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[Rough Draft] Chapter 90: A Crown of Kings
The first soft, tenuous notes of the pipe organ filled the walls of the great cathedral built of iron and stone. Nicholas shivered as his golden slippers slid across the marble floor. The Crown Prince’s ceremonial garments of embroidered silk fabric clung to the sweat that dripped between his shoulders as he gazed out at the solemn, silent crowd of sharply dressed knights, esteemed nobles, and counselors that waited for him in the center auditorium off to his right. To his left were pews filled to bursting with the lower nobles’ families, each dressed in their finest silk, feathers, and pearls.
The dulcet tones of the choir lifted above the nobles towards the high rafters. Sunlight filtered through the cathedral’s stained-glass windows and paved the aisle leading towards the Pope in a golden rainbow hue.
For perhaps the second time in his life, Nicholas found it challenging to focus on the complex tasks of walking, swallowing, and breathing. A step behind and to his left walked Captain Beaumont, whose steady gaze and quiet confidence stood in stark contrast to Lord Acheron, who walked beside him. The pale nobleman carried a black satin pillow, upon which rested the golden, sapphire, and ruby necklace that belonged to the prime minister’s office.
Duke Stryker Hargreve and Duchess Kirsi Valda waited between the boxed pews of the great noble families of Lafeara. Nicholas glanced at them each in turn, finding reassurance in the strength and loyalty they both represented. The Hargreve’s had been loyal to the Royal Family since the first Havardur Kings and held immense sway over the Royal Party. Meanwhile, the Duchy of Bastiallano represented a formidable and loyal army, bountiful resources, and a history of Duke and Duchesses blessed by the Goddess of War.
The Commanding Generals bowed their head respectfully as the Crown Prince walked past and then fell in step behind Acheron and Beaumont as the procession continued forward. Nicholas noted Earl Percy Hawthorne and Marchioness Serilda Kensington at the front of the Noble Party and smiled as Serilda offered him a smile and subtle wink. He glanced towards the balcony seat above reserved for the Royal Family but saw only empty chairs and two knights standing at attention.
‘How strange. I expected Eleanora and Priscilla to be absent, but where is Octavia?’
The Crown Prince faced forward, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach as his mind raced through the ceremony’s lines and the order of events.
A golden silk pillow waited upon the floor before the Pope. Jericho all but glowed beneath the glass dome directly above. The Divine Heir’s golden robes from the day before were now adorned by a large white sash embedded with diamonds and yellow sapphires. A simple satin crown adorned the Pope’s head with similar jewels.
‘Not the crown of a king, but that of a Pope beloved by millions.’
Nicholas kept his expression neutral as Jericho stepped back from the pillow and spread his open hands out to his side in a welcoming gesture. Two priests stepped forward to greet the Crown Prince with a bow and then placed a purple silk cloak lined with white wolf fur around his shoulders. After securing the Royal Cloak with thick silk tassels at the young monarch’s chest, the priests withdrew.
Nicholas drew in a deep breath and glanced back to where Captain Beaumont knelt to lift the train of the robe. The Crown Prince and his then bodyguard continued up the stairs as the choir continued its heavenly tune. The Prime Minister’s son, Duke Stryker, and Duchess Kirsi followed behind at an even pace.
Nicholas focused on the Pope’s pale golden eyes as he reached the top step and stopped just before the golden pillow. The choir and pipe organ faded into the background as his pounding heart stampeded behind his chest.
Bishop Murdock stepped forward and bowed before the prince. “Crown Prince Nicholas Havardur, son of King Henri Havardur, grandson of King Leon Havardur, descendants of the first Havardur Kings, blessed by the second Saint, Amon. Will you recognize and kneel before the Saints representative?”
Nicholas exhaled slowly and then replied, “I, Nicholas Havardur, son of King Henri Havardur, grandson of King Leon Havardur, do humbly recognize and kneel before Pope Jericho the Frist, Divine Heir, and representative of the Saints.”
As the Crown Prince knelt upon the pillow of coronation, he thought he detected a glint of smugness in Jericho’s impassive gaze. The Pope folded his hands silently while Bishop Murdock nodded to two Cardinals who brought forward the ceremonial bowl of holy oil.
Cardinal Halstone bowed his head respectfully to the young monarch and then bent down to open the front of Nicholas’s robes. The Crown Prince felt the hairs on his neck and arms stand on end as Jericho dipped his middle and index finger into the golden bowl and then stepped towards the prince.
“May the Saints bless you with wisdom and grace to rule and govern the kingdom,” Jericho intoned. His words boomed over the silent congregation as he drew a zigzag line upon Nicholas’s forehead. “May they strengthen your courage and forbearance to oppose all threats and acts of corruption.” The Pope repeated the same gesture between the prince’s collarbones.
