*
I had never been to a coronation before. I’d been a babe in my mother’s arms the day King Gregor had ascended to the throne, and I’d missed the next one while I was stumbling through the country in a haze of madness seeking revenge on every nobleman and axeman I could find – I hadn’t even known that Gregor had died and his unwanted son Paelis had ascended the throne until the night I’d dragged myself up a long sewer tunnel with a sword in hand, determined to sever a King’s head from his neck.
It’s funny how these things can come back to haunt you.
From the way people talk about them, I’d always imagined coronations to be grand affairs, weeks-long festivals of pomp and circumstance, grandiose demonstrations of power, conspicuous consumption and compassion, with foreign dignitaries arriving by the boatload, all hoping to curry favour even as they’re assessing the new monarch’s strengths and weaknesses and working out how best to exploit them.
In one of the guest wings of the castle there was a great tapestry nearly fifteen feet high and more than twice as wide depicting some King from long ago walking barefoot through the city (a peculiar image when paired with the gleaming cloak of purple and gold and a crown that must have felt like an anvil on his head). The streets of Aramor, woven in brown thread, were crowded with craftsmen and merchants, labourers and noblemen, all with hands clasped together in almost religious fervour at the sight of their new monarch. King Paelis had made me stare at that damned rug for more than an hour once, until I’d found the one little boy in the tapestry who was sticking his tongue out at his new ruler. I’d wondered aloud that the embroiderer would dare take such a risk at offending the monarch who’d commissioned the tapestry, but of course, Paelis had said, no one ever saw the little boy. All they saw was a great King, crowned in gold and revered by the masses. We crave that which is glorious, Paelis told me, and in its presence we will forget everything else.
The coronation of Filian I, King of Tristia, would no doubt be remembered as many things, but glorious will not be one of them.
The whole affair took place in a single afternoon. Aramor didn’t have the money for days-long feasts and parades, and as we were rather short of Gods, even the most basic religious rituals were truncated. Foreign dignitaries were in short supply too: instead of their presence, they sent modest gifts and sumptuous apologies, blaming short notice and urgent matters at home. Most likely their absence had more to do with the knowledge that the Kingdom of Tristia might not even exist by the time they arrived.
Filian the First was crowned King of Tristia in the dusty, damaged throne room of Castle Aramor on a chill autumn afternoon.
By early evening, Tristia was no more.
I had a good spot from which to watch the ceremony. Two guards had lugged in a large piece of carved oak which I mistook at first for some kind of uncomfortable-looking chairt; it was only when they pushed me down until my chest was pressed against it and chained my hands to iron rings on either side did I recognise it as a headman’s block, and its purpose to position me for the touching climax of the ceremony. A prodigious number of guards were assembled nearby, apparently to ensure nothing ruined the grand finale.
It didn’t take me long to spot Brasti, dressed in Kest’s preposterous monk’s outfit. It might have hid his quiver, but it made him look like a hunchback. No doubt he’d convinced some of the others to prepare for some preposterous last-minute attempt at saving my life. I really hoped none of them would die in the attempt.
A priest in golden robes stood behind Filian, hands shaking as he held the crown over the boy’s head – I doubt he’d expected to have to perform this ritual with nine guardsmen extending longswords over his own head to form a very sharp steel canopy. He’d started Filian’s various new titles, increasingly pompous synonyms of King such as ‘Defender of the Nation, Overseer of its Affairs, Heart of its People . . .’
That went on for a while.
Kest stood on the other side of the dais next to Nehra, who was representing the Bardatti. Dezerick had told me Trin had forced Quentis into his old Inquisitor’s coat, to stand for the Cogneri. Gwyn’s plans to ride north had been cancelled – although clearly not of his own volition – because he was standing there, a colourful display of bruises across his forehead and hands tied behind his back, representing what was left of the Rangieri. They’d even managed to get Darriana to stand for the Dashini, which meant some deal must have been struck to allow Valiana to live.
None of them looked very happy.
They’d managed to get a representative from every one of the secular and religious Orders of Tristia too: a Knight for the Honori, the Viscount of Brugess, of all people, for the Nobli, people representing all of the religious Orders, from the lowest Quaesti to a Venerati Magni – and there was even an Admorteo, one of the Gods-forsaken torturers.
And they’d thoughtfully included a confused-looking crafts-woman wearing an apron and carpenter’s tools to represent the labouring classes. Nice.
The whole thing was a pretty little piece of pomp designed to give the impression that the country was united behind Filian.
The pronouncements reached their end, the priest fell silent, and so did the assembled guests. His gaze passed over the crowd as if he was looking for someone to give him some last-minute reprieve – not everyone was happy about Filian’s coronation, and Tristia’s always had quite a tradition of assassinating those crowning an unloved monarch. It might be nothing more than a petty act of revenge, but even so . . .
The priest’s eyes landed on me.
Sorry, Venerati, I thought, shaking my hands in their chains to remind him of my situation. Looks like you and I are both on the same fish-hook dangling in the river now.
The priest sighed and set the crown gently upon Filian’s head, announcing, ‘Filian Primé, Dei Beadicté.’ You could hardly hear the tremble in his voice.
And thus was a child stolen from his mother and raised by her greatest enemy handed the throne of my homeland.
Trin wasted no time. She signalled two black-garbed men who brought forward a lovely shining silver case, just the right size to hold an executioner’s sword. Filian’s eyes flickered to me and his lips twitched, just the way his father’s had whenever he was wrestling with a decision. I was just close enough to hear Trin whisper, ‘Look at the nobles, my love. See how their eyes search for the first sign of weakness. It will be his head or ours if you do not act boldly while you have the chance.’