To Marry a Dragon

26. The Mighty Force

Elvira walked into the biggest battle of her life dressed in silk. Sure, there was also velvet and taffeta, but it was a far cry from steel. The silk of the bell-flower skirts was pale gray with a green sheen to match her hazelnut eyes, the velvet on the bodice—black. The white, embroidered band ran along the collar and caught her at the elbows, where the sleeves fanned out from their shoulder-fitting top. A matching girdle belt rode on her hips, trimmed with golden tassels.

But the most important part of the dress wasn't the fabric or even the silver Boar of Gallicia pinned to her collar. It was the invisible stitching. Every seam of her gown was stitched by her hand and by the hands of the ladies of the court, the mothers, wives, sisters and daughters of noble birth. And wherever women do needlework, they talk.

This was the mighty force Elvira counted on, the women who knew her mother, the women who looked fearfully toward their future or the future of their daughters if their Queen was not there to listen to their grievances.

Squeezing Cerne's narrow hand for luck one last time, Elvira tucked away the acorn into the pouch that she moved to the belt from her neck, hiked up the rustling skirts and stepped out of the carriage. She would have much preferred to ride a horse, but the appeal to tradition was her only hope.

There were no Moots for two hundred years since Rudolf deBriavel was elected the King of Gallicia, so the rules of the gathering were archaic and suited Elvira perfectly.

The noblemen were arranged by rank on the cleared market square before Carridar's Cathedral. Rudolf's electors must have had a breathing room, but including everyone from dukes to barons today meant that the noblemen and their wives packed the square cheek to jowl.

The priests, Lord Eldwin and the Privy Councilmen occupied the steps leading to the enormous gates of the Cathedral.

Lord Eldwin wore darker gray than her, and a ceremonial cuirass covered with flower-and-vine gilded scrollwork. The overly large pauldrons on his shoulders had the Nerim's frigate bird on them, and she was sure he couldn't wait to replace the bird with the boar.

Beyond the gathering of the noblemen, the ordinary citizens clustered on the balconies and roofs, leaned out of the windows and jostled for a spot in the side streets.

Instead of joining Lord Protector and the priests, Elvira stopped in the flower-strewn passage between the kneeling nobles.

"Friends and confederates of deBriavel," Elvira started from where she stood, "and our beloved citizens. We left Gallicia three years ago with the future of the Boar Throne secure. Now we come before you to prove that we are worthy of our birthright. The Barons of the South had declared for us as the Queen of Gallicia. It is left to you to decide if you would join them to give Elvira deBriavel the mandate of Queenship."

She noticed that her voice wasn't carrying as far as she wanted and raised it to yelling. The royal 'we' irritated her, sounding undeserved yet. I'm not a pretender or a usurper.

She switched to a less patronizing 'I': "I came before you after I've protected the defenceless for three years and seen injustices in many domains. I vow to rule with the best advice from the wisest men and women in the land. I vow to rule with the blessing of the priests of the life-giving light. I vow to rule with a merciful heart and a just hand."

There were cheers and smiles. Lord Eldwin plastered the biggest one on his face, purporting to be one of those wise men she'd referred to. Until now, the breach in the rehearsed ceremony did not bother him, because Elvira acted scatterbrained with nerves every time she was in his presence. Perhaps, he didn't care if she was popular with the people or not, as long as he got to rule. Keep smiling, my Lord, keep smiling.