching the little girl to remain absolutely still lest she crack her perfect exterior. I search for Mim in the entourage that follows the bearers into the square, hoping I don’t burst into happy tears if I see her.
The Saadella’s bearers carry her to the base of the steps. Today she will not be at the top with the Valtia, for this is the queen’s day alone. The bearers set the little girl’s paarit down, facing up the steps. I can see the top of her chair from where I stand, but she is hidden from me. I force down the desire to run forward, craving the sight of her. How fragile, how vulnerable she is, looking up at those Soturi envoys who stand not ten feet from her, their hands on their wicked broadswords. The girl-warrior stares at her with a startled sort of curiosity, but the others watch her with pure amusement in their eyes, and I know Sig is right. These barbarians are here to see for themselves whether we’re strong enough to hold them back. And all around us, in the looted shops, the barren market, the muddy, rutted streets, and the hollow cheeks of our citizens, they have their answer.
My fist clenches and hope beats within my breast as I look toward the northern road, waiting for the new Valtia to appear. The acolytes and apprentices file into the square, taking up their places around the Saadella, facing north, their black-robed forms surrounding the platform. And then comes a new elder, one I remember as a priest—Eljas, the one who first whispered his doubt about me aloud in that chamber in the catacombs. As usual, Kauko must have stayed to preside over the temple, which makes Eljas the one in charge of the procession. His flat nose shines with perspiration and his blue eyes streak to the Soturi. From the platform, Aleksi’s jowls quiver as he does the same.
They’re nervous. My gut tightens as the trumpets herald the arrival of the queen. Her bearers come into view, turning as soon as they enter the square to mount the steps to the top of the platform. The priests and envoys have left a clear path. The Valtia’s crown gleams in the dying light of the sun and with the flickering flames of the hundreds of torches that are being lit all around the square. The air fills with the scent of smoke. The people’s cheers grow louder, more hopeful. They seem willing to forgive her for taking so long to accept the crown. The fires are reflected in Sig’s eyes as he watches the whole spectacle.
The new Valtia sits ramrod straight, her pale fingers curled over the armrests of her grand chair, her high collar shielding her profile from the crowd. The skirt and sleeves of her dress shimmer as she’s carried to the top of the platform, and her bearers turn her to face us.
My blood runs ice cold. Her white face is round and soft, and her crimson lips bear a familiar curve. The ceremonial makeup can’t hide what lies beneath, not when I know the terrain of her face as well as my own. “No,” I whisper as I stare at her hair. The coppery locks have been plaited and coiled atop her head, elegant and shining.
But her hair shouldn’t be that color.
It should be brown.
“Mim?” I mouth, my throat so tight that I can’t make a sound. The sight of her face fills my hollow chest with want and regret, and my entire body calls out for her. My vision blurs with tears. Her eyes stare into the distance, absent of all the fondness and life that was there less than two months ago when she gave me the chance to live. When I told her I loved her. When I walked away and left her behind. Now her face is smooth, empty of expression. She looks at no one. Sees no one. The horror is eating me alive.
What have they done to her? Panic and confusion jitter along my bones.
Aleksi holds up a hand, and the crowd goes silent. “Today we crown a new queen to lead our people.” His mouth trembles for a moment like he’s chewing over his next words. “As a gesture of goodwill and friendship, we welcome our friends from the north as witnesses. Chieftain Nisse”—he nods toward the broad-shouldered, blond-bearded warrior, who offers him a smirk in return—“and Chieftain Thyra”—he inclines his head toward the lean and stately young woman, who stands a little taller when her name is called—“and the other representatives of the Soturi people.”
A long, low hiss comes from somewhere in the crowd, which otherwise remains silent, perhaps unbelieving, as I am, that we are formally recognizing our enemies on this sacred day. So many things about this are desperately wrong.
Perhaps sensing the tension in the crowd, Aleksi quickly turns to Mim, who sits unmoving in her chair. “We acknowledge you as the bearer of the magic that protects our people.” His voice rises as he looks over his shoulder at the Soturi envoys. “We acknowledge you as the one who destroys our enemies and nurtures our land. We acknowledge you as our queen.” He strides toward her, and Eljas steps forward to meet him in front of her paarit.