the musical accompaniment blaring in her ears. Finally, the last of the sunlight drained away and the priests fell silent. All but two filed away, then returned, bearing two basins of sharp-smelling oil and two long, narrow strips of plain, undyed silk.
The two priests who had stayed positioned themselves before each of the empty thrones. They both picked up silk strips, then submerged them in the golden oil. “Warriors, have you chosen who rules you?” the priests asked as one.
With a pang, Fie saw they were addressing Draga, who stood near the center of the room. The master-general’s face glistened with sweat, like she wanted to vomit. Whether that meant she was still straining against Rhusana’s will, Fie couldn’t say. Draga gritted out, “We have chosen.”
A ripple went through the crowd, almost like a sigh. The priests called, “Noble houses, have you chosen who rules you?”
There was a pause. For a moment, Fie thought perhaps no one might answer and she wouldn’t have to do aught to foul up the ceremony at all.
Then a man called from behind Fie in a cold, decisive voice, “We have chosen.”
Heads turned, and Fie couldn’t help it; she turned, too. The man stood only a few paces behind her, and he wore a fine robe in deep Peacock green, but she was close enough to read the elegant pattern of pearl, jade, and gold embroidered in petals and leaves over his shoulders. It formed a mantle of oleanders.
Her breath caught even as her own sense made her whip back around. Oleanders were no threat to a Peacock girl. Even though her hair stood on end, she couldn’t let it show.
More mutters of “we have chosen” pattered through the hall like reluctant rain, rising to a hum, until the priests were satisfied. “People of Sabor,” the priests cried, “have you chosen who rules you?”
This time the answer came like thunder, rolling about the room from soldier and noble alike: “WE HAVE CHOSEN.”
Fie couldn’t help but notice the lines of Sparrow servants banished to wait at the walls until the ceremony was over. Not a one had so much as mouthed the words.
“Let them come forward.” The priests nodded to either side of the dais.
Fie caught a shuffle nearby. Tavin was being led from beneath the shadows of the nearby gallery in a simple, well-made tunic and trousers of undyed, unadorned linen. Once again, his eyes found her. The corner of his mouth lifted.
Then, as he passed by, he gave her a slow, deliberate wink.
Some small, miserable worm of hope in her had clung to the notion that earlier had been a fluke; that she didn’t understand the ways of princes and palaces; that, at the very least, since Jasimir didn’t shine to girls like that, Tavin would have the sense to refrain.
She had been granted one small boon, though: any who saw her cheeks darken now would take it for the blush of a flattered young noblewoman, and not the rising bitter-burnt fury of a girl whose last scrap of faith had shriveled.
Khoda had told her not to kill either Tavin or Rhusana, not yet. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t get creative.
She’d nearly missed Rhusana’s own entrance from the opposite side of the dais. Tavin and the queen passed the great mammoth-tusk horns that bracketed the dais; they would be sounded to announce the new monarchs once the ceremony was complete.
As Tavin and Rhusana knelt on velvet cushions before the thrones, Fie swore to herself that those tusks would stay silent a long, long time.
The two priests lifted the silk from the basin, dripping ribbons of golden oil onto the marble.
“The first crown,” the priests announced in unison as the sky behind them cooled to a grim blue-gray through the glassblack panes.
“Wear it,” the priest standing over Rhusana said, winding the silk around her brow, “and think on what it means to rule.”
“Wear it,” echoed Tavin’s priest as she cinched the strip on him, “and think on what it means to burn.”
“Wear your first crown,” they said together, “and think on what it means to rise.”
Fie slowly reached for a tooth she’d knotted into the string at her wrist just for this occasion.
Tavin and Rhusana stayed kneeling as the priests began another back-and-forth chant, some nonsense about the glory of the Phoenix gods and signs of their favor. In Fie’s experience, talk like that was naught more than a garland to drape around a misdeed or a knife at the throat of someone you