CHAPTER TWO
The bier was a framework of gold and silver and iron; atop it, glistening in the rain, sat the long cedar wood box containing the purified body of King Evarris of the Athadian Empire.
Queen Yta stood with her family and royal entourage directly before the funeral bier. Around her swelled the respectfully hushed multitude. From the towering white-walled capital city resounded the loud braying of oliphants and the endless rumbles of bronze gongs.
Yta, tall, gray-haired, stately, as became the queen of the realm, stared upon the ocean of people. Hypocrites and sycophants she knew them to be—pompous and false, politicians and liars, gathered in the rainy mist of Death.
Death.…
She had not even been there when Evarris had succumbed, when his heart, suffocating, had screamed in his chest, ripping him with pain, stealing him from—
“My lady,” whispered Abgarthis. He was beside her, and lightly he touched her shoulder.
Abgarthis: old when Yta had first come to the palace as a happy-mad young bride.
“My lady.…”
“I am strong, Abgarthis. Listen to the priest.”
She did not care to do so—priests lie, some with great skill—but still, Yta turned toward the High Master of the Temple of Bithitu, who stood upon a platform before the bier and lifted his arms for the call to worship.
The ocean of people bowed their heads in waves.
“Divine watchers! Bithitu, Messenger and Prophet of the Eternal Ones! Look down now and lend your charity to us! O ye gods of high heavens, O Bithitu, who sits in judgment and knowledge, guide us.…”
Yta let her gaze travel to those close by her, her sons. There—Elad in his ceremonial robe, her eldest, too much like Evarris in his weak ways. Yta, with a mother’s ability and a queen’s insight, saw the usurper beneath the patient son and marveled at Elad’s skill in seeming penitent while a serpent waited in his heart.
And Cyrodian, beside him. Could he really be her son? Or had some incubus possessed her one night? Was he some changeling? His life was the army and the battlefield, even as Elad’s was the court and ceremony. Yet Cyrodian outdid his elder brother in cunning and in cruelty. Yta had heard from trusted sources that Cyrodian made new recruits to his squadron of retainers drink a bowl of blood before admitting them to his trust. The queen could believe such a thing of her second son.…
“Guidance!” called the high master. “Essa te porru ke anta bei usus! Guidance for our weeping empire! Guidance for the king of Athadia in his journey through the Valley of Shadows!”
“Guidance!” responded the chorus of thousands. “Guidance through the Valley of Shadows and safety in his journey across the Sea of Spirits!”
“Guidance…,” whispered Yta.
Dursoris, her third-born, lowered his head in prayer. Surely Dursoris was one of the few truly bitten today by the bitter serpent of sadness.
Standing not far from Dursoris was Orain, Cyrodian’s wife. What mockery that this beautiful, love-hearted woman should be married to the changeling son. A test of the gods? Yta, even at this moment of public grief, could not dissuade her heart from dwelling on her sons, for they must eventually inherit the empire, even as she must inherit the corpse of that empire’s monarch.…
“Itsusu!” cried the high master. “Grant peace! Grant strength! Grant guidance! Elmethu! Essusu!”
“Itsusu…,” whispered Yta. “Peace.…”
Or was it as folklore contended—that the firstborn is ambition, the second is anger, the third, hope?
“Essusu! Grant guidance to him who gave guidance to his children of field and tribe and town, the children of the endless empire!”
Itbosi di anta bei rarum. Children of the endless empire.…
Trumpets sounded, unnerving Yta for a moment, followed by the mad, ugly braying of the oliphants and the resonant ache of temple gongs. Too much noise, too many prayers. Yta could not read the harmony or the honesty in any of it.
She saw that Orain, overcome, had begun to weep. Galvus, Orain’s son, gripped one of her hands. Far across from them, Cyrodian, husband and father, paid no attention.
Yta looked upon Galvus. He was tall, like his mother, and handsome. Fifteen, and perilously close to manhood. He and Evarris had shared a simple, direct love, the pure affection, unalloyed, that can come between the very young and the very old. Between grandfather and grandson, wisdom and eagerness. Life without pretense, without deception.
As though that were possible.…
“Itsusu!” cried the priest, unstoppering an ornate wine jug and pouring a libation upon the cedar wood box.
“Peace,” whispered Yta, fearful of soul, afraid to look beyond the master to the naked raining skies with their promise of eternal sunlessness. For the gods were here, surely, staring down at her with her own eyes, seeing into her bruised heart, knowing her anguish, her fear.
Not fear of death. Fear of life.
Not fear for Evarris; he was safe. But fear of his sons.
Not fear of Bithitu or his gods, but fear of a far older prophecy.
The high master motioned to the ring of Khamars, the palace guard, perfect in their solemnity, who circled the bier. Each one held a flaming torch. At the priest’s gesture, the Khamars turned and dropped their torches into the kindling at the base of the bier.
The fire caught quickly and flames leapt high, jumping up the metal framework to the wine-soaked cedar casket. Yta looked, looked away. Gusts of damp wind whipped the inferno, making fast, slapping sounds that boomed across the plain. Thick billows of scented black and gray smoke lifted to touch the clouds, the seat of the gods.
“Sia bu sulula!” chanted the master. “Mercy upon all things!”
“Mercy upon all things!” answered the crowd of congregants, as one.
“Mercy…,” whispered Queen Yta to herself.
Not fear of Bithitu or his gods, but fear of a far older prophecy, fear as old as flame and wine, as old as guilt.…