By custom, they did not eat before a funeral, and the feast for Oskar's coronation was some while away. Therula's empty stomach gnawed at her ribs, even as her fears did on her heart. Perhaps it was merely this that made her so irritable. Therula reminded herself to keep a cool head as she entered the great hall. Later, she would be able to compare observations with her mother.
It was, of course, crowded and noisy beyond the elaborately carved lintel. The wellborn folk of Crutham were crammed together. Weaving through their voices, a somber melody wafted down from the balconies. The ladies wore mourning black with shoulder-length veils, while the men wore heraldic colors to signify their loyalties.
Above them all, a single throne stood on the dais, draped with a gold-and-black state cloak. It was empty, waiting to be filled. Therula felt her throat tighten with emotion. She had always seen two thrones for Unferth and Alustra. Now there was just Oskar, until he chose his own queen.
Nor was that the only change she noted. Right away, Therula could see how the courtiers's garb reflected the change in power. There were fewer of the plain Cruthan robes and tunics now, more puffed shoulders and full skirts. Knowing of Oskar's honor for his mother, everyone wished to emulate her Tanixan influences.
It didn't take long to pick out Oskar. Therula's brother stood at the foot of the dais, receiving a throng of well-wishers. He looked magnificent in a knee-length tunic and hose, both black and stitched with golden towers in a deliberate reprise of the state cloak. He was bare-headed, a practical choice since he would soon enough wear the crown.
Although he looked solemn, as befitted the occasion, it struck Therula that Oskar was happier than she had seen him for some while. He always did enjoy being the center of attention, and this was unmistakably his day.
Then again, it might have to do with the number of young women in the press around Oskar. Each noble man or woman who came to give condolences had a comely daughter to be presented, it seemed. Even though they wore the proper black, some of the gowns were quite daring, especially in the bodices.
Perhaps that was why Therula's older sister, Bettonie, was standing so close at Oskar's shoulder. The eldest daughter of Unferth and Alustra had always taken her position seriously. Her cold stare made more than one of the approaching maidens flinch, however much their fathers might flatter the new king.
Therula nodded in response to a curtsey, but didn't stop to talk. She wanted to look around more, assessing the situation as her mother had taught her to do. The fine nuances of who spoke to whom, and how, gave her something to think about besides her fears. She soon found that she had a good deal to think about.
Eben stood near Oskar, a rare venture into public life for him. The wizard wore a full-length robe of midnight blue, and a striking dragon horn headdress that Therula had never seen before. Eben was speaking with some of the ambassadors who had been invited to attend the coronation, including a representative from Tanix, whose extravagant attire made some of Alustra's most elaborate gowns seem plain in comparison. Near them, keeping a little apart, was a more surprising arrival: an emissary from Sillets.
Therula knew she wasn't the only one who eyed the man with curiosity and distrust. He wore a very tall hat with a flat crown, a close-fitted jacket and trousers in a handsome, dark brown. The arms of Sillets were sewn over the breast, a red dragon on a white field. By contrast, his hair was bright red and very curly. Therula longed to know if this was natural, or if he somehow had it styled that way. The whole outfit gave the Silletsian a straight standing look, broken only by the line of a thin moustache over his thin mouth.
Alustra had told Therula that Oskar had expected his invitation to be rebuffed. It was true, the Silletsian was not wellborn, but a mere merchant. Still, it would be a hopeful sign if Sillets sought increased trade, rather than the warfare that had held sway for generations.
And yet, there was something unsettling in his presence here. And in Eben's demeanor, chatting so casually. Eben looked rather pleased with himself, Therula thought. He should have been mourning his close friend, Unferth. Shouldn't he?
A harsh echo of voices distracted Therula. She glanced over in time to see Bettonie imperiously dismiss their younger sister, Frella. Therula winced. She had noticed this during the funeral: that Bettonie was trying to push aside those she deemed unsuitable—in particular, the illegitimate siblings.
