Royal families are fascinating. The scandal, the protocols, the traditions ... the complete detachment from every day reality. You'll often find me with my nose buried in a royal biography, so when the opportunity to be part of this blog tour popped up, I was SO IN.
Check out this excerpt from Lissy Porter's The Throne of Ash.
And then there’s a new sound, a susurration as another figure sweeps into the Queen’s Hall, a man escorted by a woman adorned in clothing as ostentatious as the queen’s. She’s accompanied by, perhaps, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, wearing rich reds and deepest, darkest blacks beneath a head of thick black hair extending to his shoulders.
I hear my sister’s gasp at the sight of him, the silence distracting her from listening to the Royal Genealogist, and slowly, I allow myself to relax and to take a deep quivering breath and steady myself.
I’ve never been grateful to see Lady Jane of the House of Seacoal before. But she’s brought before my sister the very man who’s provided her with not one, but four vibrant daughters, in varying ages from still being held in the arms of her nurse, to a young girl not far from entering the arena for a Consort.
My sister has always hungered for him. There are few who haven’t, and Lady Jane now offers him freely on the stage for Choosing Day.
I know my sister will have him.
I take a shuddering breath and attempt to calm the beating of my heart. I shuttle sideways, desperate to be away from the horrible Throne of Ash. My sister no longer notes me but I see the Queen Mother shoot me a look filled with venom. I turn to my father, as well, and he beams brightly, content the moment of crisis is gone.
All other eyes are fashioned on my sister and the man who’s swept a deep bow, and now stands, poised, presenting himself as though an object for sale, which he is. While I’m grateful Harry’s no longer the focus of my sister’s attention, this new development is most unusual.
I chance a quick look at Harry, noting the puzzlement on his face, and the one of fury on Lady Alice’s. I’ll be having words with her after this, or rather when I have what I want, I’ll do so. These past few moments have assured me I’m pursuing the correct course of action. I can’t risk losing Harry. Never. The murmur of conversation has risen to a roar, and now I sense Lady Jane is up to something. She’s serene, immobile, apart from her eyes. She taunts my sister with them.
I swallow, and take a deep, calming breath. All isn’t as it seems. The Royal Genealogist speaks quietly to my sister, the original servant who knew about the House of Fish sent to the back of the line of three attendants. She’s the lesser of the Royal Genealogists, tasked with knowing the history of the lower noble Houses. And the most treasonous.
My sister’s hands are clenched tightly in her lap, I note, out of sight of all but those who attend her on the dais.
And then the queen stands, the movement smooth. I hear a little inhaled breath as she tenses her body in preparation for keeping upright with the weight of her elaborate clothing and jewels adorning her slight frame.
To either side, her personal body servants step close, ready to aid with the weight of her train and make it possible for her to walk.
I brace myself as well. This should only involve standing. My sister has made this altogether something else.
She sweeps down the three steps of the dais unaided, hands held together just below her breast. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t falter. She doesn’t so much as waver. Her body servants hurry to either side, bending and holding the rich fabric so it’s displayed to its full extent. They’ll be sweating shortly, their arms and legs straining with the action. I pity them, even as I do myself, as I incline my head towards the Queen Mother and then step. Fire sweeps up my ankles as the fabric of the shoe bites into them. I hold every part of my legs tight, determined to appear as regal as my sister.
For a moment, I focus only on myself, and not my sister’s intentions in abandoning her position. When I’m once more conscious of what’s happening, something’s already occurred.
My sister, despite the hiss from my mother, has abandoned all protocol. She stands too close to Lady Jane’s Consort. Not just close. No. My sister has her hand on his jerkin, as though to test the implied strength of his chest on display.
Few know my sister as well as I do but I detect how her breathing hurries. If I could see her neck, her pulse would be erratic. She’s lucky it’s protected by the high cut of her planket.
My eyes narrow. I know something must be done, or this lack of impropriety will ripple through the kingdom of Ash. All will know the Queen’s Face hides a true woman, with desires and wants - a full-blooded woman and not the facade of the Queen’s Face, the dragon mother, at all. The immobile and unchanging guardianship that’s protected and ruled this kingdom for not just decades, but centuries. Some histories would even say our line runs back to the Dark Times, an age without knowledge and light. An age of savagery before women took command, taming the dragon heat of such discord and harnessing the dragon mother within the dreaded Throne of Ash. In such a way, my ancestors exerted their calming influence over the many peoples of our island nation. In the process, banishing hot-headed males to the role of merely aiding in the procreation of the next generation. There are many legends of the heated shadows of our past, before the dragon mother came to rule all from her place atop the Throne of Ash.
I sense the glare of the Queen Mother, the gloating expression on Lady Jane’s face, and the drumming pulse of my sister.
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