by Ellyn, Court
He headed to the gatehouse to inform Captain Hansyn to expect a new recruit tomorrow and to make an arrest if the man didn’t show. The new garrison captain had served as sergeant of Briar Tower until the ogres burned it. When their commander was killed, Hansyn had rallied the survivors and gotten them to safety at Whitewood. For the duration of the Ogre War, he and his men had defended the north end of the Nathrachan bridge. Like a tramp, he’d come seeking a household who needed him. Kelyn liked him. He appeared to be stern, disciplined, but not heartless.
“Pitiful sods,” Hansyn said when he learned of the hungry family’s predicament and his duty toward them. “I’ll see it done, m’ lord.”
Afterward, Kelyn made a presence about the rest of the castle grounds, learning the names of his new stablemaster, the smith, the groundskeepers, and their families. He was sweating by then, though the cold wind whisked snow down his collar. Too many folk asked if was well. “Recovering,” he told them with forced cheerfulness.
Rhoslyn, bless her, had them all believing that the extreme stress of his command had made him ill. He owed her much for lying so effectively in his defense. And for overseeing the repairs. The scent of new wood and fresh paint swirled in the gray wind, though each strike of a hammer drove a spike of agony through his brain.
Rhoslyn was upstairs packing for her return to Windhaven. He missed her already. Regret would be his bed partner until spring. Kethlyn would join her, if the election allowed. And Carah? Would she come home?
Kelyn thought of a new chess set and ached with emptiness.
A voice shouted. Someone was calling his name.
He broke off conversation with the new head gardener. Rounding the bulk of the Great Hall, he found Rhoslyn approaching with Kethlyn and Laral in tow. Eliad ran from the stables and caught up.
“These fool friends of yours appear to have news,” Rhoslyn announced, still working her fingers into her gloves, “but they won’t tell me a thing.”
“Better to tell it only once, Your Grace,” Laral said.
He and Eliad beamed, joy dancing in their eyes.
Kethlyn was a gray-green hue, as if the jolting of his carriage had made him nauseous. He hugged his father; he was shaking. From cold? “Thank the Mother you’re sober. You look like something the dog puked up. Like son like father, eh?” He laughed thinly, nervously.
“Let me guess,” Kelyn said, “you got sick of the backstabbing and fled. Off to hunt?”
“Election’s over,” Eliad said.
Kethlyn groaned. “Da, I’m sorry, it wasn’t my idea.”
Eliad and Laral nudged each other, and together they descended to a knee and bowed their heads.
Kelyn rolled his eyes. He had no tolerance for their sick sense of humor. “You’re funny. So? Tell me.”
“The vote was nearly unanimous,” said Laral. “Your Majesty.”
“Rorin refused to raise his hand,” Eliad added. “Er, sire.”
“Like hell I would vote for you,” Kethlyn exclaimed. “I’m your damn heir!”
It was his son’s agitated pacing that convinced Kelyn this was no joke.
Rhoslyn hooted, then slapped a hand over her mouth.
Kelyn seized the front of Laral’s doublet and tore him from his knees. “You didn’t! Damn you, you didn’t!” He drove a toe into Eliad’s thigh. “Get up, you idiot.”
Rhoslyn began wringing her hands, laughter gone. Reality settled fast; her cheeks blanched. “Oh, oh, oh. This comes from not being there ourselves.”
Kelyn shoved his treacherous friends away from him. “Go back and un-vote me. You sorry sons of—”
“You’re the only one!” Laral insisted. “Only you unify us.”
“Stop! Goddess’ sake, stop.” Panic surged. Kelyn laced his hands into a fist and smashed them to his mouth. He plummeted into darkness and a mountain crashed down over him. His chest tightened, refused to draw breath. Terror swarmed. Emptiness. Flailing. Alone. He couldn’t hope to command men again. Not now, not ever. He was finished. And a kingdom? No, no, no.
Where was Kieryn when he needed him? What would his brother say? What would he do? Laugh, that’s what. Better you than me. Aye, that’s what the scoundrel would say.
The onyx on his finger winked at him.