Perhaps it was inevitable that Oskar would treat the others as rivals rather than allies. Particularly their brothers. It seemed unnecessary, a waste of true loyalty to Crutham. Bettonie preened smugly, as if she had done a brave and noble deed. Therula felt uneasy watching her. This wasn't what Unferth would have wanted, especially on this day, when they all had one thing in common: the loss of a father.
Nor had she any intention of giving up life long friendships just because of her sister's pride. Therula made her way through the press, trying to find Frella. The girl had looked crushed, and Therula wanted to reassure her. After a few minutes, she began to wonder if Frella had fled the Great Hall.
It took effort and persistence, but she did find Frella, sobbing in her mother's arms. Nearby, Cliodora looked stricken and helpless. Therula hesitated, hoping her presence wouldn't add to Frella's distress. Then she raised her chin and strode forward.
Frella's mother, Diona, turned slightly away, shielding her daughter, as Therula approached. Softly, Therula said, “I'm sorry about Bettonie. I didn't hear what she said to you, but she doesn't speak for all of us.”
“You have always been kind to us, your highness,” Diona answered, though her voice was strained. Frella sniffled, peering over the velvet of her mother's sleeve. “I know you mean well, but Princess Bettonie may have the right of it. Mayhap our time here is at an end.”
“Bettonie is a guest in this house,” Therula said, more sharply than she intended. “She no longer lives here, and she has no right to speak for Crutham. I assure you, I will speak to my mother after the coronation and do my best to ensure you're not displaced.” More gently, Therula squeezed Frella's shoulder. Glancing at Cliodora, too, she said, “You will always be my sisters.”
Cliodora smiled, but she too was red-eyed beneath her veil. Therula felt a surge of pity for all her younger sisters. Most of them, like Cliodora, were daughters of the common houses, merchants and sea traders. If Oskar chose to vent his ill will on these young women, their families could do little to protect them.
Timidly, Cliodora asked, “Are you still angry, sister?”
“Oh, no,” Therula said. Even she knew she spoke too quickly. Cliodora sighed, and hugged her tightly.
The youngest princess insisted she hadn't told Oskar that Unferth was dead. She said she hadn't even seen him that morning. Which raised the question, how had Oskar known? That question haunted her. So did the memory of Oskar smiling at Margura. Unferth had died of old age, nothing more—that had been Eben's announcement. Yet he didn't seem to miss Unferth. He was so friendly with Oskar now. Therula tried not to dwell on these things, since they changed nothing.
Therula gazed at Oskar over the top of Cliodora's head. During the long, sleepless night after their father's death, she had realized her future with Pikarus was now in question. Their unspoken agreement had been with Unferth, a king secure in his realm and his alliances. A new ruler changed everything. Oskar would want to make his own alliances. Therula had already seen that her desires mattered little.
She hadn't yet dared to mention this to Oskar. Dread of the future soured every bite she ate, squeezed her lungs with every breath. Therula had been right all along, she thought bitterly. Something was wrong. She just hadn't imagined that disaster might fall upon her, safe at home, instead of on Pikarus, far away on his mysterious quest.
Cliodora tugged at her elbow. “I think Calitar wants you.”
“Oh? Where?” Obediently, Therula looked around. The noise of the gathering suddenly swelled around her. She hadn't even realized she wasn't hearing it.
“I'll take you.” Cli
odora dragged on Therula's arm. She barely had time to nod in farewell to Frella and Diona before the crowd swallowed them.
Calitar stood talking with Axenar, his full brother, and Habrok and his wife, Gunnheld. Calitar and Habrok were the true leaders among Unferth's sons. Therula knew they had prevented many quarrels when the boys were all younger. Both Calitar and Axenar had married into the household of the Duke of Daraine, and Therula seldom saw them now.
All four were somberly dressed, and wore serious expressions, but they greeted Therula courteously with bows and kisses to her hand. Habrok embraced Cliodora with great care, as if he might bruise her.
“Clio said you wanted me?” Therula asked.
Calitar nodded. “We were wondering if Albrett will be here. Has there been any word from Duke Johanz?”
“Mother made the invitation,” Therula said. “Johanz sent his best wishes, but he said his wife is ill. He won't leave her side.”
