Wondering if Miach would get back to Tor Neroche in time to attend his own coronation had been the last but perhaps the most unsettling of all.
She hadn’t worried about him, not truly. He’d managed twenty-eight years of life without her fretting over him, so she’d assumed he would survive another pair of days. She was, however, going to see what of value she had to bargain away to Master Soilléir for that spell of seeing. It would certainly be a mercy to Neroche’s garrison lads who had paid a heavy price for the distress she hadn’t wanted to admit.
“Mhorghain?”
She realized Sosar was standing in front of her, waiting for her with his hand outstretched. She took a deep breath. “Sorry. I was thinking.”
“Out loud, if you want to know so you can avoid it in the future.”
She allowed him to take her hand and draw it through his arm. He started inside the chapel, but she pulled back. It took her a moment before she could look up at him. “I’m not prepared for this.”
“Mhorghain, love, no one ever is,” he said quietly. “I think I can safely attest to that. Things come upon you that you don’t expect and all you can do is soldier on as best you can.” He smiled faintly. “I think you’ll survive this well enough. You look beautiful, if that helps.”
Morgan had to admit the gown was lovely. It was made from some sort of white fabric shot through with silver and adorned with minuscule crystals and pearls that didn’t sing as she walked, but they certainly sparkled and shimmered in a particularly lovely way. Fixed to her hair so firmly it wouldn’t have fallen off if she’d been bolting for the nearest exit was a crown of silver and diamonds. It wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t discreet, either. If she’d been completely honest with herself, she would have said that it was a crown worthy of an elven princess.
She suspected her grandfather had had a hand in its design.
And that didn’t begin to address her shoes that were as grand as her dress, only now they had been improved by a man who loved her.
A man who was about to be crowned king.
She took another deep breath, then peered into the chapel. It was, as she’d feared, filled to the brim with all sorts of visiting royalty she had avoided over the past handful of days. She supposed she might manage to scoot down the side of the aisle without being noticed overmuch if she hurried and if their seats were in the back.
“Where are we sitting?”
“In the front. Best seats in the place, or so I was told.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised. She put her shoulders back, her chin out, and grasped for her quickly disappearing shreds of dignity and courage. “I’d rather be in battle.”
“I’d rather be down at the pub.”
Morgan laughed a little in spite of herself. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, but his eyes were twinkling. “You’re welcome.”
“I can do this now.”
“Of course you can.”
Morgan found that the first step was the hardest. The second was easier, but only slightly. The third was no good at all because it was then that she began to hear gasps and whispers—and those weren’t because she’d fallen on her face. She decided to assume they were noises that mere mortals made whilst looking at the startling beauty of an elven prince. They couldn’t have been because of her.
She concentrated on the collection of important courtly ministers who stood in the front of the chapel along with a priest. She continued to concentrate on those lads even after she heard her name travel through the crowd of guests.
In truth, she supposed what anyone else thought didn’t matter. There was only one opinion she cared about and the man who would have offered it wasn’t watching her.
But she was soon watching him. She hadn’t been sitting with Sosar and her grandparents but a quarter hour before the company began to rise. She rose as well, then looked back down the aisle, wondering just what sort of getup Miach would have found himself forced into. She couldn’t imagine feathers on his hat and long, curly-toed shoes, but given that she had been forced into uncomfortable shoes despite her protests, it was possible that Miach might have succumbed as well.
His brothers certainly had. They were dressed in things that were so fine and luxurious, she half wondered if they didn’t fear sitting on chairs that hadn’t been dusted prior to their arrival. Perhaps they were distracted by the curling toes on their shoes and didn’t think about what untoward things might happen to the seats of their trousers. She exchanged a quick look with Sosar, who only raised one of his eyebrows and seemed to be fighting a smile.
She turned back to watch as Miach’s brothers came up the aisle toward her, with Cathar in the lead, followed by Rigaud, Nemed, Mansourah, and Turah, who looked very much worse for the wear. She smiled at him and had a weary smile in return. It was past time to try the Fadairian spell of healing on him that he’d been refusing for almost a se’nnight. Perhaps they would, after Miach had taken off his crown so he didn’t dent it when he fell.
After the lads had taken their places, Morgan turned back to look for Miach. She had to lean out a bit to look around a particularly portly man who seemed just as determined as she to catch a glimpse of Neroche’s new king.
He was wearing boots. Morgan knew she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was relieved just the same. He had also forgone anything Rigaud would have been comfortable with. He was dressed, unremarkably, in black. He looked impossibly handsome and impossibly grave, walking with his hands behind his back and his head slightly bowed.
He did look up, though, when he passed her. He shot her a quick smile, then sobered again as he approached the dais. His brothers were standing all in a row next to the gilt-edged chair that sat there, quite empty.
Morgan tried to pay attention to the particulars of the ceremony, but it was difficult. It was all still so far from what she’d ever expected to have happen to him, she could hardly take it in. She listened to him kneel and swear an oath that he would protect and defend the people of Neroche. He was draped in a heavy velvet robe of red, trimmed in ermine. He was led to the throne, invited to sit, then Cathar stepped up behind the chair.
Morgan realized then that Miach was looking right at her. She held his gaze as Cathar set the crown of Neroche on his head, then she found she couldn’t see him any longer. She dabbed very carefully at her eyes, then managed to see long enough to watch as Cathar then came and knelt before him to offer him his fealty. The rest of his brothers followed suit, with Turah the least steady on his feet.