Kelyn broke into doleful, angry laughter and glared sidelong at his friends. They stood abashed, like naughty children waiting for the hand of punishment to thunder down. “So help me, you’ll pay. Both of you. If my quiet days are over, by the Goddess so are yours.”
Despite the threat, Laral grinned. “As it please you, sire.”
~~~~
43
The coronation took place on the day of the Turning Festival. The briefest day of the year, but the one that signified renewal as night began to shorten and spring approached. The roads and eves of Bramoran were wet with the memory of snow. The sky echoed the color of the cerulean banners that snapped atop the keep. Happy people packed the streets. Pennants flew from every rooftop. Streamers crisscrossed the streets. Musicians competed on the corners. Plazas filled with dancers and the scent of meat pies, pastries, and spilled beer.
The revels were scheduled to continue for seven days in honor of the occasion. Horse races were forthcoming, sheep races for the children, fire dancers and ribbon acrobats. Market Square was to accommodate the People’s Ball. Byrn the Blue had agreed to judge a bardic competition. A choir of a hundred singers was rumored, as well as some kind of performance in which two dozen doves were trained to fly in formation.
There was not a single martial display on the schedule. Not one archery tournament. Not one axe toss. Nor a joust, nor a melee. War had, for the time being, lost its appeal.
At noon, bells clanged an announcement. Horns blared a summoning. The crowds broke off their merriment and raised their ale-and-joy-flushed faces toward the castle.
The cerulean banners, those boasting the black falcon, were descending their poles. In their place rose a black banner bright with a blood-red falcon. Thunderous cheers erupted.
Inside the castle, Kelyn cringed at the ringing of the bells. “That’s our cue, I’m afraid.”
Secluded in the private study off the Audience Chamber, Rhoslyn fidgeted with her gown, a beaded masterpiece of golden samite. Around her throat, she wore her string of garnets, the same she had worn when she wed. She patted her elaborate coiffure, pinched her cheeks, and muttered confidence to herself.
Kethlyn heaved himself out of an armchair and snatched the crimson pillow he was to carry. “Let’s get this over with.”
Foreman Dagni, wearing the livery of the royal treasury, carried forth a glass-sided case. Her assistant lifted out a crown and set it carefully upon the pillow; though he wore white gloves, he whipped out a kerchief and dusted off his touch.
Kelyn had to admit, the crown was a splendid thing. With Valryk being sung a villain in every tavern between the Drakhans and the Great Fire Sea, no one had wanted to recreate the old Falcon Crown. Its ingot was used to make something entirely new. A circle of golden falcons paraded atop the intricately etched band, each feather, each crease of beak and talon masterfully detailed. Outstretched wings touched at the tips, their faces turned in profile, a ruby for each eye.
“Damn thing weighs as much as a horse,” Kethlyn grumbled.
“Will it break my neck?”
“ ‘Our’ neck, dearest,” Rhoslyn said. “The king is all of us. Thus, you are ‘we’.”
“I am ‘I’ if I say I am,” Kelyn retorted. Wasn’t his identity threatened enough? He would take a new name today, and no one would ever again call him Lord Ilswythe or War Commander. Today he was to be reborn, and he feared he would never feel comfortable in his new skin and dreaded the day that he did.
Not understanding his sorrow, Rhoslyn chuckled at his outburst.
“And don’t laugh.” Kelyn turned his back to a chamberlain who hauled in a long length of velvet. “No one laughs at a king.” A twinge of mischief teased a grin from him. “I
finally outrank you, woman.”
Rhoslyn groaned in disgust. “You’ll abuse your power yet.”
“You’ll see that I don’t.”
“Aye, I’ll happily box your ears for you. I don’t care what you’re wearing on your head.”
The chamberlain and his two assistants laid the cloak across Kelyn’s shoulders. If the crown weighed as much as a horse, the cloak outweighed a house. The black velvet stretched six feet behind him. Halfway down, a cascade of blood-red garnets gave way to crimson rubies, and those to a sprinkling of diamonds. Snowy ermine lined the hem and every inch of the underside. Silver clasps encrusted with pearls secured the monstrous weight across his chest. Beneath it, he wore red silk, stiff and luminous. Not a scrap of cerulean in sight.
