Guards opened the doors to the high balcony, and Ama was assaulted by a rush of sound and cold. They stepped onto the stone, into an icy wetness—not quite rain, not quite sleet—and the rumble of the crowd mounted into a deafening roar. Emory and the queen mother raised their hands in greeting, and Ama did, as well. At her side, Sorrow mewled and pressed against her, overwhelmed by the crowd.
Ama felt overwhelmed too, looking down upon the throng of people below—how long had they stood in this weather, waiting for a glimpse of their king?—and bent to scoop the lynx into her arms. She tucked her beneath her cloak and pulled it closed, protecting her from the roar of the crowd.
There were red-faced children down there, snot streaming from their noses, some with no shoes. There were women suckling babes and men waving small banners, the Harding insignia, Ama guessed, painted onto them: a green dragon, and behind it, the shadow figure of a king.
The banners were everywhere—on handheld flags, on waving banners, on tapestries that hung on either side of the high balcony.
Ama had the prickly sensation of having walked into someone else’s story—a story in which everyone but she knew their role and their lines. The king’s job was to conquer. Emory had proved admirable at that, no one could say otherwise. The dragon’s job was to be vanquished, and, as there was currently no dragon to be seen other than the rough illustrations all around, it seemed the dragon had done its job, as well.
But between the dragon and the king, there should have been a third figure, Ama thought. There should have been a damsel.
“Smile,” Emory hissed into her ear, his own face curled into a grin, “and wave. The people are waiting for you.”
Ama arranged her face as she was told. She grasped the lynx close and raised her hand to the people below. They exploded into cheers, and beneath her cloak, hidden from everyone, Sorrow dug her claws into Ama’s chest, dampening the fine velvet gown with blood.
The Musicians’ Song
The great hall had undergone a near-magical transformation from when last Ama had seen it, late the night before. Then it had been almost empty, and shadowy, and solemn, as well. Now, when Ama entered it at the coronation’s finish, on the arm of her king, it was the site of a raucous, jubilant celebration.
Elegantly dressed bodies crammed shoulder against shoulder, waiting to congratulate King Emory and meet his damsel prize. Some of the people wore tall, elaborate wigs; some were roped with jewels; some looked squeezed into their coats and dresses, as if the meal they were about to eat would burst the already-strained seams; others looked as though their natural state was in this elegant dress, carrying themselves almost as if they floated.
A trio of musicians plucked at their stringed instruments, but the sound they produced was barely audible, overlaid by the voices of the crowd—loud chatter, piercing laughter, here and there an argument, heated tones of conflict waxing and then waning like the moon.
Ama was glad she had sent Sorrow back to her room with Tillie; this was no place for a nervous animal. She wished she could have excused herself from the feast as well. But Emory had a firm grip on her hand, raised high, and he seemed as intent to show her off as he was the new crown he wore on his head—a heavy ring of three interwoven metals, platinum, bronze, and rose gold, which crested in a series of dangerous-looking spikes all around.
Unlike the queen mother’s crown, which had been soft in its lines, though clearly of great worth, Emory’s new headpiece looked as deadly as a weapon, each spike a sharp-tipped point, the three metals of which it was built locked in a battle for dominance.
All of the people wanted to touch Ama and Emory. Hand after hand extended to her as Emory introduced her to an endless stream of his closest friends and advisers.
“This is the Duke and Duchess of Cromming,” Emory told Ama, and the duke kissed her hand, then the duchess held it by the fingers as she curtsied.
“This is Father Jacob,” Emory next said as the round-faced priest bobbed his head at Ama’s hand, clutched in his sweaty grasp.
On and on it went, the introductions, and with each curtsy, each kiss, each grasp of her hand, Ama felt as if she were the mutton on the table, being consumed bite after bite.
They were seated at last, and only when everyone was at the tables did the queen mother enter, avoiding the crush of greeters and slipping smoothly into her seat beside the king.
She saw Ama’s envious expression and laughed. “I had my years of receiving,” she said. “It is your turn now, to bear that burden.”
And then the meal began, and the crowd hushed over their meat and mead, so Ama could hear the musicians’ song clearly at last.
She realized at once that never before had she heard anything like this—like music. Not in the time since Emory rescued her from the dragon, and, she knew with absolute clarity of mind, not before that, either.
It was the closest she had to a memory: this surety of absence, this knowledge that never before had her ears heard a song. It was a truth that belonged only to her, a secret that she tucked away like a hidden jewel.
There was meat on her plate and mead in her cup, but Ama wanted neither. She tilted her head toward the musicians, closed her eyes to better concentrate on the tune, and breathed as quietly as she could.
It was a song of joy and celebration; that was clear. Quick, loud, upbeat. Two of the musicians plucked the notes from the strings, but the third drew a bow across his instrument to release his song. Together, the three instruments braided separate notes into something greater than any of them could produce alone. Ama’s heart felt both full and light in the same moment.
“Are you all right?” Emory asked, breaking her focus.
Ama’s eyes snapped open. She was back in the opulent, overcrowded hall, stuffed with bodies and smells—so many smells, the meat and the vegetables, oily in butter and juices; the mead, sour and heavy; the bodies around her; and her own flesh, as well, constricted in the too-tight velvet, stewing as if she were another dish.
“I am fine,” she answered. “I was just listening to the music.”
“Well, eat your meat,” Emory demanded, pointing with his knife down the long table. “Everyone else has stopped feasting in deference to you.”
It was true, Ama saw. All up and down the table, forks and knives were suspended midair, or laid aside, as the court watched her face and waited for her to enjoy her meal.
The terrible burden of everyone’s eyes upon her face made any hunger Ama may have felt disappear completely.
Still, this was her duty, one of many, Ama was learning, and so she smiled and took up a forkful of potato, brought it to her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed.
The table guests, satisfied, returned to their own plates, and after a moment of eating slowly, Ama saw that there was some shelter in doing as she was expected to do; it was when she broke from her role that attention felt especially heavy.
When she busied herself with raising and lowering her fork, and then her cup, and then her napkin, she seemed to fade into the texture of the room. At her side, leaning back in his chair to survey the hall, Emory emitted a palpable air of satisfaction.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it, Ama?” he asked, gesturing expansively—at the golden platters overflowing with food, the pitchers full of drink, the musicians in their corner, the rainbow of satins and silks all down the long table. “It’s my one sadness that Pawlin was not home from his hunt in time for the coronation. He does love a good feast.”