CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“FEASTING OFF THE DEAD”

Four days later, on the Feast of Saint Noumérianos, a state funeral was held at Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral in Paltyrrha for the repose of the souls of the patriarch and the great lords of Kórynthia who had perished in the recent war. The returning Kórynthi army had finally reached Borgösha two days before, and the pickled bodies of the royals had been rushed to Myláßgorod, and then transited straight to the church in Paltyrrha. The service was presided over by Metropolitan Timotheos, acting in his ca­pacity as Locum Tenens of the Holy Church.

Each of those being mourned was solemnly blessed in turn, his place in paradise being officially assured, be­ginning with the old Patriarch, Avraäm iv, as well as the deceased members of the Holy Synod, and continuing with Prince Nikolaí, King Humfried, Prince Ezzö, and Prince Pankratz. The body of Prince Norbert had not been recovered, having been ritually disemboweled and quar­tered, the parts being sent to all the major cities of Pom­merelia for display, but a symbolic casket had been set out for him, and it would be interred with the rest of his fam­ily. A second funeral mass would be held for the deceased Forellës in Bolémia on the following day.

The Dowager Queen Brisquayne, standing in the second row next to Princess Arizélla, spoke quietly into her ear.

“Where’s Teréza’s bier?” she asked.

The princess glanced quickly around, then spoke out of one corner of her mouth: “The synod’s divided over burying her in consecrated ground. Some of the old fuss­budgets are calling her a suicide, and Timotheos isn’t will­ing to fight them until an election is held.”

“Don’t they understand she was mad with grief?” the queen whispered.

“All they know is that she was dancing bare-assed on top of the Tower of Glass, and then splattered herself all over the pavement down below, in full view of an impres­sionable little girl.” Arizélla shook her head slightly. “I expect they’ll bury her quietly up in Bolémia.”

“Well, I for one want to be there,” Brisquayne stated.

“So do I,” the princess agreed.

Someone behind them whispered “Shhhh!” al­though when Arizélla turned around, no one would catch her eye.

Afterwards, the congregation would normally have been led forward to view the bodies, but given the rather charred state of the Forellës, the Locum Tenens had decreed that all the caskets be left closed. Instead, the celebrants were paraded past a small memorial to all the dead, and asked to donate funds towards the construction of a much larger structure celebrating the deceased of Killingford. Over a thou­sand staters were collected that day.

Then all of the survivors trooped back to Tighrishály Palace, where a feast was held on the broad green lawn be­hind the structure. Everywhere signs of nor­malcy were displayed: a musical group, mounds of fresh food, ser­vants, entertainers, and nervous laughter.

Princess Arizélla nudged Dowager Queen Brisquayne in the ribs.

“I should have stayed in Dnéprov,” she said. “Look at them, trying to pretend nothing has happened, while dis­content breeds among the masses in the streets like maggots swarming in piles of offal. This is civilization?”

They saw Princess Ezzölla laughing uproariously at someone’s half-baked attempt at a joke. King Kipriyán was also smiling, clearly enjoying himself for the first time since Killingford. In his massive hand was a huge flagon of ale. Already he was flushed with good humor and alco­hol.

“They’re like ghouls,” the princess continued, “feasting off the dead. Don’t they understand that tens of thousands have perished from their follies?”

Brisquayne’s mouth was a thin red line.

“They don’t want to remember, Élla,” she said. “They might have to deal with reality then. And they’ll be right back at it as soon as they can get another army to­gether.”

The old queen snorted. “I’m afraid I find all of this somewhat distasteful. I wonder if two middle-aged ladies might have more fun dunking their feet in a muddy pond out back of my Tamásház, while sipping glasses of white wine.”

“I wonder,” Élla replied, suddenly grinning for the first time. This was like the old days.

They were just turning to leave together when the king spotted them, and came over, his face breaking into a smile.

“Cousine,” he yelled, “cousine, please stop.”

Kipriyán dragged Arizélla over to a small dais near the back of the Palace, and called for attention from the crowd.

Then he motioned to Gorázd Lord Aboéty, who pulled from his sleeve a rolled-up scroll. Unfolding the parchment, the Grand Vizier read:

“Kyprianos iii King of Kórynthia, Overlord of Pommerelia, Mährenia, Morënë, and Nisyria, doth hereby proclaim the follow­ing:

Whereas Humfried v King of Pommerelia did perish most bravely on the battlefield of the Schilling-Ford on the xviith day of June in this, his accession year;

And, Whereas his son and successor, King Norbert i, was foully captured by trickery and executed on the xxivth day of June in this, his accession year;

And, Whereas said Norbert left no other relations in the male line, but only a half-sister, whose rights of succession to the throne have been disallowed;

Therefore we, Kyprianos iii, do endorse the succession to the Throne of Pommere­lia of the Princess Arizélla, eldest daughter of His Highness Kazimir, late Hereditary Prince of Pommerelia, and do acknowledge her as a fellow sovereign.

Given on the vth day of July in the xlist year of our reign.

Kyprianos Vasileus

“My lords and ladies,” he boomed in his com­manding voice, “I give you Arizélla i, the new Queen of Pommerelia!”

There was some scattered applause and huzzahs from several quarters.

“Wait,” Arizélla sputtered, clearly not expecting this. “I....”

But before she could say anything else, Kipriyán embraced her with his bear hug, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. Then he presented her once more to the mul­titude.

“Again, I give you Arizélla Queen of Pommerelia!” he roared.

He glared around at the party-goers, daring them not to clap. Slowly, carefully, the applause grew. Then the king motioned to the group of musicians to strike up La Marche Forellée, and led the new queen unwillingly around in a circle, almost like a dance, introducing her to this or that noble, or this or that widow thereof.

Queen Arizélla grew increasingly angry as the promenade continued, but felt trapped by circumstances. She caught Brisquayne’s eye at a distance, but the dowager queen just shrugged her shoulders. There was nothing she could do to help her friend.

The new monarch was forced to remain at the cele­bration for another two hours, smiling at and pandering to her newly-found supporters, and getting steadily drunker as the afternoon progressed.

At least some of the time was put to good use, she thought to herself.

Then, when she was good and soused, she managed very prettily to vomit the day’s leavings all over the elegant gown of some count’s wife, and daintily made her exit, still smiling.