Chapter 22: The Kneeling

"Explain," I said.

The oldest of them stepped out of the line.

He was my grandfather's cousin, a stooped man with a cane and a face I had kissed at every midwinter feast of my childhood.

"We were frightened," he said. "Percival said the guard would fire on anyone who defended you. Dorian said the Moonhall was his by marriage."

"You are my family."

"That is why we came."

"You came after three thousand wolves knelt to me," I said. "You didn't come last night."

His mouth worked.

The old watch captain, the one who had knelt first on the steps, walked down the steps and held out a folded paper.

"Majesty," he said. "I found this in the Regent's study at dawn."

I opened it.

It was a petition on thick cream paper, addressed to the Council of Wilton.

It asked the Council to name Percival Courtenay Regent of the kingdom.

It asked them to hold the king's daughter for trial.

At the foot of it were sixty-three signatures.

All of them were dated the night my father died.

I looked up.

The line of black coats had gone very quiet.

"They signed it the night he died," I said. "Before my father was cold."

"We were told it was only a formality," the old man said.

"Which one of you read it?"

Nobody spoke.

"Which one of you asked where I was?"

A woman near the end began to cry.

I held the petition up so that the wind took it.

"Every name on this," I said, loud enough to reach the gates, "was written while I ran through a kitchen tunnel."

The wolves of three Houses made one long, low noise.

"By the law of the Courtenays," I said, "a family that stands against its king's blood kneels before the pack.

"It also pays a year's rents to the Moonhall."

"Majesty, please," said the old man.

"You will kneel here. Now. In front of every wolf in Wilton."

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