Made with water taken from a cold stream only that morning, the tonic was cool and sweet and utterly refreshing. Elina downed it in a few swallows that soothed her perpetually raw throat and instantly made her tender stomach protest. Blast it all. She battled the queasiness, breathing shallowly until the draught stopped trying to come back up.
“All right, then?” Chardryn took the cup, all the while examining Elina with a sharp eye.
Not yet completely trusting the tonic to remain inside if she opened her mouth, Elina nodded. But it was just as well. With her lips closed, they were ready to be painted. She looked at Dara—who in turn was looking at the three jewels that graced the fingers of Elina’s right hand.
Again the maid gave a wistful sigh, though this time she said nothing.
Nothing needed to be said. Elina knew well what Dara was wishing. She’d often wished it herself. But the enchanted rings could not save Elina from her uncle’s curse.
They did help her, however—just as Chardryn’s tonic did. And they had already extended her life. Only two years past, she’d been on the cusp of dying, so weakened that her fingers could not hold a spoon and her belly could not hold a bit of food. Then the rings were delivered to her. Whatever magic was instilled in the jewels had bolstered her strength. Not enough to cure her, but enough to continue on…and later, when an assassin’s arrow had bounced off Elina’s chest instead of piercing her heart, she’d also discovered the enchantment protected her from any outside harm. The rings could not prevent inner harm, however, and the illness was already within her.
In the slow battle between the enchanted rings and the wasting disease, her uncle’s curse was winning. All too soon, he would have his victory.
But not yet.
Finished with her lips, Dara stepped aside so that Elina could examine the result in the tall looking glass. The Radiant Queen of Aleron stared back at her, more resplendent and imposing in her traditional garb than Elina herself would ever be. Her long sickness had pared deep hollows and sharp angles into her features, yet when covered with the gold paint, those hollows and angles seemed sculpted instead of gaunt, regal instead of sallow. Her brown hair had been piled atop her head in an intricate arrangement of curls and braids, then liberally dusted with sparkling gold powder that concealed how brittle and limp her tresses were. The height of her hair was exceeded by a tall, stiff collar that framed her head in a nimbus of thin hammered gold, as if Elina carried the sun behind her instead of a curse within. From the collar draped a brocade robe, the thickness of the fabric disguising the frailty of Elina’s frame; beneath the robe, an underdress of glistening gold silk gave to her movements an illusion of fluidity that her illness had stolen.
And Elina dreaded every movement to come, necessary though they’d be. She was already exhausted, her neck and shoulders aching from bearing the weight of the queen’s traditional raiments.
She turned her head slightly, studying the queen’s face in the mirror. The mask had cracked. Though not badly. Not yet. The gold wasn’t fully smooth around her mouth and eyes, as if each smile and word left small wrinkles in the paint. Nothing could be done about that. Except to keep her expression as blank as possible and speak only a few words.
Fortunately she had someone to speak for her. “Please inform Serjeant Iarthil that I am ready.”
Only a few minutes passed before Aleron’s royal man-at-arms entered the tent. His stride hitched when he saw her in the queen’s regalia. His throat worked and Elina espied a tearful gleam in his eyes before he blinked it away—yet not before his emotional response filled her heart.
Ten years past, Serjeant Iarthil had awoken a fifteen-year-old Elina in the middle of the night, a similar glistening in his eyes that the darkness hadn’t been able to hide. But those tears had been from grief, not pride. He’d led her to the queen’s bedchamber, where her mother was gasping her last breaths—poisoned by her own brother, Soren. With her final words, the queen urged Elina to flee from the palace, while Serjeant Iarthil swore an oath to the dying woman that he would guard her daughter with his very life.
It was he who’d gathered a retinue of dedicated soldiers and faithful companions to protect and accompany Elina—the true heir to Aleron’s throne—until she could overthrow Soren’s rule. It was he who’d led them from kingdom to kingdom, negotiating for asylum and forging alliances, until Elina was old enough to lead the negotiations herself.
In time, with a look here, a memory there—Elina came to understand that Serjeant Iarthil had not only served her mother but had loved her deeply, fiercely. Nothing had come of it, of course. Though he was the queen’s highest ranking guard, duty had compelled her mother to marry the prince of a neighboring kingdom. Whatever their feelings, the honor of each had kept their passions bent toward serving Aleron.
But it meant that when he looked at her now, Elina knew not whether he was seeing her mother, who’d often worn this ceremonial garb, or if he saw Elina herself. Yet it hardly mattered. Either way, everything Serjeant Iarthil had fought for this past decade stood before him in resplendent robes. She lacked only one thing.
Two of the knights charged with guarding the royal strongbox had followed him into the tent, carrying between them a small chest emblazoned with Aleron’s seal. Elina gave to Serjeant Iarthil the key she kept chained around her waist. He produced the second key. With a flourish, the double locks were opened and the lid lifted.
Her crown lay upon a bed of silk. No mere circlet, the Crown of Aleron was an ornate headpiece studded with precious jewels and made of pure gold.
And so very heavy.
Sudden weariness threatened to sag her shoulders. Instead Elina straightened her spine. She reached for the crown—and was stopped by Serjeant Iarthil’s upraised hand.
“If I may, Your Highness?” he asked quietly. “Allow me to use my strength so that you may preserve yours.”
Gratitude closed her throat, and she nodded.
Lifting the crown from the chest, he stepped in front of her. In the years since they’d fled Aleron, his hair had become fully gray and their travels had worn new creases into his face. In her more fanciful moments—and especially after realizing how he’d loved her mother—she’d imagined that Serjeant Iarthil was her true father, because he’d cared more for Elina than her mother’s king consort ever had. The pale silver of Elina’s eyes had been unmistakably inherited from the Prince of Tagdon, however, so those fanciful imaginings always fell apart.
“You are certain of this, Your Highness?” As he gently set the crown into place, his troubled gaze met hers. “Surely when the prophecy spoke of a barbarian who’d once worn chains, it meant someone other than an imprisoned thief awaiting execution.”
Elina had thought it meant something else, too. She’d thought her warrior would be someone like Kael the Conqueror, who’d once been in chains because he was stolen from the Dead Lands as a child and enslaved in the Blackworm mines. When he finally escaped, Kael had waged a bloody war against Geofry the Child-Eater, the cruel king under whose banner Kael had been taken. He’d killed the tyrant and freed the people of four kingdoms…and those people had begged him to take the throne.
In all the lands she’d traveled through, those four kingdoms had been the most prosperous and the people the most content. And Elina had hoped—hoped so fiercely—that a warrior such as Kael would return to Aleron at her side.