“By my blood,” Raisa said. Drawing the Lady dagger that had belonged to Edon Byrne, she sliced her palm and allowed her blood to drip into the large basin on the altar.

Jemson handed her a clean white cloth to wrap around her hand. Lifting an elaborate ewer, he poured water into the basin and swirled it. Clean, clear water from the Dyrnnewater, high in the Spirits.

“Who will help you in this, Raisa ana’Marianna?” Jemson asked.

“The queendom rests on three foundations—wizards, the Spirit clans, and Valedwellers,” Raisa said.

Jemson dipped a cup into the basin, lifted it dripping. He gestured, and Elena, Lord Bayar, and Lord Hakkam came forward. Jemson passed them the cup, and they each drank from it in turn, glaring at one another over the rim.

Amon and Han came from either side to drink. Jemson invited the front row up, and Mellony, Missy, and Averill Lightfoot came forward and drank. Mellony’s pale cheeks were even paler than usual, and Raisa knew that her sister had imagined herself in Raisa’s place.

Averill smiled at Raisa, his face alight with pride. Was it because she was his daughter, or because there would be a mixed-blood queen on the Gray Wolf throne?

Micah and Fiona approached from the other side. Micah’s eyes met Raisa’s as he shook back his hair, tipped the cup, and drank. Fiona kept her eyes focused on the cup.

One by one, the people in each row were invited forward to drink the blood of the Gray Wolf queen. About half the crowd stayed in their seats. They were dignitaries from the rest of the Seven Realms, who had no intention of declaring fealty to Raisa.

“We are thereby pledged to preserve the Gray Wolf line and the queendom,” Jemson said, drinking from the cup himself and then setting it aside.

Remember that, Raisa thought, looking at the Bayars.

“Kneel, Your Highness,” Jemson said.

Raisa dropped to her knees, the coronation robes puddling around her.

Jemson lifted the ornate Gray Wolf crown from its velvet cushion, raising it high. “By the authority vested in me as Speaker of the Cathedral Temple of the City of Light, I crown you, Raisa ana’Marianna, Queen of the Fells, thirty-third in the new line.” And he settled the crown on her head.

On the dais, the Gray Wolf queens bowed their heads in acknowledgment of their new sister queen, and dissipated like vapors.

Raisa rose, stiff-necked, conscious of the weight of the crown, worried it might topple off. Jemson stepped aside. Her attendants assembled behind her, and she processed grandly down the aisle to the applause of the assembled nobility.

Likely the last time they’ll unite to cheer anything I do, Raisa thought.

As she crossed the courtyard she heard a clamor from the balconies but was afraid to look up, for fear of losing her crown. Rose petals spiraled down all around her.