Beyond a pair of large black gates, a modest courtyard held a life-sized statue of the goddess. It depicted her as a girl of about fifteen, barefoot in a simple dress, perched upon a rock and reaching down as if to help a struggling skeleton climb out of the ground. The uneducated often mistook her for the patron of necromancers, a comment that could enrage one of her faithful. Tenebrea hated necromancers for they abused the dead. She ushered the deceased into her realm to protect them.
Oona looked up to make eye contact with the statue—the only person in the entire procession of fifty or more to do so. Almost no one ever dared outside of her priesthood. Despite gazing at a sad-beautiful face molded from dark stone, she felt a brief note of awareness in the statue’s eyes. To almost anyone else in all of Lucernia, such a sensation would have caused instant panic, expecting it to be an omen of imminent death. However, Oona returned a grateful smile and bow of respect.
A pair of black-robed priestesses flanking the temple doors took note of her not shying away from the statue’s gaze and also offered shallow nods of respect to Oona.
“My thanks for offering my father his final rest.” Kitlyn bowed her head.
“You are most welcome,” said the priestess on the left, a woman in her later thirties, most of her face hidden beneath a voluminous black hood. “Everyone is welcome in our lady’s arms.”
A subtle shift of unease swept over the castle staff and guards.
Each priestess grasped a handle on one of the double doors, pulling them aside and holding them for everyone.
Kitlyn and Oona led the way in. Outside, the air carried a trace of late summer warmth, but the temple interior could’ve been a winter day. Black walls bedecked with lamp holders shaped like the upper halves of tiny twelve-inch skeletons passed on both sides. Here and there, paintings or statuettes of Tenebrea decorated small alcoves. Evie, eyes as wide as saucers, clung to Oona’s arm, shivering while gazing around.
Another priestess, her face also concealed mostly by a hood, met them at the midway point of a hundred-foot-long corridor. Pewter-colored hair hung down the front of her robe to her belt, and she wore a fancy cloth shoulder mantle the other priestesses lacked. The woman greeted them with a nod, then turned to lead them down the hall and around a corner to a wider passage with a curved ceiling. Four enormous black curtains, two per side, blocked giant archways except for one where the curtain had been pulled open wide enough for two people abreast.
Inside, the remains of King Aodh Talomir lay out upon a dais. He’d been dressed in the garb of a nobleman with a rich blue cloak. Kitlyn had not wanted to offend Lucen by burying her father in his priestly regalia, nor did it seem appropriate to bury him with his crown.
The procession moved around a bank of wooden bench seats, stopping in the aisle. Kitlyn approached the dais, stood in silence for a moment, then headed to the center bench facing it. Oona walked up next, her throat tightening at the sight of her ‘father’ lying there dead. Most alarming, he appeared healthier than he had the last time she’d seen him alive. As much like a ghost as he’d seemed, he couldn’t have been one at the time.
Evie stayed close, still holding her hand, but shied away from looking at him.
“I will never understand what led you down the path you took,” said Oona in a low tone. “I don’t know whether I should think of you as my father or as something else. I know you grew to care for me in some way more than you likely expected to. I grieve for all that cannot be because of your actions, but for anything you did to me, I forgive you. May you find in death the peace you never knew in life.”
Evie tugged at her arm, clearly wanting to move away from a dead person.
Oona guided her over to the bench and sat beside Kitlyn. One by one, Beredwyn, Advisor Lanon, Margaret, Elsbeth, Meredith, and those of the castle staff who’d decided to attend approached the dais before taking seats. A handful of the guardsmen did as well. Piper didn’t go near the king, heading straight over to sit beside Evie. Few stayed long near the body, most making the common hand sign of Tenebrea’s blessing: bowing the head to touch the fingers of the raised right hand, then turning the palm outward with a slight pushing gesture.
Almost no one showed any emotion in their expressions.
They’ve all come out of obligation. Oona held her head high, deciding to ignore their brevity despite a small sense of insult. True, the man had caused a war that claimed countless lives, but he had been their king. That only makes his betrayal worse. I should be thankful they are here at all.
