Inheritance

by Simon Brown

  “Did you think I was bald, child?” the queen asked suddenly, noticing his presence and the direction of his gaze.

  “I did not know it was so beautiful,” he answered honestly, and then blushed. He knew his mother did not like blandishments, but this time she surprised him by smiling, making him blush even more.

  Usharna looked closely at each of her children, then rested her head back and closed her eyes.

  “Mother?” Berayma asked, taking one of her hands in his. “Are you in pain?”

  She opened her eyes and shook her head. “No. Just tired. More tired than I have ever been before. I am tired of living.”

  “Don’t say that, your Majesty,” said Orkid’s deep voice. He appeared from the room’s shadows to stand behind Lynan. “Your devoted subjects don’t want you to leave them.”

  The chancellor brushed past Lynan and took up Usharna’s other hand.

  Orkid tried to make his patriarchal face, with its full black beard and beaked nose, look as sympathetic as possible, but he could not help glowering at the dying woman. “No more talk of being too tired for life.”

  “If it was up to you, Orkid, I’d outlive my own children,” she remonstrated. “Fortunately, nature has been kind enough to let me avoid that disaster.” Orkid opened his mouth to reply, but Usharna lifted her hand in a command of silence. “I have little time left, and there’s much to be said.”

  She drew in a deep breath and her eyelids fluttered with weariness. “Bring me the Keys,” she ordered.

  Harnan Beresard came to the queen, a wooden casket in his hands. He opened the lid and gently placed the casket on the queen’s lap. Usharna reached into it and retrieved the four glimmering, golden Keys of Power, each on its own thick silver chain.

  She glanced up to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “Now is the time custom insists I declare my successor. Let it be known that on my death, my firstborn, Berayma, will take my place on the throne, and his descendants will rule after him.”

  Those in the room gave an audible, collective sigh of relief. It was done. Such a public declaration guaranteed a peaceful succession, something the entire kingdom prayed for near the end of a monarch’s life. The number of witnesses present guaranteed the succession would not come into dispute.

  “I have four children,” Usharna began, “all accomplished, and the kingdom can ill-afford to lose so much talent. Against the advice of some, who would have me pass on all the Keys to my successor as I received all the Keys from my father, I will maintain the tradition of our family and pass them on to all my children. Accepting a Key implies swearing fealty to Berayma as head of the family and as the rightful ruler of Kendra. The Key will remain with the bearers until their deaths, when they will be returned to Berayma, or until the death of Berayma, when his successor will determine their possession.”

  Usharna paused to catch her breath, her eyes red with exhaustion.

  “You must sleep, Mother,” Berayma insisted, patting her hand. “We will come back in the morning.”

  She feebly shook her head. “No time, my son. My past is catching up with me. I had the good fortune to enjoy the pleasure and company of three husbands, but the poor judgment to outlive them all.”

  Her bony hands scrabbled at the Keys, and she looked at Berayma. “As king, you must have the Monarch’s Key,” she said, and gave him a star-shaped piece with a thick rod fixed in its center. “The Key of the Scepter,” she intoned, her voice seeming to gather sudden strength.

  Berayma seemed unsure what to do with it. “Put it on, Berayma,” Usharna insisted. He slipped the silver chain over his head, the Key resting against his broad chest. “That’s fine,” she said, and patted his shoulder.

  She took hold of a second Key, a square with two crossed swords pierced by a single spear. She handed it to Areava. “My second-born, you will have the Key of the Sword. Grenda Lear will look to you for protection against our enemies.” Areava bowed and stepped back a pace.

  “Olio,” the queen continued, waving him forward, “you are the gentlest of your siblings, and perhaps the least understood. You will have the Healing Key, the Key of the Heart.” There was a quiet murmur in the room, which Usharna silenced by looking up sharply. “It is said that this Key holds the greatest magic of all. Perhaps it is true, but if so its power is one of creation, not coercion.” She handed the Key, a triangle holding the design of a heart, to Olio. He stepped away from the bed, fingering his gift curiously.