He took a step toward the door. The cloak hauled him backward as effectively as an anchor on a boat. Rhoslyn caught him by the arm and tugged him forward. “Goddess help me,” he grumbled, “I’ll drown by day’s end.”
A footman swept open the study door. The Audience Chamber vaulted ahead, bright with light glinting from crystal chandeliers. A silver horn blared. Whispers cut short. Highborns rose to their feet. In the gallery overhead, a choir hummed a divine euphony.
Jaedren and three other squires waited on hand. They lifted the train of the cloak as Kelyn passed, relieving much of its weight. He advanced up the aisle at half his normal stride. The highborns bowed their heads, but their eyes peered.
Kelyn found Laral among the enclave of Fierans and mouthed, “Revenge.”
On his left, Rhoslyn followed half a step behind, her face immobile alabaster, chin lofty, eyes downturned. An effective posture—she was transformed into something untouchable, holy.
Kethlyn brought up the rear, conveying the crown on the crimson pillow. It might’ve been Kelyn’s imagination, but he swore he heard his son sigh in protest of all this fuss.
Carah stood where she said she’d be. Halfway up the dais. What rustlings she had caused when she rejected the title of Her Royal Highness. “It would be wrong, Da,” she’d said. “I’m avedra. You have an heir. If something should happen to Kethlyn or his children, then and only then will I take up that burden. Understand, Da, it would be too easy for me to get my own way.”
“But you would’ve married Arryk?” Kelyn had argued.
A long while she’d remained silent, eyes gazing inward. “That’s a question that no longer needs answering.”
Robed in silver, pearls in her hair, Carah shone like a celestial being. Her fist knotted around her uncle’s dragon-claw staff. There was no one in the room who dared doubt the roll she would play. Even now her eyes, narrow and militant, probed each highborn in turn, unapologetically seeking anyone bold enough, stupid enough to interrupt the ceremony or wish harm upon her family.
Her gaze lingered a long while on Daxon, who sulked beside his aunt.
One word from her and two score Red Mantles would swoop down upon an assassin. The royal guard bordered the Chamber, staunch as pillars, blood-red cloaks reaching to their ankles. Eliad occupied the position nearest the throne. When presenting him the offer, Kelyn had scoffed. “Spend time with your son? Hnh, I guess you’ll have to schedule it around your duties as captain of my guard. Brawl like a barbarian or get drunk on duty, and I’ll banish you to the Harenian desert.”
Kelyn’s surreptitious scan of the spectators gifted him a surprise. In the front row, a lady like moonlight turned a smile on him. Lyrienn. Beside her, in tailored silk rather than mossy suede, stood Laniel Falconeye. They had come for their love of Kieryn. They had come in the hope that friendship between human and Elari might not dwindle.
Kelyn realized he had come to a standstill. He dipped his chin in gratitude, then continued on to the dais.
Etivva stood below the throne, hands folded primly, linen robes starched as stiff as paper, polished head reflecting lamplight like an aura.
Two pillows waited on the lowest step. Kelyn knelt on one, Rhoslyn on the other. The squires lowered the cloak to the floor and retreated. Kethlyn stood aside with the crown.
The shaddra spread her arms. “Friends! A new era has dawned. A new chance is given to us. Today, the Mother-Father sings with joy.”
She said beautiful things, rich in hope and promise, but Kelyn did not hear them. He gazed down at the onyx ring on his finger. How am I to do this without you?
With our help, Da. Carah was smiling at him.
Fear faded. He winked at her.
Etivva’s fingertips touched Kelyn under the chin, reclaiming his attention and raising his face. The touch was forbidden, intimate, and it was the last time she would ever do so. For with his next breath, he would cease being just a man. “Do you swear to uphold the laws of your lands,” she asked him, “to act for the benefit of your people, from this day forward until the moment of your death?”
He took the breath. “I do so swear.”
Kethlyn extended the pillow, and Etivva raised the crown high. “Then by the authority bestowed upon me by the Mother-Father of all, I crown you Kelryk, the Red Falcon, sovereign ruler over the lands of Aralorr and Evaronna.”