Evie fidgeted, but didn’t make noise or stir too much.
Eventually, the procession took their seats and the entire room sat in total silence for at least an hour before a priestess walked out to address those assembled. Oona glanced around at the mostly empty benches. A commoner would have more in attendance than this. She slipped her hand into Kitlyn’s, trying to hold back the tears that wanted to pour out of her. We should content ourselves with quiet indifference instead of overt rebellion.
“Welcome to the Temple of Tenebrea,” said the priestess. “We gather to send Aodh Talomir into our lady’s arms, may she guide him peacefully in the Shadelands.”
Oona’s jaw tightened at her omission of any title. Like a commoner.
Soft murmurs came from about half the people.
“The Goddess of Dusk welcomes all, from the poorest peasant to the wealthiest noble. From the most virtuous to the most despised.” The priestess looked around. “Would anyone care to speak?”
No one stirred for a moment. Right when it seemed the priestess would continue, Kitlyn rose to her feet and stepped forward to stand beside the woman in the black robe, then faced everyone.
“I, as do many of you, have fairly mixed feelings for my father. It’s no secret anymore that I spent most of my life not even realizing he was my father. In truth, some of you knew him far better than I. My world was entirely different from his. I dare not offend Tenebrea by speaking poorly of those who walk with her in the Shadelands, nor shall I offend Lucen by giving voice to that which is untrue. Out of tradition, we pay respects to those who have crossed. I thank you all for being here with us today. May Tenebrea guide him.”
Most of the room repeated the phrase.
Oona swallowed the lump in her throat. She cannot say anything good about him without lying, nor will she speak badly of him. Surely, the Lady of Dusk would not have cast him into the Pit. He had not cavorted with demons. Is that why he looked so deathly? Did he expect an eternity of torment?
Kitlyn bowed her head to the priestess and returned to her seat.
The priestess raised her arms wide, giant sleeves draped nearly to the floor. “We shall now prepare his remains for interment. Those of you who care to are welcome to join us for the ceremony at the tomb.”
Six figures in black robes, two male priests among them, emerged from a shadowed alcove and transferred the body to an ornate casket. Some people in attendance left, not bothering to wait for the second portion of the funeral. Oona listened to them shuffling down the rows of benches, refusing to look.
Piper approached a nearby priestess, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her. They spoke for a moment before the woman nodded at her. A desperate gasp escaped the young handmaiden, and she clasped her hands at her chin while asking, “Please” perhaps a bit too loud for the inside of the Death Goddess’ temple.
The priestess walked with Piper to the side of the room and chanted a few brief lines. Eerie whitish light glowed from within her hood. Piper again conversed with the woman, though this time, spectral vapors leaked from the priestess’ mouth as she answered. Soon, an emotional Piper bowed several times while muttering teary thanks. The priestess nodded to her once again, then glided across the room to assist the others in preparing to move the body.
Piper hurried back over to the bench and sat, barely containing tears.
“What’s wrong?” whispered Evie.
“Piper?” Oona reached around her little sister and gras
ped the girl’s shoulder.
“I heard rumors,” whispered Piper, “that Tenebrea’s priests can talk to the dead. I asked her if she can speak to spirits in the Glimmering Vale.”
“And?” asked Oona.
Piper wiped at her cheeks, nodding. “She can. I spoke to my parents through her. At first, I didn’t know if I should believe it since no one in Evermoor talks about Tenebrea, but they called me Pip. Only my parents even knew that. They’re together in the Glimmering Vale, and they’re happy I have a home now and didn’t… umm… you know. I miss them.”
Oona pulled Evie into her lap, scooted left, and hugged Piper.
“Please don’t apologize again. It isn’t your fault.” She sniffled. “But at least I know they’re in a good place. They wouldn’t tell me how they died, only that it happened during a battle.”
