Princess Adara Everborn, Queen Elect of Elandria, began her coronation with an hour of silence.
She spent the hour alone, sitting cross-legged in a chamber deep within the palace. The room, a perfect circle of stone, held no windows to let in the hubbub from the outside world. The only light came from a flickering candle.
Breathe. She let the thought fill her mind, mirroring the air in her lungs. Release.
The hour of silence was an ancient tradition, one that had accompanied the coronation of Elandrian kings and queens for hundreds of years. For a species whose skin showed their every emotion, the ritual was crucial to helping them present a calm, collected countenance to the people they were to rule.’
Adara breathed again, slowly, rhythmically, emptying her lungs completely before drawing in a new breath. For the last several months, Adara had practiced weekly for this ordeal, carving out time from her packed schedule to train her body and her mind on how to sit perfectly still.
Waking. She let the concept fill her mind with the next breath, then let its opposite accompany the exhale. Sleeping.
Her legs ached from sitting folded so long. Carefully, quietly, she shifted her posture, extending one leg straight while keeping the other tucked beneath her—the only movement she had allowed herself in the last hour.
The candlelight caught the diamonds of her necklace, filling the room with a flickering mosaic of colors. Her dress, brilliantly white, fell in pleats around her like a cascade. Her only other adornment was a glistening pair of white rings on her right hand. For now, she wore no crown.
image [https://imgur.com/gallery/k-ILyH4vY]image [https://i.imgur.com/mjbdTfh.png]image [https://imgur.com/gallery/k-ILyH4vY]
Adara Everborn during her hour of silence. Generated by the author via Midjourney.
Dawn. Breathe. Dusk. Release.
A torrent of thoughts barraged her mind, in sharp contrast to the quiescence around her. By far, the hardest aspect of this trial was mental, not physical. She had not anticipated that.
Learning. Breathe. What was the opposite of learning? Ignorance. Release.
How long had it been? Surely an hour had passed already. Had the bell sounded and she had missed it? Could she even hear it so deep in the palace? What if she missed the procession? Surely Skagar would send someone if she failed to be punctual.
Focus!
Patience. Breathe. Impatience—no, that antonym seemed like a cop-out. Worry? No, better: Haste. Release.
She glanced at her hands, noting with satisfaction the pigment of her skin: a deep, solid, neutral tan. No frightened shade of white, no scattered freckles from stress, no hints of blue from grief or green from nervousness. Just a calm, composed, royal hue of bronze.
Regal. Breathe. Childish. Release.
The walls of the chamber were lined with stone alcoves: fourteen of them, as she had counted several times in the last hour. Each held a miniature statue of a bygone ruler of Elandria. According to one of her tutors, the real purpose of this ritual, beyond stilling her emotions, was to hear the voices of those who preceded her. What did they have to say?
Remember. Breathe. Forget. Release.
Her gaze returned, as it had a hundred times in the last hour, to the alcove directly in front of her. Nestled inside was the statue of a tall avir, his features pointed and strong. In one hand he held a scroll; in the other, an olive leaf. His eyes gazed upward, as if he were looking at something distant. Something unattainable.
Love. Breathe. Loss. Release.
For a minute she stared at the statue. In the shifting light it almost seemed alive, as if the head would turn to smile at her at any moment, the eyes rekindling with a once-familiar glow.
Adara held her breath. In the utter silence, she could almost hear her father’s last words to her, echoing from the past:
You are stronger than your fears.
“I will not fail you, Father,” she mouthed without breaking the silence. “I promise.”
A bell tolled somewhere above her, making her jump. It was muted, but the sudden sound was startling after so long a stretch of stillness.
High noon. It was time.
One last ritual remained, one she knew by heart. She shifted into a kneeling position, gasping slightly from the pain shooting through one leg that had fallen asleep. Adara touched her heart and her forehead with one hand, as from her lips fell a familiar prayer:
“Father of Stars, hear me.
“Shower thy peace on our land.
“Give us the strength of angels.
“Guide us. Heal us. Save us.”
