queen would both owe her for as long as they lived.
“Long live Her Majesty,” she whispered, before allowing her eyelids to droop once more. Grinning madly, she sank her teeth into the glistening berry.
29
Throughout the first few minutes of introductions and formalities, Lilac stared ahead, fingers numb and insides empty. She didn’t even bother with the pretend smile she’d mastered in her years spent captive. The surge of crippling fear that had plagued her through Brocéliande was replaced with a searing, slow burning guilt.
Looking down at the foreign royalty, ambassadors, and members of clergy seated in the front row, then at the gathered villagers behind them, there was an unreal sense of futility. It was as if her journey into the forest had never occurred to begin with. She would be forced to marry Sinclair, be crowned his consort; what had become her only option was the very one that never should’ve been an option to begin with.
And Garin—Garin, she thought, her chest hollow and throat constricted, had suffered a horrid fate no one deserved.
With her Darkling Tongue gone and Sinclair as monarch, she would never be able to make the impact that she’d intended to as queen. The dream she’d had of inciting peace amongst the Darklings and humans had never felt more important to her than in that moment—when it was no longer a possibility at all.
She stared emptily into the trees, hoping they would reveal to her a path forward. A path to revenge.
Beside her, Sinclair cleared his throat to grab her attention and jerked his head toward the Cardinal, who was reading out the coronation prelude: a lengthy, repetitive monologue that glorified Lilac’s family and confirmed one’s genealogical validity of the right to rule.
Behind them, her parents watched warily alongside the duke and Vivien. Her mother, paler than usual, had yet to acknowledge her, while her father hastily looked away when she caught him examining her. In contrast, the duke and duchess watched with scrutiny.
Lilac ignored them.
At least the villagers hadn’t brought any angry signs or pitchforks… none that she could see from that distance, anyway. It was probably due, in part to how quickly word had spread of Sinclair’s ascension to kingship in the same ceremony.
When it came time for the priest to give his rite of blessing, the king and queen took their symbolic seats upon the pedestal behind them while The Le Tallecs took their seats off to the side. She and Sinclair were then prompted to turn around, Sinclair standing slightly ahead of her; the high priest would face them and have his back to the crowd while they recited their oaths to everyone. In the moment, she was relieved that Sinclair stood in front of her, acting as a sort of barrier between her and everyone else while her mind raced.
Just one kick. A maddening jolt of hysteria rose into her chest, making her ears ring. He would simply tumble off the battlement to an instant death below. She could regain her title as monarch, then.
Wasn’t that how it worked, since she was apparently so expendable?
When the bell tower chimed, an older gentleman donned in white emerged from the keep door to their left. A silver-plated bulb hung from the end of a thin chain in his hand, dusting the air with stifling frankincense and myrrh as he swung it back and in forth in unison with his cadence. Behind him, the holy procession followed—first, the priest with his golden, jewel encrusted chalice, hood concealing his face in a billowing purple robe. Behind him trailed a servant who cradled two crowns atop a wide, velvet pillow, and last came the scribe, dutifully carrying the scroll containing a transcription of the very Oath they’d take, and the quill they’d sign with—pronouncing she and Sinclair Le Tallec rulers together.
Lilac couldn’t hold her composure any longer. The tears came freely now. Pretending to be bothered by the blinding morning sun, she glanced down through her damp lashes so no one would see—especially the priest, who took his position directly in front of them.
She had failed. She’d failed her parents, who were minutes away from handing centuries of tradition and reign over to the Le Tallecs. She failed Garin, who’d perished in vain—and all because of her. She’d failed Freya… And, least surprisingly, she’d failed herself.
“All rise in honor of Lord Sinclair Le Tallec and Her Royal Highness, Lilac Trécesson.”
Lilac froze with her head down. She had gone mad after all. The priest had spoken,