  Usharna now looked back at Lynan, and her eyes seemed to soften. Lynan swallowed hard and resisted the temptation to move out of her line of sight. He had rarely been the focus of her undivided attention.

  “Poor Lynan, lastborn, you shall have the last Key.” Lynan moved forward until he was touching the bed. Usharna’s left hand crossed over to hold his in a firm, cold embrace. “I wish my hand was warmer,” she said softly so that no one else could hear. “As warm as my heart whenever I think of you.” With her right hand she passed him the remaining Key, a simple, golden circle.

  Lynan nervously placed the chain over his head. The Key was surprisingly heavy against his chest. He thought he could feel everyone’s gaze fixed on his face. He looked around and saw that it was so, except for Orkid who stared strangely at the Key itself. A shiver passed down his spine.

  “The Key of Union,” Usharna announced. “With this you represent the kingdom’s commonwealth. You will be the king’s representative to all our peoples.”

  The queen fell back against her pillows, her hands collapsing by her sides. Berayma and Olio were pushed away by Trion, her personal surgeon. He felt her pulse and temperature. “She has no other duties,” he said somberly. “She needs to sleep now. Everyone must leave.”

  Berayma nodded and led everyone from the room. Besides his family, Orkid, Trion and Dejanus, there were nurses, attendants, and guards, including Kumul. They had all been standing quietly to attention against the walls, watching with fascination as power was passed from the dying queen to her four children.

  The thought made Lynan frown. Power? What would he do with the Key of Union? He wasn’t even sure he wanted it.

  When they were all in the hall outside, Berayma ordered Kumul to set two guards at the door, and then advised everyone to return to their quarters.

  “We all have much to consider,” he said in his low monotone. “Grenda Lear has not seen such changes for a generation.” He looked down uncertainly on Lynan as he said the last sentence. “But I’m sure our mother knows what she’s doing. Age may have made her weary, but it will not have affected her mind, of that we can be sure.”

  “She won’t live through the night, will she?” Olio asked, his voice tight.

  “Enough of that,” Areava said as kindly as possible, putting a comforting hand on Olio’s shoulder. “It will do no good to think such thoughts.”

  Olio’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Wait! I hold the Healing Key—”

  “I can see where your thoughts are leading you, your Highness,” Harnan interrupted, “but you must understand the nature of what the queen has done. She wielded the Key of the Heart herself, and it will have no effect on her now that she has surrendered it. Death is not a sickness for her, it is a relief and an ending.” The old man blinked back tears as he spoke, and when he had finished, he hurried away.

  Lynan felt a lump in his throat, so he quickly turned away from the others so they could not see his sorrow. They had shared little with him before, and he was damned if he was going to share his grief with them now. He was confused by the strange emotions he was feeling. He had loved his mother after a fashion, the way a servant might love a good mistress, but they had never been close.

  The gift of the last Key, and her few kind words, had sharply reminded him of his loneliness and unhappiness as a child. Why now, Mother, when it’s all too late?

  “I will see you all tomorrow,” he told the others. Berayma and Areava stared after him, the brother they had never before truly considered a br
other at all.

  Lynan fell asleep in his clothes, so when he was woken by Pirem for a second time that morning he felt uncomfortably cramped and pinched. Wan sunlight filtered through his room’s only window high in the eastern wall.

  “What news, Pirem?” he asked, shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of interrupted sleep.

  “I regret to have to be the one to tell you, your Highness, but your mother, Queen Usharna, is dead.”

  Lynan felt numb. “When?”

  “Within the last few minutes. Word is being sent to your siblings right now. You must gather again at her bedside.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Pirem.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, your Highness?”

  Lynan shook his head. Why don’t I feel anything? What is wrong with me? “I will call you if I need anything.”

  Pirem bowed and made to leave but Lynan suddenly called him back. “Tell me, did you love the queen?”

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  “Was she loved by the people?”

  “Those I knew, your Highness.” Pirem looked curiously at Lynan. “An’ respected,” he added. “She was loved an’ respected. We’ve had a prosperous and largely peaceful quarter century. A people cannot ask for more. Is there anything else, your Highness?”

