Lucilla stood, panting and disheveled, her stomach swirling, but with her back straight and her heart full to overflowing.
She handed the ax to Nim and stepped forward, waiting a moment until all eyes were on her once more, and then slowly rolled up her sleeves to show her tattoos. Then she dipped her head and brought her closed fist to her heart, recognizing the people before her as family.
There was a roar of approval from the crowd as a wave of fists met hearts, and she had to swallow hard to hold back the flood of emotion; joy and love and relief.
Thank the gods.
She knew the reprieve was temporary. There was a huge amount of work to be done to undo the damage that Ballanor and Geraint had done and to truly restore the kingdom—and her people’s trust—but it was a start.
They returned to their horses and rode toward the gates amidst the cheering crowds. The soldiers, faced with the chanting mob and the hard-faced guards at her back, wisely stood back and let them enter.
They crossed a low bridge, flanked by tall wrought iron lamps, passing over a deep moat of dark, still water. The bridge ended at a long line of scaffolding and piled stones forming an unfinished inner wall where a cluster of attentive soldiers in black uniforms hesitated.
Tristan called loudly, “Make way for the queen!”
They looked at each other nervously but didn’t move. A heavyset Apollyon wearing a captain’s sigil and a stern frown stepped forward. “You are not cleared to enter.”
Tristan laughed. Loudly. “Are you saying that Lord Dornar said nothing about bringing the queen back to the palace?”
“No,” the captain admitted, “he did make preparations for the queen. But I don’t see the Lord High Chancellor with you.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes. “No, you idiot. You see Her Majesty, Queen Lucilla herself.”
The captain looked across to Lucilla, recognition clear in his face.
Gods. After the intensity of the square, the long flight from the ship, the heartache of the morning, she was completely drained, and she wanted to go inside. “Captain, you know who I am. And you knew I was coming. You have three seconds to decide whether your loyalty is to theformer”—she stressed the word—“Lord High Chancellor, or to me.”
The captain took a hurried step back, signaling his men to allow them to pass.
They pushed their mounts down a short path and through a wide arch into a cobbled courtyard dominated by a massive three-tiered marble fountain formed by a trio of rearing winged horses, their forelegs raised as if they might leap from the falling water.
On either side of the courtyard were long covered walkways, accessed by rows of pointed gothic arches, and at the far side, a pair of heavy wooden doors set with iron bands stood open. A cluster of men, all Apollyon, in expensive robes and adorned with heavy gold chains of office, poured through the doors into the courtyard.
Damn, she was tired. She wanted this over. She wanted to sit down and drink something cold. She wanted Matt to say something ridiculous and make her laugh. She did not want to deal with her brother’s council.
She was so very tempted to let her face fall back into her practiced “dealing with authority” blankness and fold her hands politely to avoid this confrontation. But then the lead councilor, a heavyset man with a pronounced belly, gray hair, and cold, dark eyes, began to speak. “What is the meaning of this?”
She put on her haughtiest stare, ignoring her exhaustion as she pushed her stallion forward with Tristan at her side. “Is that how you speak to your queen? Is that how you spoke to my father, Geraint? Or my brother, Ballanor?”
The man took another step forward, soldiers in blue tunics flanking him. All Apollyon. All, no doubt, from ancient families. His hands clenched by his side as his nostrils flared.
“I don’t know who you think you are—” he started but stopped as Ramiel boomed, “That is a lie.”
The councilor folded his arms over his chest. “What? How dare you!”
Ramiel slid from his horse and strode forward, glittering in his white armor. “I am Justice of the Truth. TheSupremeJustice. Here in support of the true queen. And you just lied.”
The councilor’s ears turned red, but he didn’t back down. “The Lord High Chancellor is bringing the queen back, and as he is not here, I have to question whether this… ah… young lady could possibly be—”
Ramiel stalked forward. “Lie.”
The councilor stepped back, almost into the men arrayed behind him. “Wh-What?”
“You lied again. You know exactly who she is. We can all see it just by looking at her.”
The councilor shook his head, mouth slack. “No. We don’t accept—”
Lucilla had had enough. “You knew I would be coming back, and here I am. I’m not with Dornar nor under his control. I don’t answer to him nor any of you.”