“I can’t say what I want to say, for I’d speak unkind things about a dead man in the house of Tenebrea.” Oona tried not to scowl at the casket. “What your parents said is correct. You do have a home. As often as you need me to be a sister, friend, or… well, I’d say mother but I’m only two years older than you.”
Piper sniffled out a weak chuckle, relaxed, and wept on Oona’s shoulder for the remainder of the time it took the priests to arrange the casket on a litter and form up to carry it out of the temple. Evie bounced to her feet, eager to escape the gloomy confines of the temple of death. At a pat from Oona, Piper gathered her composure and stood.
Barely a word broke the silence as the procession exited the temple and wound through the streets of Cimril to the rear of the castle grounds and the royal cemetery. Some had suggested it unwise to inter him there, though Kitlyn refused to separate him from Queen Solana’s tomb, stating that even condemned killers are granted a final request within reason. Aodh’s had been to be with his wife. No one offered serious protest to that.
None of the castle staff beyond the advisors proceeded to the tomb. Oona nudged Piper to return to the castle, as the girl needed time alone and had no interest in visiting the tomb of the man who indirectly caused her parents’ death. The girl bowed gratefully, and hurried off.
And so, the priests of Tenebrea bore Aodh Talomir’s remains into the underground sepulcher that held the remains of three prior kings all of the Talomir bloodline: Iastor the eldest (and his wife Moeth), his son Branok—who wore the crown for about a week and hadn’t married—then his youngest son Eoim, father of Aodh, (and his wife Glema).
A pair of stone doors guarded the entrance to a plain corridor decorated only in carved writing invoking either Lucen or Tenebrea to watch over those who rest here. The second opening on the right led to the chamber which held Queen Solana’s grave. Workers had already opened the tomb beside it in preparation for his casket.
Oona followed Kitlyn to stand near the stone box on the left side of the room, watching in solemn silence as the priests hefted the litter up on two long poles and set it atop the open sarcophagus. Four of them took hold of the casket itself, lifting it enough for the others to withdraw the litter, then they lowered the former king into his final resting place.
Green light bathed the room. All eyes went to Kitlyn, who held her arms out, swirls of energy coiling around them. Stone shafts extended from the ground, lifting the massive lid into place before receding.
Did the workers refuse to seat the lid? Or is she sparing them the toil? Oona pulled the fidgety Evie close, sharing her little sister’s desire to be done with the dreary affair as soon as possible. A week after the man’s death, she had days ago cried the last tears she would likely shed over him.
The Tenebrea priests conducted a simple rite, standing in a circle around the casket while beseeching their goddess to welcome him to the realm of the dead. They blessed the room and also the queen’s tomb before everyone stood for the customary six minutes of silence.
At long last, the priests performed the closing chant, then walked by in single file. Oona thanked them each in turn for their help. They invoked Tenebrea’s guidance upon her… then repeated the entire process with Kitlyn before walking out.
Once the last priest exited the chamber, everyone else left with no small amount of haste.
Kitlyn put a hand on the king’s tomb, and a wisp of green light swam over her arm.
“Kit?” asked Oona.
“I fused the lid. His burial vault is one solid piece now. No one will desecrate his remains… at least not without having to smash the entire thing open first.”
Oona’s eyes widened. “Do you think anyone would dare?”
“Perhaps not if it is too difficult.” Kitlyn faced her. “Are you all right?”
“As fine as can be expected. Are you?”
“I’ve made as much peace with him as I am able.” Kitlyn managed a weak smile. “Come on. I know you can’t wait to be out of that dress.”
“Oh, this?” Oona glanced down. “It’s all right. I’m quite used to barely being able to breathe.”
Evie bounced on her toes.
Oona glanced back at the stone box encasing the king’s casket. “Goodbye, father. Rest well.” Head bowed, she squeezed Evie’s hand and walked at a brisk stride for the door, eager to escape such a dreadful place.
6
At Long Last
Kitlyn
Three days after the funeral, Kitlyn stood in the throne room facing a strikingly tall man with long, flowing hair the color of fresh-cut hay and piercing green eyes. Except for a slight tint of age to his features, he looked much like she had imagined the Anthari, or elves as most people called them—not that any had been seen in Lucernia for several centuries.