  Lynan shook his head and Pirem left. How much better simply to have been one of her subjects, he thought.

  Chapter 8

  It was a golden morning. Sunlight poured through the windows in Berayma’s chambers. Around him, servants and courtiers fussed over his robes and accouterments, making sure everything was in its right place and hung in the right way. His garments were resplendent, as befitted Grenda Lear’s new king, even though he was being dressed to attend his own mother’s funeral. Conversations were going on all around him, a constant background hum of human noise.

  He stood ramrod-stiff, arms out straight as a cloak was pulled behind him. He closed his eyes.

  Not now, he told himself. You cannot cry in front of all of these people. You would shame her memory.

  He swallowed hard. Everything he did, everything he thought, reminded him of his loss. Since the death of Usharna the morning before last, there had been no time to grieve alone. He understood that this was part of his duty now, to ensure a peaceful and rapid succession, but he longed desperately to have half an hour alone by his mother’s white corpse, to let himself indulge in his own feelings one last time without concern for the kingdom’s greater good, the kingdom’s greater need.

  I am being swallowed up, he thought unhappily, and squeezed his eyes tighter against the tears. No more grieving. Not now. Not ever.

  Areava breathed deeply as she strode determinedly down the hallway. She had been dressed for over an hour, but despite her heavy mourning clothes and the bright sun, she was cold. Her hands felt like lumps of ice. She fondled the Key of the Sword, found it ironic that she should be wearing it formally for the first time while garbed in clothes most unsuitable for war.

  Oh, God, Mother, why did you leave us now? The kingdom still needs you.

  She entered Olio’s chambers without knocking. Servants, flocking around her brother like robins around a piece of bread, bowed to her and continued with their work.

  Olio eyed her steadily. “You still m-m-mean to continue with your p-p-plan?”

  The servants stopped what they were doing for an instant, their minds registering an opportunity for some palace gossip. Olio told them to leave. “I am almost ready. I can finish the rest myself.”

  When they were alone, Olio repeated his question. Areava strode to his dresser, picked up the Key of the Heart and with some stiffness placed it around his neck. “There, that’s better.”

  “You are wrong in this, sister,” Olio breathed, careful to keep his voice down.

  Areava nodded. “Perhaps. But I know no other way to resolve the issue.”

  “It is only an issue for you,” Olio responded, avoiding her gaze.

  “No, brother, it is an issue for every citizen of the kingdom. The great families are great for a reason. They are destined to rule. We are all bred for it, trained from birth to take up the reins of running a kingdom.”

  “You forget—you always forget—that Lynan shares our m-m-mother’s b-b-blood.”

  “I do not forget. You once accused me of hating him. You are wrong. I do not hate him. I don’t even hold it against him that his father replaced our father as the queen’s consort. But the kingdom must retain its strength and vitality, and it can only do that if those in power are true to their bloodline.”

  “You take a great risk. Lynan m-m-may p-p-prove to be worthy—”

  “Olio, listen to me! This is not about Lynan!” Her words were sharp, and Olio stepped back. He looked down at the floor. She reached out to hold him by the shoulders, brought him close. “Poor, timid Olio, do not be afraid of me. Of all in this world I care for, I care for you the most.”

  Olio relaxed in her arms, returning her embrace. “I know, and will never forget it.”

  Areava sighed deeply and held her brother tightly for a moment more before releasing him. She lifted him with one hand and looked him directly in the eye. “Everything I do, I do for Grenda Lear. I am devoted to this kingdom and its peoples. I do not love them the way I love you or Berayma, but my life is theirs. I am born to serve, to serve by doing my duty as the daughter of Queen Usharna. This is not about Lynan, but about tradition, about the future, about what is right.”

  Olio had no more arguments. He nodded, surrendering to her. “Very well. Do as you m-m-must. B-b-but take care, sister. Usharna is dead, and a new order has arrived. For your sake, I hope your vision for Kendra is a p-p-part of it.”

