Short Story – “The Coronation”
It was impossible not to hear the roaring crowds. Their jubilant voices drifted in through the windows from the people-choked streets. Amelia didn’t find them too hard to ignore, however, as she was too busy staring at the black fingers of her left hand. The rot was spreading. Already it had consumed up to her elbow, and it wouldn’t be long now before it reached her shoulder. It had all started when her father died, of course. That’s when the tips of her fingers went black, and for the weeks following, had grown slowly but substantially higher.
‘It doesn’t hurt.’ Amelia flexed her fingers as seven handmaidens buzzed around her like busy bees affixing her royal attire and correcting her hair. None of them replied to her. They couldn’t. Handmaidens were forbidden to speak and, thus, forbidden to reveal the secrets of the monarchy. A stupid rule, Amelia had always thought, one that had left her to wander silent palace hallways and yearn for conversation.
‘It never does, your majesty.’ She turned quickly to the only creature in five hundred miles better dressed than her. The tenderfoot shone in his impeccable garb, but the star of the show was his flapping jacket, with its many splendid swirls and intricate patterns sewn in by the best craftsman in Aldor. Jaskus stepped forward, brushing a hand through his silky hair and tightening his bow tie. The overpowering smell of lavender followed close behind. ‘Still,’ he said solemnly, bowing first, then placing his hand on hers. ‘I bet the death is excruciating.’
‘Have you come to get me?’ Amelia pulled the hand away. She hadn’t felt his touch, just a cold numbness. ‘Is it time?’
‘Feeling nervous, are we?’ Jaskus smiled. ‘You needn’t worry, your majesty. The coronation will be quick and mostly painless.’
It was the mostly that concerned her. Amelia had very few anxieties about becoming queen. After all, she’d been preparing for it most of her life. So much so that it felt inevitable that this day would come. Not even her callous cousins, who each would love to sit upon the wooden seat, could cease her calm about it. The only worry that bothered her came from her arm, or more specifically, the fact that it would be removed from her at some point during her ascension to the throne.
Another stupid rule, she thought — the monarchy was full of them. All day her father’s advisors and servants had ragged on about the traditions of the throne, alongside the importance of their upkeep. It was hard to take them seriously when they weren’t the ones destined to lose an arm.
A bell rang from one of the churches below, swiftly followed by another. Within minutes, the whole of Malverin — the City of Swords — was sounding out for their new queen’s arrival. Jaskus offered his hand, and she took it. Then, alongside a mix of guards, maidens, and well-wishers, Amelia left her bedroom and embarked on a slow journey through the palace. Soon she’d be inside the cathedral, standing before a procession of nobles and lords, pledging to serve and be served.
‘Seven queens have undergone the rite since Amelia the First.’ Jaskus strode beside her confidently, head held high, whiskers brimming with pride. ‘I think they had their arms placed in jars somewhere?’ He hummed. ‘In any case, if they can do it, you can.’
‘I don’t suppose I’ve got a choice,’ replied Amelia, hefting her skirt so she could move properly. ‘It’s just so unfair.’
‘Family curses are never fair.’ Jaskus looked up at her thoughtfully. ‘At least it’s a guaranteed way of knowing you’re next for the throne. There aren’t many kingdoms that have that.’
Every queen for seven hundred years, since the Amelia the First, had ruled with only one arm. No one is quite sure where the curse came from, but it always manifested in the same way. When the old monarch died, if the new one was a woman, their left arm would become riddled with black rot. If it found its way past the shoulder, it would attack the heart and kill them. There were theories about why this had happened, but there was only one that Amelia thought had any actual weight.
Amelia the First — the great Dragon Slayer — had fought and killed dragons during the War of the Contracts. At some point, a dragon had taken her left arm, chomped it off in one clean cut, and so she’d ruled from there on out with only one. It seemed likely that the dragon had somehow cursed her great-grandmother and her descendants, leading to this strange set of circumstances concerning coronations. Amelia noted that it didn’t affect the men in the family, who were always fine—just the women.
The end of the corridor was marked by two large wooden doors that towered over her parade. Guards on either side opened them slowly, revealing the bright sunny day behind and the crowds gathering beneath the balcony. The family crest — a dragon’s head with a sword centred through its face — stood out on every cloak, banner, flag, and shop window.
It took another hour for her procession to walk through the crowds and rise higher and higher on the sloping city towards the cathedral. It took another hour after that for the priests, devout worshippers of Halavrin, to finish their oaths and help Amelia finish hers. All the while, her cousins sneered jealously, occasionally whispering to one another in their seats and probably discussing ways in which Amelia’s line could suddenly end. After all, she was her father’s only child, and her young age could undoubtedly be misconstrued as foolish, inexperienced, and susceptible to political attack.
