Images start to blur when we arrive at the Cathedral of St. Florian, where all of the Varenhoffs have been crowned since Arkady in 1475. More trumpets. Climbing the steps behind my parents, the shouts of the crowd now unintelligible. There is no smiling and waving now. We are serious in the undertaking.

At some point, deBatz disappears, and I flounder for a moment. But I'm not about to let anyone think I can't function without him. Inside the cathedral, I nearly jump out of my skin when Basric appears, as if by magic, to take my cap and fasten a red velvet and ermine cape to my shoulders. Its weight drags on me. A prince in robes of ermine. All that's missing is the crown, and that's waiting at the end of the aisle.

Three bishops in embroidered cassocks stand before us and mutter blessings and prayers in deep rumbling voices. One of them asks, "Who seeks to enter this holy place?"

My father says, "Your servant, Ivor."

Music erupts from the vast organ in the loft above our heads, molten music, shaking the ancient stones, vibrating through the soles of my boots. Two little boys in white lace and red satin carry pots of incense down the aisle of the nave. The assembled representatives of the world's governments and Rovenian dignitaries stand and turn to witness the official restoration of the Varenhoff dynasty. I follow my parents, keeping my eyes on the edge of my father's train. As long as I can see it, I know I'm not stepping on it. That's all that matters at this point.

In the nave, I find my spot, marked by a tiny piece of blue tape deBatz had placed for me, and watch my father kneel and pledge himself to his country. The familiar cathedral seems transformed, different from Sunday mass. Swirling with sounds, lights, smells, charged by the heavy symbolism of the ceremony. DeBatz explained it all to me, but I can't remember what any of it means now.

A bishop steps forward and buckles a sword about my father's waist, withdraws it and offers it to my father. He kisses the sword and offers it back to the bishop, who places it on the altar, then returns it to my father, who passes it to the high commander of the armed forces. The same ritual takes place with the staff of government, which he surrenders to the Prime Minister. This part I understand. Proof that this is all a sham.

Throughout the ceremony, my father is constantly asked to reaffirm who and what he is. His reply is always the same. "Ivor, your servant."

Finally, all three bishops surround him and lower the crown onto his head. Inside, the crowd is still and silent, but from outside in the square where the ceremony is being broadcast on two large screens, we hear the muffled cheers of "Ivor! Ivor!" The newly crowned king stands and takes a smaller crown offered to him. He stands in front of my mother, and holds the crown over her head as she kneels in front of him.

"Marie-Alexandra, chosen consort of the house of Varenhoff, we dedicate you to the service of the people of Rovenia."

I watch my mother rise out of the gleaming white pool of her dress. The light from the windows and the candlelight catches the jewels in her crown and the thousands of tiny glass beads on her dress so that she glows, like something unearthly. It's almost hard to look at her.

My father stands in front of me, a small golden circlet set with uncut sapphires in his hands. My crown. It's the first time I've seen it. I stare at it. If we had never lost the throne-if my father had become king when Grandfather died-I would have received this crown in a separate ceremony on the day I turned thirteen. Would it have been easier to accept it then?

"Kneel," my father whispers.

I drop to my knees, my head bent, and stare at my father's boots.

"Alexei Nikolas Tibor Ivorovich Varenhoff, our son and rightful heir, are here crowned Prince of Rovenia, to serve and to honor as long as you may live."

The band of the crown settles about my head. It's warm and heavy. My father holds out his hand to help me up. I stand and look into his face. He looks tired underneath the outlandish crown, with its purple cap and crusting of jewels. He leans forward, grabs my shoulders with both of his hands and presses his cheek against mine.

"It isn't too heavy?" he whispers.

I shake my head, too startled to speak. He releases me and turns away.

A bishop steps forward and announces, "I present to you Ivor, chosen of God!"

The music and singing ring out again, reverberating through the granite as though the stones have joined in. I follow my parents down the aisle and out into the sunshine, the crown on my head a tangible symbol of ownership. I am no longer my own. I'm pledged to the people cheering below us. Why they want me, I still don't understand.

Excerpted from Raising the Griffin byMelissa Wyatt Copyright© 2004 by Melissa Wyatt. Excerpted by permission of Wendy Lamb Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.