The horrifying reality that she is now king.
The mask is clean today, burnished so that it gleams brightly in the ruby light, but when she last saw it, it was bathed in blood, askew on a marble floor next to the face of a dead king.
“All hail Isa Andaiye Saire!” cries the high mystic. “King of Chains, Great Elephant of the Yontai, she who straddles the center of the world and rules its beating heart! Long may she reign!”
Empty titles; she knows this. She no more rules the world’s beating heart than she rules the temple that now holds her prisoner. Her father always used to say that the mask-crown is greater than its wearer. This has never been truer than it is today.
All around the chamber, those present bow their heads low in obeisance. It is against convention, but the old sorcerer who has just crowned her bows, too, even though his blood is divine and hers is not. Then again, of the seven high mystics of the Shirika, Itani Faro of the Arc has always been the most contrary. It is why Isa is still alive.
He remains by her side when she exits the makeshift throne room to forced cheers and applause. Two young warriors in the light-green tunics of the King’s Sentinels follow solemnly with their ceremonial hide shields and spears—warriors of the King’s Sentinels, because the entire Royal Guard was wiped out when . . . when . . .
Inside the antechamber to the throne room, Isa takes the mask-crown off her face, and it collapses into itself, becoming static and somewhat less remarkable in appearance. Anxious to part with it, she extends the mask-crown to Obe Saai, but the Sentinel draws back, aghast.
“Please,” she says, proffering the thing to him. “My neck hurts, and I’d like to take a walk.”
Obe’s eyes swivel to Itani Faro, who gives a subtle nod. “It’s a great sign of trust, young man,” the Arc says. “You should be honored.”
“Yes, Your Worship.” Obe accepts the mask-crown with a shaky hand. “You honor me, Great Elephant.”
She trusts him, yes, more than anyone else still drawing breath, but this is no honor.
Except that’s not quite how it looks to Dino Sato, Isa’s other honor guard. Certainly not by the way he tightens his jaw in unexpressed displeasure. Dino was at one point Obe’s rival for her affections; she knows the two warriors have no love lost between them and belatedly realizes now that she’s probably made things worse by so obviously choosing one over the other.
Only minutes after being crowned king, and she’s already sown enmity between her two most trusted guards. But that’s what it means to be king, isn’t it? Sowing enmity with every breath.
“Will you walk with me?” she asks the Arc.
His height and his scarified face are intimidating, but it’s his divinity that terrifies her. His power, his gravity. As the high priest of the Red Temple, Itani Faro is possibly the most powerful high mystic of them all. And yet she finds comfort in his company, this god in mortal flesh, who remained true when the rest of the Shirika turned their backs on her father and her family. He was there for her when it would have been prudent to turn away.
And even now, he bows to her. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
The four of them walk along the temple’s bamboo arcades in grim silence, a fresh wind buffeting their robes. Rivulets from the recent storm drip from trees and rooftops into the ponds dotting the gardens. The skies remain gray and somber, like a mirror of her soul.
Jasiri temple guardians pledged to the Arc’s coven have been patrolling the bamboo cloisters in silent pairs since Isa got here. There probably aren’t more than a dozen of them in the whole temple citadel—tall, forbidding figures who keep to themselves, all of them as striking as their coven master—but Isa knows that even if her enemies ever made it past the lightning barrier the Arc erected around the citadel, those dozen Jasiri would be a more than adequate defense of the temple.
Isa’s retinue crosses paths with such a pair along the arcade, two barefoot young men with large shoulder muscles peeking from beneath the folds of shimmering red brocade and aerosteel armor pieces chased with moongold. White tattoos run in thin lines down their necks—the marks of the magical caste. Charmed spears gleam brilliantly in their right hands, and their faces are hidden behind horned masks with no eye slits.
Isa inclines her head to them in respect. They acknowledge her with deep bows of their own and then proceed without a word. Isa and her companions do the same.
Minutes later a tall figure clad in blue appears along the arcade, hobbling toward them with his face set in a crestfallen glower. A squeaky gilded leg brace clings to his left leg, which he favors as he walks, leaning on a cane with a golden knob for support. The other hand holds the herald’s scepter, which belonged to his mother until a few nights ago.
A small part of Isa resents Jomo for refusing the mask-crown, in essence forcing her to accept it. The rest of her, though, is infinitely grateful for his presence. He has been a pillar of courage she would have crumbled without.
Today, for example. While Isa was being crowned, Kola Saai, headman of the crocodile clan, was holding an emergency meeting with the headmen in the Summit; Jomo was brave enough to leave the safety of the temple and attend the meeting in his capacity as Isa’s herald.
It is more than a big relief to see that he has returned safely.
They all stop when they come face-to-face. He bows to the Arc first. “Your Worship.” Then he bows to Isa. “I apologize, Great Elephant, for missing your coronation. I have only just returned from the Summit.”
“You were doing something much more important, cousin,” she says. “You were serving me as herald. What news do you bring?”
Jomo’s expression grows darker. “The headmen have elected the Crocodile as their regent. You should have seen the smug look on the bastard’s face.” Jomo seems to remember his company, and his light-complexioned cheeks gain a reddish tinge. “Excuse my language, Your Worship.”
“They moved quickly, didn’t they,” the high mystic remarks with a slight sneer.
“He claims he’s simply stepping in to bring stability back to the kingdom, but he says he’ll step down as soon as Her Majesty decides to leave the temple.”
“So he can have me killed,” Isa says.
Jomo grunts. “The filth denies any involvement in the Royal Massacre, and that’s not even the worst part.”
Isa raises an eyebrow. “There’s worse?”
“Oh yes. Right after reminding me of the mortal peril our clan now faces since we’re deeply resented and unprotected, he had the gall to propose a marriage of equals. He claims you’d rule as king and queen in your own rights, except that the mask-crown would have to be destroyed—you know, since he can’t be crowned king so long as it exists.”
Isa feels Obe Saai going tense behind her. It takes everything she has not to look his way. The Arc, meanwhile, glares in her direction. “This is madness, Your Majesty. You cannot possibly consider the proposal.”
She wanders to the edge of the arcade, a hand braced upon her chest. The colorful minnows in the pond below scurry away from her reflection. She can’t stand the fear she sees on her own face, so she looks away. “But what other choice do I have?” she says to the men around her. “I may be safe from him in this temple, but our people are still out there. Anti-Saire sentiment has been on the rise throughout the kingdom. If I don’t give him what he wants, he could orchestrate a genocide, and no one would stop it.”