To Marry a Dragon

23. A Queen for a Day

Up to this moment, Elvira could have fooled herself that she had fled to resume the travels of a knight errant, even if she wasn't armoured and only lightly armed. But this moment, this seminal moment would change everything.

In the south, the cathedrals boasted white-stone walls, rounded arches and squat central domes, covered with golden leaf, banded at the base with dark blue stripes and the verses from the Canticle of Life in gold letters upon them. Despite the bright colors of their temples, her company was solemn.

The men that Theophil's father, the Baron of Lotarna, had gathered to witness her ascension to Queenhood didn't frequent the court. Yet, she recognized their banners. The steppe wolf and the boar, the half-moon's crescent. Old banners, old nobility—and staunch supporters of de'Briavels.

She felt guilty about not knowing them, venturing into the foreign lands instead of traveling her own domain. It seemed the right thing to do, to distance herself from her status as a Princess at the time. Now she couldn't shake the urge to apologize and explain herself. A Queen must not be a stranger to her people.

The Baron of Lotarna was as squat as his son, with twice the young knight's girth, but a stern, unsmiling face. Then again, rebellion wasn't a laughing matter. Sensitive to his mood, Elvira walked into the cathedral side by side with him.

Theophil carried a pillow with the crown a step behind.

Then, the rest of the noblemen filed in, fourteen of them. Three had declined or didn't respond to her summons. To the black pits of doom with them! Those present had sturdy keeps and private armies, a necessity in the South vulnerable to the nomads from both the deserts and the steppes that hemmed the civilized domains carved into the southern shore of the Locked Sea. Like frogs around a pond, a famous author derided Antikapey, Gallicia and their rivals to the east back in the times of the Ordovan Empire. He was long dead, the Empire amounted to ruins overgrown by thickets, and the coastal cities still hugged their cliffs and bays, the bastions of the faded glory.

Somewhere deep within Elvira's stomach this thought stirred a queasy feeling. Did she really decide to crown herself a Queen of Gallicia and rule what amounted to a fort of the civilized word? Shouldn't she leave it to the ruthless souls eager to play politics like the Lord Protector?

Yes, I chose it. I am deBriavel and my brother and sister are dead. I must step up to the challenge.

She smoothed the wine-red velvet skirts borrowed from Theophil's sister's considerable wardrobe. It was short in the hem, loose everywhere, but the level-headed ladies in the Lotarna Castle attacked the problem with needle, thread and a roll of lace until it fit well enough and looked rather pretty. If only every problem was as easy to solve!

"My lords," Elvira said, "I am grateful for the warm southern welcome and hospitality. I swear to uphold this alliance and consider you the dearest friends to deBriavel House and to the crown of Gallicia."

The choir sang the hymn of Light, a joyous and bright song. It lightened Elvira's heart. Light filtered through the stained glass, reflected from golden images on the walls, blessing the gathering with the multicolored rays of the Life-giver.

Once the last crescendo reached the cupola, Elvira walked into the middle, where Theophil already knelt. She picked up the crown from the velvet pillow and lifted it over her head. Today, it could align any way it wanted with the bridge of her nose.She was no longer playing a dress-up. She was being crowned.

"I, Elvira of deBriavel, proclaim myself the one true Queen of Gallicia, the title that is mine by the birthright."

"Long live the Queen," the barons intoned.