“Such devotion,” Axenar said, but he glanced slyly at his brother.
As he spoke, Therula frowned slightly. She thought she understood why the men wore such sober expressions. Carthell was the highest ranking of all Crutham's duchies. It had a rich history of its own, and had been independent until Unferth's grandfather married the duke's daughter and joined their domains to form present day Crutham. Johanz' nephew, Rickard, had been one of the princes who died recently. Could he possibly be using the loss as a pretext to assert his independence?
“Don't tell me you wanted to see Albrett,” Habrok rumbled, glancing sidelong at Calitar and Axenar. Those two had had their share of quarrels with Albrett and Rickard, in times gone by.
“Of course we do,” Calitar answered. His face was perfectly composed, but there was a twinkle in his eye.
“We like him much better now that we only see him once a year,” Axenar added.
“You know,” Therula said quietly, “the dukes of Verelay, Begatt, Daraine, Gerfalkan and Firice are all here, but Johanz isn't. I wonder who will represent Carthell.”
“So do we,” Habrok said.
“Have you had a chance to talk to Oskar about it?” Therula asked.
“No,” the big man said plainly. Gunnheld laid a hand on his arm. Without asking, Therula knew Habrok must also feel excluded from the centers of power. Before she had a chance to respond, trumpets rang out. Heads turned expectantly, and the babble of voices died away.
“Here they come,” Cliodora exclaimed, nervously excited.
“I know. Hush,” Therula murmured.
The procession appeared at the far end of the hall. Above the crowd, Therula could see the banner of Crutham, glittering cloth-of-gold stitched with a black tower. Behind it came banners of the provinces. Therula counted quickly. Carthell's banner was there, the silver wolf on a purple field, but it was hard to feel reassured by that alone.
Glorious music floating down from the gallery as the rest of the procession came into view. Tarther led off, in his full array as Captain of the Royal Guard. He carried the Cruthan sword of state before him, sheathed, point down. Tarther's face was solemn, but his cheeks seemed to sag with the weight of age.
Therula wished Oskar had listened to her and let Habrok carry the sword. After all, Habrok was the Champion of Crutham, leader of all its armies. What better chance for him to show solidarity with his brother, the new king? Tarther was a timid choice. He represented continuity and took no risks. It was a missed opportunity, and an unnecessary snub to Habrok, who had always been loyal, even submissive, toward Oskar.
Next came Alustra, bearing Unferth's crown on a cushion of black velvet. The symbolism was obvious, a passing of power from one generation to the next—and Alustra's support for her son.
She moved with measured steps, resplendent in a black brocade gown with Tanixan styled shoulders and collar. Her veil was sewn with bits of polished onyx which flashed in the candlelight as she moved. Therula felt deep sadness as her mother passed. This would be one of Alustra's last official duties as Queen of Crutham. Her face, beneath the veil, was perfectly composed. It was impossible to see the emotions Therula knew must be raging within her. Certainly Alustra must feel proud of her son, but she loved being a queen. It had to hurt that she had been supplanted, even by her own child.
Behind Alustra came more banners. Begatt's blue stag head on silver, Daraine's green with golden sun, Firice's red with silver sword, Verelay's gold griffin on a field of blue, and the wolf of Carthell. Behind each banner came a delegation of noblemen to witness the ceremony. Most of them were led by their own dukes. Carthell was an exception. Therula glanced aside as the purple banner passed and saw her brothers' intensity as they watched.
“They're mostly soldiers,” Calitar murmured.
“Even if Kathlen is ill,” Axenar added softly, “Johanz should have sent his son as a representative.”
“Or our dear Albrett,” Calitar said.
“I'm sure Oskar is aware of this.” Habrok spoke just a bit too calmly.
“If he isn't, Mother is,” Therula told them reassuringly. “She will know how to handle this.”
“I'm sure you're right,” Gunnheld whispered back.
The courtiers stepped back, clearing an opening at the foot of the dais. Alustra mounted the steps, while the procession divided and formed a half-circle at the perimeter. The queen stopped at the edge of the platform and turned to face the assembly, and the music echoed away.
