Queen of the Blazing Throne

By Claire Legrand

In Kingsbane, you met Obritsa Nevemskaya—the mysterious child-queen of Kirvaya. Now, in this thrilling novella, learn more about Obritsa's story and how her fate became intertwined with those of Rielle, Audric, Ludivine, and Corien.

Twelve-year-old Obritsa is a temple maidservant, loyal to a novice firebrand who hopes to be named Queen of the Blazing Throne. When Kirvaya's magisters choose Obritsa as queen instead, the country erupts with fury.

But Obritsa doesn't care what they think. She has her own secrets, her own agenda—and outrage is the least of her problems. In the capital city, more children go missing every day. Whispers fly through the streets of a great danger brewing in the far north. And some Celdarian girl she's never heard of has been named Sun Queen.

As Obritsa unravels these mysteries, she soon realizes the war she thought she was fighting is part of something much bigger—a conflict centuries in the making—and that her power could decide who wins, and who loses.

Read about the events of Kingsbane through Obritsa's POV—and then get ready to see her again in Lightbringer along with all your favorite Empirium characters!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sourcebooks
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728238234

Claire Legrand

Claire Legrand is the author of Foxheart, The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls, The Year of Shadows, and Some Kind of Happiness, as well as the New York Times-bestselling young adult fantasy Furyborn and its sequels. She is one of the four authors behind The Cabinet of Curiosities. Claire Legrand lives in New Jersey.

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Copyright © 2020 by Claire Legrand

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Cover design by Nicole Hower/Sourcebooks

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

About the Author

1

Obritsa knew the flames had changed color when the other girls began to scream.

She looked up from the gown she was mending and watched the novices and their maidservants rush to the eastern windows. They crowded the glass, blessed and common alike—­some of them squealing, some bursting into tears, some staring silently, wide-­eyed. Hands covering their mouths, clutching their stomachs, fisted at their sides.

Past them, far across the Kirvayan capital city of Genzhar, the seven magisterial flames—­which had been burning golden for the past week while the magisters deliberated—­had turned a vivid scarlet.

The Magisterial Council had reached a decision.

And Obritsa, silently watching the chaos, was one of only two people in the temple who already knew their choice.

She would have to move, and quickly. It would take some time for the Grand Magister of the Pyre to make his way through the crowded capital streets to the temple, but there was much preparation to be done before then. And Obritsa would have to appear to be swept up in the mania of the day, or she would attract the wrong kind of attention.

No one could suspect her, not even for an instant, or everything she had been working toward would unravel, as would the efforts of the revolution.

But first, she allowed herself a few quiet breaths, alone and still in her dark corner. They would be some of the last she would enjoy as her familiar self—­Obritsa, orphan, twelve years old, maidservant to Yeva of the Mountains, resident of the Temple of Her Own Daughters. An unfriendly sort, the sestras had often remarked of Obritsa, gossiping when they assumed she was dutifully listening to Yeva prattle on about whatever nonsense had swooped into the girl’s head that day. A taciturn child, they said, and rather sour, but hard-­working, and excellent with a needle.

That, however, was the Obritsa of the temple—­the orphan, the servant, the overlooked.

Soon, she would become a different Obritsa entirely.

Yeva bounded past her. Obritsa! Hurry, we have to get ready!

Obritsa rose from her chair and followed Yeva’s bouncing, squealing form down the hallway to her room.

It was one of the tiny cruelties of the world that Obritsa had been assigned to serve the most outgoing novice in the House, the girl most prone to random outbursts of noise and feeling.

But Obritsa would not have to tolerate her for much longer.

As she followed Yeva into her room, Obritsa couldn’t help but glance up at Artem, standing guard beside the door.

Artem didn’t smile. He was too devoted to the revolution for his facade to crack even on this day. But Obritsa saw in his steady brown eyes the slightest spark of delight.

Obritsa carefully hid her own triumph beneath a deferential expression. Her pride in her guard was absolute; Artem had been preparing for this day even longer than she had, and now, at last, his devotion would be rewarded with the most important mission anyone in the revolution had ever been assigned.

Anyone, of course, besides Obritsa herself.

She helped Yeva dress and ornament herself—­gold baubles for her ears and wrists, rubies for her fingers. A velvet gown of deep crimson with intricate gold embroidery at the hems, and a heavy brocaded gold overlay with a silk sash that pinched thirteen-­year-­old Yeva’s tiny waist until she swooned. Over the past week, to achieve the shining platinum tresses that Saint Marzana had once boasted, Obritsa had painted Yeva’s dark hair with lightening paste until the girl had sobbed from the pain in her tingling scalp. Artem had been forced to hold down Yeva’s hands to keep her from shoving Obritsa away.

You want this, my lady, Obritsa had reminded her soothingly, drawing the brush along Yeva’s long, thick locks of dark hair. The acrid stench of the lightening paste had made Obritsa’s eyes water. "You want to be chosen. Don’t you?"

Yes, Yeva had answered, her voice wobbling, tears streaking her pale cheeks. I want it more than anything.

Yes, Yeva wanted it—­but for the wrong reasons, in Obritsa’s opinion. For the money, for the suitors, for the beautiful gowns and glittering midnight masquerades. Not to improve her homeland.

Not to liberate the countless people unlucky enough to be born without magic, trapped forever in service to Kirvaya’s powerful elemental elite.

Obritsa had glanced up at Artem, whose plain, placid face was the very picture of duty, and knew he was thinking the same thing.

And that is why we must remake you in Saint Marzana’s image, Obritsa had told Yeva. That is why we pray to her every night and light your seven candles to echo the seven temple fires. The magisters will see you in their smoke, so beautiful with your hair white as snow and a crown of flames surrounding you as you pray with your casting, and they will think of Our Lady Saint Marzana the Brilliant. They will fall desperately in love with you and choose you as our next queen.

Yeva had sniffed, looking up so trustingly that, for a moment, Obritsa had felt a distant kind of pity for the girl. Do you really think so, Britsa?

Obritsa had, as always, bristled at the shortening of her name. But she had continued working, her movements measured and gentle. I do, my lady. You are a powerful firebrand, a true daughter of Marzana.

Now, with the temple fires burning scarlet on the horizon, Obritsa stood behind Yeva and braided her stiff white hair. Once, she looked up at the mirror and saw Yeva gazing with ferocious envy at Obritsa’s own hair, which grew out of her scalp the pure white of high winter. Even though her skin was a light, sandy brown, while Saint Marzana’s had been pale, Obritsa’s delicate features, white hair, and keen hazel eyes were similar enough to the beloved Kirvayan saint to draw the attention of every eye that beheld her.

It was one of the reasons she had been chosen at the tender age of two to lead the oppressed human population of her country to revolution.

Obritsa tied the final golden cord to the ludicrous, elaborate mess of Yeva’s hair—­coiled braids and fine gold netting and pearl-­tipped pins.

Finished, she proclaimed. Your beauty would shame even Our Beloved Lady.

Britsa! Yeva looked back at her with wide eyes. That is unholy of you!

Forgive me, my lady. My excitement has gotten the better of me. Then, watching Yeva fuss over her hair in the mirror, Obritsa felt a slight twinge in her breast. She smoothed over the feeling at once, but Yeva, for all her foolishness, had quick eyes.

Britsa. Yeva turned, her painted lips red as fresh blood. She cupped Obritsa’s hands in her own and brought them gently to her heart, her eyes shining. "I’ll