The Rebel Assassin

Chapter 28: The Golden Crown

Magali could remember seeing the Solangian crown up close just once before, when she was younger.

Usually, if it was not on her father's head, it was locked in a vault in the king's rooms. But one day when she was perhaps twelve years old there had been an important reception of some foreign royalty, and as usual she had made a fool of herself in some small way. Ashamed, she didn't want to linger around people who would be muttering to each other about her having stumbled over her feet or tongue.

So when her mother and father rose to lead the court from the great hall to the ballroom, Magali slipped her attendants and hung back. She found herself almost alone in the suddenly empty, echoing hall.

Almost alone because the king had discretely taken off the crown — which was only for the most special occasions, her tutors said — just before leaving the hall, and several guards stayed back and surrounded the pedestal and cushion it rested on, waiting until the halls had cleared so it could be carried back to the vault.

Also, Abram had seen her slinking out of the crowd and hung back as well. He usually did; he was far more attuned to the princess's whereabouts than her attendants. He joined her now at the foot of the royal dais, staring up at the pedestal.

She made a face as he appeared beside her. Abram, unlike the old lady who was primarily in charge of keeping track of her, understood that the times Magali conveniently got left behind were her own doing, rather than just more instances of her incompetency, which gave him sharper eyes for catching her at it. "I'll go find Lady Helna in a minute."

"There is no rush," Abram said, his slow, deep voice unconcerned. "I doubt she will notice you are gone until she is done passing judgment on each and every outfit worn tonight."

Magali laughed, more out of relief that Abram was in a coconspirator mood than because it was funny. She already knew she would not be missed for a while. Very few people missed her presence.

"You want to see the crown?" he asked, noticing the direction of her gaze. At a nod from him, before she'd answered, the guards stepped aside.

She was curious about it. She negotiated the various layers of skirts until she could hike them up a few inches and made her ungraceful way up the shallow steps, stopping before the pedestal.

The crown was simple compared to some of the tiaras her mother wore, although that didn't make it simple by normal standards. It was made of a richly gleaming gold, visibly hammered but shining from every slightly slanted surface. It made her feel very odd, to think how old those hammer marks were. The unforgiving shape of it was softened by a band of thick velvet around the inside, which also adjusted it to the size of the king's head; one day it would be redone to fit her head, and that made her feel even odder.

An almost triangular spire rose from the front of the crown, with one shorter spire on each side. Each one was embedded with a large, deep green emerald. The gems were perfectly round, and set within thin circles of a darker gold than the rest of the crown. The qualities of these delicate circles were strange. Less reflective, and smoother than the other gold. She wanted to run her fingers over them, and she wanted to back away very quickly. Unable to reconcile the two feelings, she stood stock-still.

Abram followed her, looking at the crown with equal, though less nervous, intensity. There was something in his face that she didn't understand when she looked up at him. And though he usually registered her movements just after she made them, he didn't even turn to look at her for a long moment.

"The circles on the front are made of Guardian gold," he finally said, answering an unasked question. The undercurrent of his voice was also new, and she didn't like it, somehow, though she didn't know why.