The hall itself was filled with light, striking and new compared to the dark halls of the palace at Provincia. The men and women were silent, kneeling as I passed them. I refused to be afraid, not when I knew the consequences of my uncontrolled emotions. If I could stay calm, I could get through this. The night before, I had dreamed of destroying the palace and every city in Auster in a fit of rage, but now, after seeing the faces of the kingdom, the idea left me horrified.

The doors to the great hall opened, illuminating the streamers of red and gold falling from the ceiling. An array of foreign flags was interspersed between the banners, each bearing the symbol of the snake.

Beneath them, hovering anxiously at the edges of a long crimson carpet, were even more Austerans. They fell into a hushed reverence when Beatrice and I stepped through the door. Even the king and queen stood, making their way toward me down the long aisle. Beatrice backed away, releasing my arm.

“No!” I whispered, reaching for her. She merely shook her head, giving me a small smile.

“My Great Lady,” the king said, kneeling in front of me with his queen. “Your servants welcome you.” He dwarfed his wife, though in my hazy half-waking dream I had believed him to be much larger. The queen was fair-skinned, but wore her crown atop a cluster of night-black curls.

“Has Beatrice treated you well, my Great Lady?” the king asked, rising. “We had hoped to spare your wrath in allowing you to rest.”

“She has been a great help,” I said, forcing the quiver out of my voice. As we approached the thrones, an elderly man in golden robes stepped out from the crowd and walked behind us. The scepter in his hands glinted with the light streaming in through the enormous windows.

The king and queen left me standing as they reclaimed their thrones. Five men stood behind them, and as I passed, each slid a gold medallion over my head. I glanced down, reading the names and crests of the countries engraved deeply in them—Auster, Saldorra, Ruttgard, Bellun, Libanbourg—all of the Salvalite nations in the world. The old man, obviously a priest of some kind, bowed deeply before unrolling a long scroll at my feet.

“The alliance has been assembled,” the king said. “We have been brought together to further your cause, through sword and strife, blood and battle. All we ask for is your blessing.”

“All of you?” I asked faintly, looking down at the scroll, a map of the continent. I had seen a near-exact copy of it in North’s messy scrawl as he presented the information to his mother, only Palmarta did not exist on this map. The borders of Palmarta had disappeared, as if the small country had been swallowed whole. I took in every line with a sharp sense of dread, but an even sharper eye.

“Your blessings?” the king asked again.

“How can I give you my blessings,” I began, steadying my voice, “when I do not approve of this war at all?”

The representatives of the other nations crowded in, their voices leaping forth in protest. The king held up a silencing hand, his face red as he turned to the priest.

“The scriptures said we would have to bring her into the world slowly,” the old man said. “She knows not what she says.”

I recognized my mistake immediately. Losing the king’s trust and faith would also mean losing my life.

The king gave a curt nod. “Continue with the ceremony, then.”

When the priest spoke, it was in a language I had never heard before, a tongue that sounded like the groaning of an old wagon. His words were deep and lyrical, thundering through the great hall. The spectators, as well as the king and queen, responded in turn. I strained my ears, trying to catch a familiar word.

The priest turned back toward me expectantly, touching his scepter to my forehead. The king lit a small stick of incense that burned with the smell of jasmine and sandalwood and held it out to me. I opened my hand to take it from him, but his other hand closed over mine. The priest began his strange speech again, waving his scepter above our heads twice. I would have dropped my hand from the king’s sweaty grip had the priest not suddenly wrapped our joined hands together with a long, golden string. Suddenly the priest stopped speaking. All those in the hall turned their eyes toward me, the priest leaning forward as if to say it was my turn.

I nodded slowly, biting my tongue. That seemed to satisfy the two men, who broke out into smiles that turned my insides to stone. What exactly had I just agreed to?

I maintained my composure through the rest of the strange ceremony; they seemed to find it appropriate that the vessel of their goddess was reserved in both her words and outward affection. When the cord unwrapped itself from our hands like a snake, I snatched my hand away, withdrawing it into my cool, dry robes.

Men and women were allowed to approach us then, stooping to place small gifts at our feet. At least, I assumed they were gifts until the king turned and spoke to me.

He waved his arm over the piles of fruit, weapons, and tools that surrounded us. “These are the requirements for your miracle, my Great Lady,” the king said. “The Book mentioned the weapon you would construct for us from these parts. Everything is here.”

I stared helplessly at the floor, feeling the pull of panic. There had to be a way I could play this.

“I claim no such power,” I said. “You have misread the Book.”

“My Great Lady,” the priest said, his eyes narrowed slightly, “I assure you that we have interpreted the Book correctly. Please bless us with your power.” I heard the crowd murmur.

“I can’t…,” I mumbled.