  “It is up to us to make sure it is,” she said evenly, and left him to finish his preparations for the funeral.

  Lynan studied himself carefully in the full-length dress mirror. He wore gray woolen trousers, the ends tucked into his favorite boots—polished so brightly by Pirem that they were hardly recognizable—a white linen shirt with fashionably wide cuffs, and a short black jacket. His sword, sheathed in a metal dress scabbard, hung from gold rings attached to his finest leather belt. The Key of Union hung shining around his neck.

  He noticed with some regret that although his clothes looked noble and dashing, his own physique still left a lot to be desired. He was shorter than average, and he suspected he was not going to grow much taller; by all repute, his father had been no taller than Lynan was now. At least his shoulders were straight and strong, and would become wider with age. But his torso appeared too long for his legs, and his neck too frail for the generous head perched upon it. His face was too round, too boyish still, to be considered handsome, and was topped with mousy brown hair.

  “Well?” Pirem demanded impatiently.

  “It’s fine. Stop worrying.”

  Pirem snorted and told his charge to turn around. He attacked the youth with a clothes brush, using stiff, heavy strokes that stung Lynan’s skin. When the old servant had finished, he stood back to admire his handiwork. “You’ll do,” he said in a resigned tone which suggested that no amount of extra work would improve things anyway.

  Lynan nodded his thanks and left to join his siblings in the palace’s great hall from where the royal mourning entourage would begin its march through Kendra to Usharna’s funeral pyre near the harbor. He was the last to arrive, and Berayma stared reprovingly at him as he hurried to his position next to Areava and Olio and behind the new king. In front of Berayma stood Dejanus—now Berayma’s Life Guard—and the court sergeant. Behind Lynan was the queen’s bier, a simple wooden frame garlanded with hundreds of flowers. The bier was flanked on one side by priests led by Primate Giros Northam and on the other side by the five malefici, leaders of the theurgia, the magic circles of air, water, earth, fire, and stars, led by their superior, the Magicker Prelate Edaytor Fanhow. The bier was followed by a hundred-strong escort of the Royal Guard led by Kumul; the other nine hundr
ed guards were already posted along the route to the harbor, under the command of Ager. Next came all the foreign ambassadors and provincial consuls, chief of whom was Prince Sendarus. None of the kingdom’s minor rulers had been able to reach Kendra in time for the funeral. The rear of the entourage, led by Orkid looking even more severe and threatening than usual in his black mourning gown and hood, was brought up by various government officials and visiting dignitaries of lesser rank.

  Berayma nodded to the leader of the court musicians waiting at the exit of the great hall. Trumpets blared, cymbals crashed, and the procession got under way.

  It was a long march of nearly five leagues, planned to take the queen on a last inspection of her royal city. The court musicians kept a hundred paces in front, heralding the arrival of the entourage with a loud, military dirge. People thronged the streets, hung out of windows, and leaned over balconies, waving black handkerchiefs and wailing as they saw their queen for the last time, lying white and pale on her bier.

  The first district they passed through, on the heights between the palace and the city proper, belonged to Kendra’s wealthier and better-born citizens, in particular, members of the Twenty Houses. Tall stone-and-glass mansions glittered in the morning sun like giant jewels, surrounded by reserves of tall headseeds and stripe trees, resplendent in their summer dress. Farther down the slope the buildings became less grand and closer together, separated by formal gardens rather than glades. This was where the city’s older families lived, those without claims to nobility but who strove to move upward socially and away from Kendra’s growing middle class, whose quickly expanding district surrounded the city in a great semicircle, the ends anchored on the harbor shore. At last, the procession passed under the old city wall. The streets became narrower and darker, the tops of houses drooping toward each other and forming a sort of open archway. Most of these structures were centuries old and made of wood and mud and reed bricks. Fires in these quarters were common and difficult to control, but the people born here—merchants, craft workers and entertainers—would live nowhere else, for they believed they formed the heart of Kendra and therefore the heart of the kingdom itself.