Part of her yearned to linger, to say more, to listen. But her people awaited her. Her coronation was at hand.
Adara stood and strode to the door.
* * * * *
The palace courtyard was alive with energy. The whole coronation procession was standing at the ready as Adara stepped out into the midday Sun. At her appearance, the assembly went silent, each person turning to face her and kneeling or bowing their head in respect. She stopped in her steps, caught off guard by the sudden attention.
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Encouraged. Breathe. Intimidated. Release.
Chancellor Skagar padded over to her. “I just consulted the sundial,” he said as servants brought up Adara’s horse, a beautiful white mare. “We’re right on schedule.”
“He’s nearly paced us all to death,” said a gruff voice as a stout korrik joined them, dressed in gleaming bronzium plate and mail.
Adara smiled deeply. Ever since Volthorn had led her father’s bodyguard, his sturdy presence had always been reassuring. “General Skarr,” she said with a slight curtsy. “I hope you were accompanied by angels on your journey.”
“I came with all speed,” Volthorn said. “My trip was—” he paused for the briefest of moments. “Uneventful.”
“Your colleagues have highly recommended you,” said Adara. “As has your track record on the battlefield. It has been decided that you will be promoted to chief commander, to fill the absence left by Commander Gerren, may he rest in the light.”
Volthorn bowed. “It is . . . an honor, Your Highness.”
Skagar paced beside them, the corners of his mouth turning in a frown. “We planned to tell you this afternoon, General, after the coronation. It was to be Her Highness’s first official royal act.”
Adara felt her skin start to redden as she blushed with embarrassment. Not now! Confidence. Breathe. Embarrassment. Release. “The formal decree will still be issued this afternoon, Chancellor,” she said, keeping her head erect but her tone conciliatory. “I just thought Commander Skarr would like to know in advance.”
“I suppose it’s for the best,” Skagar sighed. “In any case, General Skarr, we want to hold a war council tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Can you prepare a strategic plan for the rest of the summer?”
Volthorn bowed. “I shall see to it.”
Two assistants helped Adara mount. Ahead and behind her, the members of the procession tidied up their lines. A great hush fell on the whole assembly.
Adara looked to where a line of heralds stood on the battlements, eyes trained on her, rams horns in hand. One nod from her, and they would blow.
She held her breath.
“Your Highness,” said Skagar. “Are you ready?”
Eagerness mixed with nervousness in her veins. Was she ready? Truly ready? Seven years she had spent preparing for this day. She had mastered lessons by rote, read shelves upon shelves of scrolls, and reviewed diplomatic case studies until she could rehearse them in her sleep. But was that enough? For a kingdom embroiled in war, what could an eighteen-year-old girl bring that two seasoned regents could not?
Fear. Release. Faith. Breathe.
Adara nodded.
* * * * *
Durrin’s ears filled with the blast of a dozen horns, followed by the roar of a thousand voices.
He reined his horse to a halt and looked toward the sound. Buildings impeded his view, but he could still make out a line of green banners issuing from the palace.
More horns. More shouts.
The tattered clothes of his imprisonment were gone. Now he wore the armor and uniform of an Elandrian officer, pilfered a half-hour before from the officer’s quarters. And a good thing, too—the streets around Durrin were deserted. Everyone in the city had congregated to the processional route. In his prison tunic, he would have been as conspicuous as a flame in a field of snow.
More shouts. Durrin could make out the words now, roared by the gathered throngs: “Hail, Adara, Crown Elect! Hail, Adara, Crown Elect!”
He hadn’t intended to watch the procession—it wasn’t on the short list of things he still needed to do before he could escape this city. But observation brought information. And information, used in the right way, could be incredibly potent.
His horse stirred, nervous. Durrin hushed it with a hand on its neck. Then, making up his mind, he nudged it toward the noise.
* * * * *
“Hail, Adara, Crown Elect!”
Adara rode, flanked by knights and nobility, as horns proclaimed their fanfare across the city. In echo, belltowers rang from a dozen directions, filling the air with the clamor of joy.
“Hail, Her Majesty! Hail, Adara, Crown Elect!”