And then the ceremony was over. Miach thanked the priest, then turned and embraced his brothers one by one.
“What now?” she murmured to Sosar.
“Lunch, hopefully.”
She smiled up at him, then turned back in time to see Miach step off the dais. She was certain he would simply glance at her, then continue on his way. But he didn’t.
He walked up the aisle, then very deliberately stopped and turned to her. He took her hand, kissed it, then made her a very low bow.
“Princess Mhorghain,” he said, with a grave smile.
Morgan swallowed. “King Mochriadhemiach.”
“Heaven help us both,” he murmured, then he turned to her grandparents and made them bows as well. Then he straightened, smiled at her again, then excused himself.
Morgan watched him go, then caught a full view of the glares delivered her way by the princesses on the other side of the aisle.
“I’ll guard your back,” Sosar whispered.
“You might need to.”
“I’m very good with a butter knife. Let’s follow them into the great hall and I’ll prove it.”
She smiled in spite of herself, then accepted her uncle’s arm. Sosar waited until his parents had left the row first, then pulled back.
“Seven other kings to go,” he murmured. “We’ll wait.”
Morgan nodded, wishing that she’d accepted Glines’s offer to give her a few lessons on protocol the day before. Too late now. She would simply have to rely on Sosar and hope that whatever mistake she made might be chalked up to elvish haughtiness.
Half a very long hour later, they were walking into the great hall. Tables had been set up and roaring fires burned in the main hearth behind the dais and the other two hearths on either side of the chamber. Morgan looked at the high table to find places there for all the kings and queens.
There was an empty chair next to Miach.
“A spot for you,” Sosar murmured.
Morgan swallowed uncomfortably. “If I manage to get there without being buried under a pile of disappointed princesses.”
“You could always call to your sword if things become a bit dodgy.”
“I know,” she said faintly. “I’ve done it before.”
He smiled wryly, then led her over to a seat at one of the lower tables. “Let’s go be discreet. I have the feeling this will take even more time than that business in the chapel. The only thing that will save us is the fact we’ll have food in front of us.”
Morgan sat with him, then watched as Miach hung the Sword of Neroche on the wall so it crossed the Sword of Angesand.
She felt her sword sigh, as if it were satisfied with the day’s events.
Morgan was as well, for Miach’s sake, though she was more than happy to now have something else to do with her hands besides wring them together. Eating was preferable to that, though the meal dragged on interminably. If it had been just eating, she might have had more patience for it, but it seemed that the whole of the afternoon was going to be taken up in formalities.
She could have sworn she saw Miach squirm more than once.
After the meal came the renewing of goodwill between kingdoms. Morgan tried to look interested, for she supposed she might be called on to make mention of those alliances at some point, but all she could do was lean her chin on her fist and try to stay awake.
She watched as Miach came to stand in front of the dais to receive gifts from each of the other kings. There were what she could only assume were usual gifts of jewels and bolts of silk, foodstuffs and blades. She imagined Miach’s mother would have been very proud of his lovely manners in acknowledging all the things he was given. She was impressed by not only that but her own ability to suppress her yawns.
Sìle walked around the table last of all. Miach made him a low bow, which her grandfather accepted with his usual show of graciousness.
“Typical,” Sosar murmured with a bit of a laugh.
Sìle folded his arms over his chest and looked at Miach. “I have given quite a lot of thought to what I shall give you, King Mochriadhemiach,” he began slowly. “I have considered saplings from my garden, or perhaps a spell or two from my books—which you already have more of than you should,” he added, not entirely under his breath. “Or perhaps I should just give you gold and gems from my coffers.”
Miach inclined his head. “Whilst those would be kingly gifts, indeed, Your Grace, I wonder if there might be something else that would suit.”
“I should think the trees would be enough.” He threw Miach a sideways glance, then blew out his breath loudly. “Very well. Name what you want.”
Gasps echoed in the chamber. Morgan supposed the souls around her had reason. It was doubtful that any king was so free with his things, much less a king of elves.
Miach clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “I’ll have your granddaughter, Mhorghain.”
Sìle pursed his lips. “Will you indeed?”
“I will,” Miach said, inclining his head. “Indeed.”
Morgan watched her grandfather stare at Miach for several excruciatingly long minutes in silence, as if he willed him to break, or cower, or simply throw up his hands and concede the battle. Miach did none of those things. He simply returned Sìle’s look steadily, as if he sought to, once and for all, prove where his heart lay.
Sìle sighed heavily, then walked away with a variety of things muttered under his breath that Morgan was just certain couldn’t be either complimentary or polite. But he walked away just the same and made his way around the table to stop behind her chair. He pulled her chair out for her, then held out his hand.
“Come, Granddaughter,” he said very gravely. “Your lord awaits.”
Morgan was appalled to find her hand was trembling as she put it into her grandfather’s.
There was absolute silence in the hall.
“Not too late to bolt,” Sìle said loudly as they walked along the edge of the hall, then out into the center.
“Isn’t it?”
He squeezed her hand. “I would tell you that it isn’t,” he said very quietly, “but I think if you left that poor lad standing there in front of the table, you would break his heart.” He paused. “You could wed him for pity’s sake, I suppose.”
Morgan managed a smile. “I’d rather wed him for love.”
“That’s what I feared,” he said, but he smiled as he said it. He led her over to stand in front of the high table, then he sighed once more before he put her hand in Miach’s.