The crown alighted upon his brow, as cold as chains, as heavy as years.
~~~~
The dancing, the music, and laughter roared until dawn. During the first course of the banquet, Kelyn nearly incited disaster when he laid his hand over his wine goblet, preferring his reclaimed sobriety. In response, the footmen whisked away the decanters. All of them. A sigh of disappointment made a round of the banquet hall.
Kelyn realized his mistake and laughed at the absurdity. If he didn’t, they couldn’t. If he did, they must. Was he nothing but an elaborate puppet master with hundreds of strings attached to his fingers? Or might he think of himself as a gateway to bounty? He crooked a finger at the butler assigned to his chair and said, “I’ll take wine after all.”
After that, fine drink and elaborate cuisine made the rounds of the lower tables, and the people were appeased.
Kelyn occupied the center of the high table with Lord Raed on his right and Queen Da’era on his left. Not his first choice of company, a humorless statesman and a condescending girl, but Kelyn wasn’t in a festive mood anyway.
In fact, Raed unnerved him. Though the man didn’t stare, Kelyn had the distinct impression of being inspected, measured, judged. Almost a silent leaning-in of the man’s attention. Yes, I’m just a trumped-up soldier, he wanted to say, and so are you, Regent.
“Do you hunt, Raed?” he asked instead, hoping to break the spell.
“I do, sire. Arryk insisted on it.” Dropping the dead king’s name surprised Kelyn. Was Raed conducting a comparison? To what purpose?
I’m not required to make small talk, Kelyn realized and stopped forcing it.
A quick glance down one arm of the table gave him a glimpse of Kethlyn pointing, explaining the food, the entertainment, the place settings to Lyrienn. The Lady beamed with genuine delight at the oddity in human customs. Her brother had not stayed, citing a need to return to his trees. Though Kelyn suspected he merely missed his friend.
Twelve courses passed under the Red Falcon’s nose. Truffle soup and braided bread, spicy meat pies, glazed swan accompanied by a cadre of roasted doves, flaming puddings, almond-and-currant cakes, on and on. Each accompanied by its own wine. And all of which Kelyn was obliged to taste, or the dish went uneaten. How will I survive this, fit and sober?
Jugglers, mummers, and tumblers paraded before the highborns, goading them to laughter. A string of bards, strumming their best, hoped to snag a patron: more than half had composed a song featuring Kieryn Dathiel’s name. Tiresome.
But Kelyn was obliged to acknowledge them all, or the performers went unapplauded.
By the end of the second dessert course, the small of his back ached and his arse had grown numb. I’m not required to sit here like a monkey on display either. Kelyn moved to scoot back his chair, but the butler was already there, doing it for him. How did the man know?
Further down the table, between Lord Raed and Carah’s empty chair, sat Queen Briéllyn. She gazed at the tablecloth, lost to reverie. Kelyn perched on the empty chair, startling her.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I was delighted when I heard you meant to attend.”
“You may call me by my name now, Kelyn. Or am I to call you Kelryk?”
He wrinkled his nose. “I’ll sign with it, and the histories will record it, but among friends and family I’m still just me.”
She smiled with deep sadness. “I knew it would be you. When I could think again, when I could ponder what in the world we were going to do, I knew they would choose you.” She took up his hand, squeezed it with the desperation of a plea. “You loved my Rhorek. You understood him, honored him. You can bring back those days, can’t you?” The days before everything she cherished unraveled.
How could he make such a promise? “There is only going forward. But we will go forward together. Will you stay at Bramoran and sit on my council?”
Green eyes blinked at him in astonishment. “You … want me? After what Valryk…”
Kelyn waved away the rest. “I would value your experience. And getting back to work may be better than living alone with regret. Your son, my brother, we share that loss. Will you consider?”
She nodded, speechless.
Young people danced beyond the tables, near a cavalcade of open windows where a fresh wintry breeze cooled the sweat on their skin. Carah stood aside in her silver robe, watching them. Why did she not dance? Were the young men afraid of stepping on an avedra’s toes?