However, the cousins would have to wait their turn in her list of worries. Nothing took priority over the knight standing vigilant throughout the ceremony with the Kingmaker ready. The sword had been used to kill dragons and slay armies, but most importantly, it had claimed the limbs of seven queens. The blade was so synonymous with her family name it featured prominently on their crest, and soon she’d come to know it personally.
‘Ready?’ Jaskus whispered at her side.
Amelia didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. The knight, who kept their face hidden beneath a covered helm, approached the dais. Suddenly Amelia was being led towards an ornate wooden block. In moments, her arm had been slotted through the holes between the two pinned boards, awaiting the Kingmaker, which would glide through the slip easily and cleanly remove her arm above the elbow. Then the clerics would take her, perform the various healing spells at their disposal, and life as a monarch would officially begin…or, at least, that’s what was supposed to have happened.
The last thing Amelia remembered before waking up in a daze was the knight raising Kingmaker. The horrified gasps of the seated crowd of nobles and family had brought her back from her stupor. Amelia took note of their faces and then noted that she was unexpectedly lying on the ground. The wooden block had been splintered as if it had exploded, and the knight was lying several feet away. All it took was a twitch of her finger to realise that her blackened appendage was still attached. Amelia didn’t need to wonder where Kingmaker was. The pieces of it were littered all around her.
‘What happened?‘ It was all she could utter as Jaskus ran towards her, helping her back up into a seated position. There was a certain eerie silence that had taken over the cathedral now. No one dared even blink, let alone speak. They just stared, mouths agape and eyes wide. Amelia spotted the handle of the Kingmaker lying just a little way from her. The blade had been shattered right down to the hilt.
Guards were on her before the murmuring of the crowd began. They whisked her away and into the back of the cathedral, into a stately room reserved for royal attendance. They left her sitting on a throne directly beneath a large banner of the family crest. The dragon’s eyes seemed a little more judgemental than they had before. People before her were rushing around, running to and fro, trying to decide what had happened and what they would say had happened.
‘The sword…’ Jaskus’s face was pale and gaunt. He looked as if his breakfast was coming back up on him. ‘It just…shattered?’
‘Shattered?’ Amelia questioned. ‘What happened, Jaskus? Tell me!’
He gulped. ‘The sword was brought down on the block, but…but when it connected to your arm, it exploded.’ The tenderfoot inspected her arm. ‘There’s not a scratch on you.’
Amelia didn’t need to look to see that he was right. It didn’t hurt. Not her arm nor the rot. It certainly didn’t feel like a sword had tried to pierce it. ‘That’s impossible.’ It was all she could think to say in the moment because it was impossible. The sword wasn’t just some pretty heirloom handed down through the family. It was a magical artifact. A powerful one too. It could slay dragons and cut through anything. There weren’t many things that could damage a magical artifact of that magnitude, and Amelia did not believe her arm was amongst them.
‘We need to get you into the palace, to safety.’ Jaskus ushered her to her feet, seeing that more guards had arrived. ‘You’ll have to stay there until we can figure out our next move.’
‘What do you mean?’ Amelia rejected the guard’s arm when they approached. ‘I’m the queen, now? What am I in danger of?’
‘They’re already discussing it.’ Jaskus sighed, moving her along himself. ‘The Kingmaker broke when it hit your arm. Your cousins will use that as an excuse to try and claim the throne for themselves. They’ll say you’re unworthy, Amelia.’
Jaskus saw her down the steps leading out from the back of the cathedral. Before them, a golden carriage awaited, one that could take her back to the palace. Amelia resisted at first but was eventually persuaded by the weight of the situation and the urgency of the guards. Before she departed, Jaskus handed her something. Amelia turned it over — the hilt of Kingmaker, missing the rest of its blade.
‘I need to go and rally some of your allies,’ said Jaskus, turning from her. ‘Before it’s too late.’
Amelia grabbed him. ‘Why did Kingmaker break?’ she asked desperately. ‘Am I not supposed to be queen?’
‘Listen to me,’ he said quickly, grasping her hands tightly. ‘You were always meant to be queen, and by your father’s name, I’m going to make sure you remain one.’
Jaskus slapped the side of the carriage in an effort to get it moving. The horses whinnied into motion at the tenderfoot’s command. Amelia watched her loyal advisor, once her father’s advisor, rushing his small body into the cathedral. As the wheels turned, and she found herself alone, her thoughts began to wander. A million questions surfaced, not the least of which was what would happen now. Then her mind turned to the black rot on her arm. It was still there. In fact, if she looked a little closer, it seemed to have spread slightly farther up past her elbow.
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