The new High Priest of Lucen, Balais Aldin, had served at the grand temple in Torlach, having been their most senior priest. After a twenty-hour period of meditation, prayer, and reflection, the council of elder priests announced that Lucen had selected him for the title of High Priest. His long, angular face, perfect nose, and gem-like eyes regarded her still with a mixture of uncertainty. Though King Talomir had only been thirty-seven years of age, and this man was a year short of fifty, he appeared younger than her father except for faint wrinkles around his eyes and thin vertical lines down his cheeks.
A traditionalist, he had initially been aghast at Kitlyn’s love for Oona, but upon conferring with the priests from the temple in Cimril who told of Tenebrea’s visitation and that Lucen had not taken away Oona’s gift, he had accepted them with guarded caution. She could not call him overjoyed at the prospect of two queens, but he at least did not seem hostile. He had also warmed to her somewhat more upon her insistence that he become an advisor, inviting the eyes of Lucen into the court.
Kitlyn resisted the urge to fidget at the burdensome formal gown and massive, heavy cape draped over her shoulders, the train going some thirty feet behind her. Fortunately, no one expected her to actually walk anywhere while wearing it. She considered it more of a ceremonial carpet resting on her shoulders. How did my father stay upright with this burdensome thing on… he was only eleven when crowned.
Balais held aloft a new crown, a fairly plain ring of silver with crenelations, each one set with a square emerald. “As Lucen gazes down upon this proceeding, Lady Kitlyn Talomir, Princess Regnant of Lucernia, do you swear before him that you shall ever act in the furtherance of purity and in the best interests of those over whom you govern?”
“As Lucen watches, so do I swear,” said Kitlyn. Lucen guide me. I hope I am able to bear this burden.
A brief flash of bluish light danced across Balais’ eyes. The corners of his lips picked up in a faint smile. Seeming pleased, he offered a brief nod. “Lady Kitlyn Talomir, Princess Regnant of Lucernia, please kneel.”
Kitlyn took a knee.
Balais lowered the crown upon her head. “And arise as Queen Kitlyn Talomir.”
The added weight—albeit not that much—of the crown on top of the ridiculous cloak made rising difficult, but she managed it with a minimum of wobbling. The throne room erupted in a deafe
ning roar of cheering. All the castle servants who could fit lined the two upper balconies on either side of the main room filled with nobles, merchants, and as many commoners as squeezed into the hallway beyond, a crowd that spilled well outside into the streets.
Oona, close by her side, beamed with pride and wiped a tear of joy.
Guard Captain Lorne approached, handing her the ornate broadsword once carried by her father. Her eyes bulged at the weight of it, though she didn’t falter. She would not, however, carry that particular blade into battle should the need arise—at least not without some magical enhancement to her physical strength.
“Thank you, Lightbearer.” Kitlyn offered a slight bow to Balais.
He responded with a nod and stepped aside.
Emitting a faint grunt at dragging a hundred pounds of cloak plus a sword she could barely lift, Kitlyn took four steps to the edge of the second set of stairs leading down from the throne dais.
“Thank you, everyone,” said Kitlyn, trying to project her voice over the room. “Lucernia is at the beginning of a new age of peace. As I stand before Lucen, I give you my word I will do everything in my power to secure the safety and prosperity of every citizen. We have seen too much war. Yes, I am young. Except for the past few weeks, I have not been alive in a time without constant war, constant stories of loss, hardship, and suffering. Now it is time to live. I ask you all to set aside whatever animosity you may have had for the people of Evermoor. Let us re-establish trade and prosper together as allies once again.”
A somewhat less enthusiastic cheer followed.
“Now what?” whispered Kitlyn while glancing sideways at Beredwyn.
“Now,” replied the elder from beside her, “we feast.”
“Excellent.” Still smiling at the crowd, she leaned closer to him. “Can I take this damnable cloak off yet?”
The Cursed Crown Page 5