“Here I have the crown of Crutham.” Alustra spoke slowly, pitching her voice to be heard clear and far. “As the king has died, it is my duty to summon our heir, who will take his father's place as king. Come forth, Oskar of Crutham.”
Oskar stepped forward and bowed low. “I am here, Mother.”
“My son.” Alustra allowed a hint of warmth to color her official voice. “Are you prepared to carry out all the duties of your royal office?”
“Yes,” Oskar answered firmly, “I am.”
“Then kneel,” Alustra instructed. Oskar obeyed, bowing his head with exaggerated humility. A page stepped forward to take the velvet cushion from Alustra, while she held the golden crown glittering before her.
In a ringing voice she cried, “I, Alustra, Queen of Crutham, declare before all noble witnesses and our honored guests that this man, my son Oskar, is the true and legitimate heir to the throne of Crutham. I entrust my authority to him and pledge my loyalty until the day I die.”
Therula swallowed a lump in her throat as Alustra raised the crown high and then bent forward, placing it carefully on Oskar's head. A sigh went through the watchers, whispering like the wind. Therula glanced at Habrok. He, who could have worn the crown himself, showed no emotion at all.
Movement on the dais drew her eye back with a jerk. Oskar mounted the steps slowly, dramatically. As he climbed Alustra stepped back, bowing before him with sweeps of her veil. Tarther approached from the other side. He knelt, offering the Sword of Crutham with both hands, haft outward.
“Into your hands I placed this weapon,” Tarther intoned, “as the emblem of your power and rightful authority. May your justice be feared.”
Oskar laid his hand briefly on the hilt. “I accept this sword, and I shall use it to defend my people and to carry out justice.”
He turned to face the audience and stood still, allowing Tarther to belt the sword on. While Tarther did that, Alustra lifted the royal cloak from the throne. As soon as Oskar's sword was buckled on, she laid the cloak over his shoulders. Alustra let her hand linger on his shoulder for a moment in a loving gesture. Oskar turned and took his mother's hand. They both bowed, as if in a dance, and Tarther offered his arm to guide Alustra down the stairs.
Slowly Oskar sat on the throne, shifting the Sword of Crutham so that his right hand could rest lightly on the pommel. He sat for a moment, alone and splendid, looking over the silent court.
“I accept these honors with grief in my heart,” Oskar declared. “In my father's name, I swear I will do all to uphold the honor of Crutham.”
Therula tensed. Was that a jab at Unferth?
Oskar went on, “Although my sword is ready for the defense of my kingdom, I would have it known to all that Crutham would rather offer the hand of friendship than the fist of war. Let this be so.”
Tarther, at the base of the platform, bellowed out, “All hail King Oskar!”
The Great Hall erupted into cheers as the courtiers released their restrained emotions. Therula joined in, wishing she felt true joy in her heart. She should have been happy, yet tears pricked at her eyes. There was something hateful in Oskar's aplomb, the way he accepted the applause as his just due. As if their father's death meant nothing. Near the dais, Eben leaned toward the Silletsian representative, perhaps explaining some detail of the ceremony. Therula's sister, Bettonie, stood embracing their mother at the base of the steps. Therula wondered what was wrong with herself, that she didn't feel the same joy in Oskar's triumph.
As the cheers began to fade, Duke Edwarin of Daraine stepped forward.
“All hail King Oskar!” he cried. “Before these witnesses, we of Daraine declare our duty and faith to King Oskar and his realm of Crutham. May your reign be rich in years and goods.”
More cheers rang out as Edwarin bowed before Oskar. Even as he stepped back, the Duke of Verelay strode to take his place.
“All hail King Oskar!” Duke Robbart began.
As Verelay began to pledge his fealty, Calitar murmured, “I guess we'd better get in line.”
“Aye,” Habrok said firmly. “We want no question of our loyalties now.”
“Too true,” Axenar agreed.
Technically, Edwarin's oath should be binding upon Calitar and Axenar, since they were part of his household, but Therula understood why they needed to make their own oaths.
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