“Yes. I have it right here, my lady.” Lord Randall shuffled through parchments on his wooden stand. He held up one document, squinting at it. “First is the marriage certificate. I’ll need two witnesses.”
Mars and Illiana signed the certificate, then passed the quill to Rangar, who wrote his name as witness, and to Bryn, who signed hers.
“Excellent,” Lord Randall said. “Now that the marriage is formalized, we can begin the transfer of succession. This parchment decrees that Lady Bryn is relinquishing her claim to the Mir throne into the possession of her brother, Prince Mars.” He paused, giving Bryn a keen look. “You are certain this is your wish, my lady?”
Once more, all eyes fell on Bryn. She gave a firm nod. “I am.”
“I must impress upon you the magnitude of this decision,” Lord Randall stated. “It is no small thing for a crown heir to give up a throne. Many people have killed, died, and warred to possess what you now possess. Do you swear by honor and reason that you give this up freely, of your own will, under no duress?”
Bryn squeezed the quill in her hand. She knew many people throughout the kingdom doubted her decision. Mars hadn’t proved himself to be an effective leader the first time he’d been on the Mir throne, so was she thrusting her people back under the uncertainty of an unproven ruler?
And yet, as she watched Mars holding Illiana’s hand, she knew this was the right choice. Mars wasn’t the same headstrong, arrogant prince he’d been in their youth. In fact, he’dneverbeen that person. It had been an act to convince their parents that he was on their side. Yes, he had made mistakes trusting Captain Carr, but now he had Illiana. She was a voice of the common folk—not to mention a witch highly skilled in hexmarks—and he finally had put his trust in the right place.
“By my own free will,” Bryn said, “I relinquish the crown.”
Lord Randall nodded and turned to the velvet pillow resting on the Little Table that held the golden crown. It had graced Bryn’s father’s head for as long as she could remember, and seeing it now gave her a small stab of pain.
She missed her parents, despite their sins.
“Sign here,” Lord Randall said, indicating the bottom of the parchment.
Bryn squeezed Rangar’s hand before she approached the wooden stand. This was an important step in their future but not the only hurdle they faced: Rangar was still technically a fugitive. Until they could clear his name of his brother’s murder, he wouldn’t be welcomed back into Barendur Hold—except into its dungeon.
While his dark eyes watched, she signed her name to the parchment and set down the quill, stepping back. Lord Randall picked up the crown and placed it on Mars’s head, reciting the coronation vows.
At the back of the room, Rangar took Bryn’s hand. “You gave up a kingdom,” he said quietly.
“I’m gaining a new one,” she answered, meeting his gaze. “Once we clear your name.”
His attention fell to her lips as though he was debating sweeping her into a kiss right there. She stepped closer to rest her forehead on his broad chest. She briefly let her eyes sink closed.
No longer a queen. Not duty-bound. Only bound by soul—to him.
His fingers stroked her long hair. “I don’t care if you’re a princess, a queen, or a shepherdess, Bryn Lindane. As long as you’re mine.”
She tipped her head up and, while the rest of the small gathering watched her brother be crowned King of the Mirien, kissed her prince.
* * *
After the marriage and coronation,Bryn took one last walk through Castle Mir. Under Captain Carr’s reign, much had changed from the childhood home she remembered, yet each room was still as familiar as the various parts of her own body. She spent time in her old bedroom, where the music boxes and silver hairbrushes were a reminder of the girl she’d once been, then visited her parents’ former bedroom. The bed was still shrouded with a black cloth, as was the full-length mirror, out of tradition. They would only be lifted when the new king and queen took residence, and Mars and Illiana wanted to redecorate first.
She shivered, feeling as though her parents’ ghosts lingered.
She walked through the cavernous ballroom and down to the kitchen level, where a few cooks gave her smiles, and then through the servants’ entrance to the remembrance garden. She wound among the still-blooming rosebushes until she reached the gravestones. She stopped in front of two of the newest markers.
Deonthanial Lindane, King of the Mirien
Helena Lindane, Queen of the Mirien
Resting a hand on her father’s headstone, then her mother’s, she whispered a blessing of eternal peace.
“. . . to the earth we all return,” she finished.
The grass rustled behind her. She spun to find Rangar leaning against one of the older headstones. He said thoughtfully, “You’ve done the Lindane name proud today.”
She lifted her skirt to walk through the grass to where he was, then perched on the low headstone next to him. Facing her, he caught her chin between his thumb and first finger.
“I want to take you away from here. From these bad memories. I want to take you the Baersladen and make you my wife.”