The delicate and sweet scent of cinnamon, honey, and something Nicholas could only describe as a fresh spring breeze filled his senses as he inhaled the holy oil’s fragrance. The Crown Prince raised his hands and cupped them together as Jericho dipped a small chalice into the bowl of holy oil, then poured the contents into the kneeling monarch’s palms.
Nicholas raised his hands to his lips and drank. The oil tingled as it ran down his throat, a few precious drops escaping to fall down his chin onto the golden robes. After drinking all he could, the Crown Prince ran his hands through his light-auburn hair and placed them upon the purple silk cloak.
“By the decree of King Henri Havardur, Crown Prince Nicholas Havardur is hereby recognized as Lafeara’s next King,” Bishop Murdock cried out. Another priest stepped forward to offer the Pope a small jewelry box that contained a large amethyst signet ring. “If there are any who would object to Nicholas’s reign, stand forward now to declare your evidence.”
Nicholas blinked as an almost suffocating silence fell over him. His gaze shifted sporadically from his father’s ring to Jericho’s unnerving gaze that seemed fixated just over his shoulder in Duchess Kirsi’s direction.
“Since no objections have been presented,” Murdock continued with a faint nod of satisfaction, “the Pope hereby recognizes Crown Prince Nicholas as the rightful heir to Lafeara’s throne!” The bishop stepped back as Jericho lifted the signet ring. The prince raised his right hand and tried to swallow the lump in his dry throat as the weighted golden band slid easily onto his index finger.
‘So that’s why they make us drink the oil from our hands and not a cup.’
Nicholas’s lips twitched at this sudden realization. He hastily composed himself as the Pope stepped back, and a Cardinal offered the Crown Prince a towel to dry his hands. To his left, Lord Acheron now passed his father’s necklace of office to a waiting priest before accepting the Sovereign’s Wreath, a crown of golden leaves, from Bishop Murdock.
“With this wreath, the nobles of Lafeara recognize you as their Lord and Master,” Acheron recited in a somewhat tremulous voice as he approached the kneeling monarch. “We wish you a long and prosperous reign, my liege.”
Nicholas offered his pale friend a smile of reassurance before bowing his head. The wreath felt surprisingly light as Acheron placed it gently upon his anointed head. With another quick breath in and out to ensure he did not fall over, Nicholas raised his hazel-blue eyes and frowned as Acheron’s steel-blue eyes continued to avoid his. He dismissed the rogue’s strange behavior as the nobleman withdrew to collect his father’s necklace once more.
Duke Stryker placed the Sovereign’s Scepter in the prince’s dominant right hand. The Lord Commander’s familiar stern gaze met that of his future king with an unreadable expression as he knelt on the floor before the monarch to recite the words of ceremony. “As Duke and representative of the West, I offer you the Scepter of Lafeara’s People. May it guide your reign and give you clarity of mind and heart to lead your kingdom.”
Nicholas bowed his head respectfully to the Duke, who rose and stood aside as Duchess Kirsi approached carrying the Sovereign’s Sword.
“As Duchess and representative of the East, I offer you the Sword of Lafeara’s People. I bid you wield it with both courage and mercy to protect your kingdom from all enemies within—and without.”
Nicholas blinked as he gazed up into Kirsi’s ice-blue eyes and felt the weight of her words shiver down his spine. He quickly swallowed, raised his hands to accept his father’s sword, and bowed his head to the Duchess as she curtsied and withdrew.
Only after the Duchess’s train disappeared down the steps did Nicholas register the quiet buzz of voices from the nobles behind him—and realize that Kirsi had not knelt before him as per the ceremony instructions. The Crown Prince glanced up sharply at the Pope, whose pale golden eyes still tracked Kirsi’s movement with a stern look of disapproval.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ Nicholas reassured himself quickly. ‘Kirsi is likely more nervous than I am and forgot. In any case, it will do me no good to draw attention to it now.’ The Crown Prince cleared his throat quietly and met the Pope’s surprised expression with a look of expectation.
Jericho’s eyes narrowed slightly before he turned and nodded to Bishop Murdock.
Nicholas felt his heart quiver with anticipation as the Sovereign’s Crown—his crown—was carried forward upon its pillow.
The Pope lifted the royal crown with its four half arches, embedded with pearls over a purple satin dome, attached to the golden circle of sapphires, diamonds, and rubies. “Then before the Saints, the Church, and these noble houses, I hereby bestow the Crown of Kings upon you.”
As Jericho placed the Crown inside the golden wreath, Nicholas inhaled a trembling breath of relief. His shoulders and neck stiffened beneath the additional weight while he focused on remaining still to avoid any possibility of the crown falling.
“Rise, King Nicholas Havardur, Ruler of Lafeara.”
The organ pipes and choir filled the cathedral once more as Duke Stryker and Duchess Kirsi stepped forward to assist their King to his feet. Nicholas took a moment to ensure the crown was adequately balanced and control his breathing before he carefully turned
“Long live the King! Long live King Nicholas!”
