The threat floated between them for a long, uncomfortable moment. Monza leaned towards Rogont, acutely aware of the vast numbers of eyes fixed upon them. “What we need here is a little unity, no? I’ve a feeling hangings might send the wrong message. Let’s just get this done, shall we? Then we can all lie down in a dark room.”

Grulo carefully cleared his throat. “Of course.”

“A long conversation to end where we began!” snapped Rogont. “Give me the damn circlet!”

Scavier produced a thin golden band. Monza turned slowly to face the crowd.

“People of Styria!” Rogont roared behind her. “I give you the Grand Duchess Monzcarro of Talins!” There was a slight pressure as he lowered the circlet onto her head.

And that simply she was raised to the giddy heights of power.

With a faint rustling, everyone knelt. The square was left silent, enough that she could hear the birds flapping and squawking on the pediment above. Enough that she could hear the spatters as some droppings fell not far to her right, daubing the ancient stones with spots of white, black and grey.

“What are they waiting for?” she muttered to Rogont, doing her best not to move her lips.

“Words.”

“Me?”

“Who else?”

A wave of dizzy horror broke over her. By the look of the crowd, she might easily have been outnumbered five thousand to one. But she had the feeling that, for her first action as head of state, fleeing the platform in terror might send the wrong message. So she stepped slowly forwards, as hard a step as she’d ever taken, struggling to get her tumbling thoughts in order, dig up words she didn’t have in the splinter of time she did. She passed through Scarpius’ great shadow and out into the daylight, and a sea of faces opened up before her, tilted up towards her, wide-eyed with hope. Their scattered muttering dropped to nervous whispering, then to eerie silence. She opened her mouth, still hardly knowing what might come out of it.

“I’ve never been one…” Her voice was a reedy squeak. She had to cough to clear it, spat the results over her shoulder then realised she definitely shouldn’t have. “I’ve never been one for speeches!” That much was obvious. “Rather get right to it than talk about it! Born on a farm, I guess. We’ll deal with Orso first! Rid ourselves of that bastard. Then… well… then the fighting’s over.” A strange kind of murmur went through the kneeling crowd. No smiles, exactly, but some faraway looks, misty eyes, a few heads nodding. She was surprised by a longing tug in her own chest. She’d never really thought before that she’d wanted the fighting to end. She’d never known much else.

“Peace.” And that needy murmur rippled across the square again. “We’ll have ourselves a king. All Styria, marching one way. An end to the Years of Blood.” She thought of the wind in the wheat. “Try to make things grow, maybe. Can’t promise you a better world because, well, it is what it is.” She looked down awkwardly at her feet, shifted her weight from one leg to another. “I can promise to do my best at it, for what that’s worth. Let’s aim at enough for everyone to get by, and see how we go.” She caught the eye of an old man, staring at her with teary-eyed emotion, lip quivering, hat clasped to his chest.