So many people! They filled the streets and packed every window. Parents held children on their shoulders. Griffins and snippens perched on the rooftops. Ten thousand eyes were upon her, every throat roaring her name.
“Hail, Adara, Crown Elect!”
As tradition dictated, Adara waved no greeting to the crowd. Despite the cheers, this ride was not yet a triumphal march. She was not yet crowned, and until she was, ancient rules of ritual demanded that she stay perfectly still, focused on her destination. Still, she couldn’t help but let her eyes roam in wonder across the gathered throng.
As the bells and horn blasts finally faded, a mystic song took their place. Before Adara walked a dozen musicians: harpists, trumpeters, and singers. These were not simple performers—they were vivamancers, wielders of the power of life channeled through music. Together they performed a song that soared in its heights and swooped in its depths, filled with an energy that lit a fire in Adara’s chest. Her heart sang along with the music, pumping her veins full of equal parts resolve and wonder. As her procession advanced through the streets, she could see the effects of the magical melody rippling through the crowd, lifting shoulders, brightening eyes, and raising the volume of the cheers.
“Hail, Adara, Crown Elect!”
In front of the musicians walked four standard-bearers, their banners snapping in the breeze. Behind Adara rode the rest of her retinue: nobility in glittering robes, officers in full dress uniform, and high-ranking royal officials. Chancellor Skagar paced to her left, General Volthorn to her right.
“Are all the soldiers necessary?” Adara said without turning her head, just loud enough for Volthorn and Skagar to hear. Besides the platoon that marched in front of them, soldiers lined both sides of the street, jostling with the crowd to keep a wide strip open to either side of her procession.
“We are at war, after all,” Skagar said, his words barely reaching her ears.
“One can never be too prepared,” Volthorn added.
The procession turned from the palace hill, curving in a long arc through the city as it descended toward the river. Every turn revealed another street thronged with cheering crowds.
“There must be forty thousand people here, at least,” Adara said, struggling to wrap her mind around the sight.
“The whole city and surrounding countryside turned out to see you,” Skagar said. “It’s been a long seven years.”
Adara had never seen so many people together in one place. At the insistence of her advisors, her public appearances had been rare in the years since her father’s death. Most of her time had been spent at a remote sanctuary in the mountains, absorbed by her intense schedule of tutoring. What was the greatest number of people she’d ever addressed? Maybe a hundred?
Faces jumped out at her as she rode. A trio of korrik blacksmiths, banging their tools together in celebration. An old human matron, her wrinkled face almost pleading as she joined in the shouts. A young pair of avir parents, eyes aglow as they raised their children in their arms to catch a glimpse of their passing queen elect.
They believe in me, Adara thought, sitting up straighter as she felt the weight of so much expectation settle on her shoulders. I am their ruler. I am their hope.
Like my father.
If only she knew how to live up to her father’s legacy.
* * * * *
Durrin watched the procession from afar.
He sat astride his horse, perched on a side street with just enough elevation to allow him to gaze above the crowd. Over the roar of the cheers, the processional music wafted to his ears, enticing him to give in to its euphoric spell.
He pushed back, angrily. Vivamancy had its uses, and he was not one to pass up a relaxing performance in a tavern or theater. But he would not let his emotions be swayed by its power today. Not by his enemies.
First the standard-bearers passed into his view, then the band of vivamancers. Next came a young avir maiden astride a brilliantly white horse, the brightness of its coat exceeded only by the spotless dress of the rider. Durrin took note of the princess’s hair color: dark brown, laced with traces of deep blue. For an avir, that meant a lifestyle sparse on laughter but heavy with loss.
“Adara Everborn, daughter of King Arvanon,” Durrin murmured, watching her with narrowed eyes. “What kind of ruler will you be? You are embroiled in war with the most powerful empire on Zenitha. Will you know what’s good for you and back away from a fight you can’t win? Or will you choose to be a thorn in Calamar’s side, and bear the consequences?”
He turned his horse away. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a flame in his hand and stared into its depths.
“Like your father.”