***
Hana flinched beneath Deanira’s iron-like grip as Ripper’s large hand swallowed the small chickadee that had flown through the small open slit in the window of the bedroom that had become her prison.
“What’s this?” the pale albino mused as he pried one of the bird’s legs free and tapped the barely visible bit of white against the chickadee’s tiny black feet.
“Looks like someone tried to use a bit of magic to pass a message to our Viscountess,” Deanira murmured with a cynical smile as she released Hana’s shoulders and left the girl bound in a chair.
Hana watched as Isaac’s daughter pried the tiny scrap of paper free and then pried it open with her fingernail. The spymaster raised her brows in amusement and then held the note up for the albino to read.
“Wait?” Ripper snorted as the chickadee chirped frantically beneath his clenched grip. “What does that mean?”
“It means the Duchess is determined to free her pretty friend,” Deanira replied as she crumpled up the tiny note and tossed it into the unlit fire brazier. “Which means you and the Pope had better be prepared for her to act.”
Ripper cast the half-witch a look of unmasked suspicion, then glanced down at the still struggling bird in his grip. The chickadee emitted one last painful squeak and then went completely silent as the albino tightened his grip. The Witch Hunter casually tossed the dead bird through the gap in the open window and then closed it.
A sudden vision flashed before Hana’s eyes as she stared at the window with rising panic. The cold of Kirsi’s magic crawled along her skin as the cathedral guest room transformed into the regal ballroom inside Lily Palace.
Hana blinked and spun around, half-afraid, half-hopeful, as the future played out in the fading color of twilight. Duchess Kirsi stood in the center of an ice storm that burst in a half-circle, piercing through the armor of Witch Hunters who moved between the Ice Witch and their Pope.
The vision altered, and Hana’s frantic breathing stopped as her turquoise-blue eyes beheld Kirsi’s fallen figure cradled in the arms of Captain Beaumont, who knelt at the center of the ballroom. The floor and walls around the large dancing hall were coated in a sheet of ice.
‘No!’
A small trail of icy breath trickled free from Kirsi’s lips as she whispered something inaudible to the Knight Captain, who closed his eyes and bowed his head towards her chest as his jaw clenched in anger.
A deep rumble echoed beneath the Saint’s feet. Hana looked down as the ballroom floor splintered and cracked open. The still battling witches, knights, and witch hunters around them stumbled and faltered away from each other as the cracks spread up the painted walls of the palace.
The Saint’s gaze swung back to Beaumont and Kirsi as the earth opened up to swallow them whole.
“She’s had a vision.”
Hana blinked as the brightly lit room of the cathedral reappeared around her. She quickly scowled as Deanira leaned in towards her.
“Well? What did you see, Nesta?”
“Nothing that I would share with you,” the Viscountess retorted icily.
The spymaster laughed, shrugged, and returned to the table of instruments used to draw the Saint’s blood. “No matter. I’ll leave it to Jericho to draw the truth from you.”
“What makes you think I’d tell my brother anything?” Hana demanded incredulously. “I know what he wants—what he’ll do to her!”
Deanira said nothing as the not-so-distant chants from the cathedral’s auditorium echoed through the walls. “It looks like the coronation has just about wrapped up!”
“I will inform his Holiness,” Ripper replied as he moved towards the bedroom door. “When you’ve finished preparing today’s vials, hand them over to Terik.”
“As you wish, Commander,” Deanira replied as she tied yet another cord of silk rope around Hana’s left arm. “I only hope such precious blood isn’t going to waste.”
“As you said, we must be prepared,” Ripper replied neutrally. “This may be our one and only chance to defeat the Calamity Witch.”
The door shut with a dull thud, and Hana’s gaze shifted towards the display of tiny blades that Deanira used as part of her bloodletting procedure. The half-witch stroked the knives with a sinister smile before selecting a small, pointed edge.
“It will do you and my brother no good,” Hana whispered as her tormentor approached. “Without Ramiel’s blessing, even I cannot access his power.”
“Oh, I assure you, sweet Nesta,” Deanira murmured with a ruthless grin as she sat on the stool beside Hana’s chair. “Ramiel is only too willing to aid in the demise of the Isbrand Witch.”
The Viscountess clenched her jaw and winced as the sharp blade pierced the median vein of her arm. She blinked rapidly as the familiar burn of pain spread up and down her trapped limb. The tired muscles in her neck, back, and body all tensed in anticipation of the seizure that was sure to come.
Only it didn’t.
Hana stared at the window to her left and breathed in and out a few more times before her gaze returned to where Deanira sat, holding a small cup beneath the Viscount’s open wound. They watched in tense silence as the two lines of trickling scarlet blood turned a pale, peach color and then steadily brightened into a golden hue.