Kinghood

by Joshua Rutherford

  A lone child, a girl of about six years, waved from the crowd. Her mother immediately swatted her hand down. Dawkin smirked. Thank you, he mouthed to the child. I needed that.

  The carriage came to the final crest of the hill, where a line of Marlish soldiers held back the commoners as the street leveled. With Willelm, Dawkin trotted the last few feet of cobblestone before the road turned to crabgrass and dirt, leading to the edge of the Cathedral grounds.

  From the top, the western fringes of Arcporte spread out below, bordered by the Wharf that separated land from sea. Cloudless and bright, the sky almost blended with the water beneath, which laid still, the usual winds having taken respite for the day of mourning. The illusion was further supported by the absence of sails in both the harbor and the ocean, for all the Marlish sailors had refrained from taking to the water. Even the Ibian Armada had lowered her grand sheets of canvas, so that every ship moored and docked laid unprepared and unmoving.

  Is this a sign of what is to come, Father? Ships absent from our harbors? Ibians – all from Afari – mourning us? The end of the dynasty of Kin Saliswater? Of my brothers? Myself? Mar, I pray not.

  Dawkin trailed after the carriage as it rounded the Cathedral to come to the cemetery on the other side. In its early days, the burial grounds were open to all, no matter rank or birth. Yet that was some time ago. For the past few centuries, the bishops - realizing that land for burials was becoming limited – restricted plots on the grounds to royalty, decreeing that the common folk bury their departed in the many cemeteries beyond the city walls.

  The remnants of Arcporte’s early residents, therefore, laid on either side of Dawkin’s feet, under stones worn smooth by wind and rain. Etchings and inscriptions proved illegible, replaced on many stones by moss and lichens. Only when he passed the gate that divided the common graves from the regal ones was Dawkin finally able to recognize the names of longstanding families he had known his entire life. Anglisk. Angliskstal. Rodgmoorr. Noryxx. And finally, Saliswater.

  The gravestones of Kin Saliswater were fewer in number than the other great families, as they had risen to power later in history. Nonetheless, they were there, crowned by monuments on par with others, each with the mark of their family: a four-pointed compass. Dawkin recalled a few great and great great uncles and aunts, along with the marker for his great grandfather, Aethelrik.

  Dawkin halted. There she is.

  The headstone for his mother, Ellenora, rested beneath a white peppercorn tree. Of polished white marble, it bore her name and bust, along with the dates of her life. Dawkin had seen it only a handful of times in his life, choosing instead to visit her statue in the Sovereign Gardens just as his brothers preferred. The stone always struck him as too plain and ordinary, having no personality or resemblance to the woman he knew through stories alone. At least the full-length statue on the castle grounds granted him some sense of the person she was. Here, though, a stone marked her legacy.

  And beside her, another one stood. Freshly carved and inscribed. Before an open pit.

  Those in his kin, who were along in years, gathered around the grave. It was custom in Marland for the elders of a kin to arrive at the plot first with the bishop, who then blessed the grave before the approach of the procession. Among the handful or so of faces, Dawkin recognized two. The first was a distant cousin he had not seen in some ten years, a man whose name he could not recall, who had aged much in that time. The second was his grandfather.

  Artus, garbed in dark blue with cuffs of gold, crossed his hands over his waist, waiting. He watched as his son’s open casket was removed from the funeral carriage and placed at the foot of the grave. The servants withdrew as High Bishop Perceval closed in with a pitcher of saltwater and an aspergillum in hand. Dipping the golden rod into the pitcher, he withdrew and shook it at Audemar. Beads of saltwater landed upon his brow, the droplets catching the rays of the afternoon sun. As High Bishop Perceval anointed the entire body, he gave his wares to a Maiden of Mar before lowering his head to pray silently over the body.

  In that moment, Artus beckoned Dawkin to join him at his side. Without saying a word, Dawkin took his place. He crossed his arms behind his back as knights and nobles, royals and bishops, joined the grieving flock.

  The last to come were the foreign contingent in the Ibian carriage Dawkin had glimpsed in the bailey, accompanied by the Realeza. King Felix emerged first, planting his feet on the ground before offering a hand to his wife. Ermesinda and Nataliya scurried to exit next, with the former able to leave first as her sister contorted her face in frustration. Lastly, Taresa emerged, solemn, her head bent and her stride unhurriedly.

  You should be next to me. You should be by my side.

  Alas, she was not. She kept a respectable distance, behind her parents, due to her rank and because their kin had yet to be united. They remained across from Dawkin and his grandfather, with the grave between their families. An ominous sign, Dawkin thought.

  “My King. My Prince.”

  High Bishop Perceval inched up to them. He bowed to each. “Before we begin, I felt I should offer my condolences apart from the ceremony.” He looked to Artus. “My King –”

  “My son, he was the King.”

  “And a monarch he will remain. As you have all these years, even when he ascended. Your Majesty, all pleasantries aside, I grieve for your loss. Our loss.”

  “Thank you, High Bishop. Audemar was always found of you. Your knowledge of horsemanship made for fine conversation, and your service to the Church and to Marland put him at ease. We will not soon forget how you served.”

  Perceval bowed. “Your Highness,” he said to Dawkin. “I am so sorry.”

  The High Bishop and he had never been particularly close. Chatting and polite conversation aside, Dawkin hardly knew anything of the man save his family history and his equine expertise. Yet the sincerity of his tone – as though they had shared a father – struck a chord with him. Dawkin choked back his tears. He lifted his head slightly, then nodded. “I thank you, High Bishop.”

  Perceval bowed, withdrawing to his place beside the grave, where he continued to pray in silence.

  Once the last of the Ibian royals had taken their place by the grave, High Bishop Perceval raised his head. He extended his hands to each side as he stood before the late king and the chasm, lifting his chin to the heavens.

  “O, Great Mar, Creator of us all, we come to you today to bid farewell to one of your eternal kin, our great King, defender of the Church and our island, and now, one of your newest arrivals, who returns to you in heaven.”

  Dawkin breathed deeply, fighting the urge to scoff. While Symon and Gerry were pious, he and Ely remained skeptical of the teachings of the Church, though for different reasons. Ely often pointed out the fact that if the lessons and text from the sacred Papyr were true, he would have been swallowed up by the sea long ago. Dawkin’s skepticism, on the other hand, was rooted in a more academic study of scripture and church history. Since he was a lad, the inconsistencies and contradictions of Mar struck him as odd, and later in life, unbelievable. For how could an almighty being allow so much suffering in the world? What with the Century War alone? Or the plagues that have ravished Marland and Greater Afari? Or the countless who die unknown? The poor? The destitute?

  And now, my father. How could Mar, a supposed just and kind god, allow that?

  “Blessings to all,” High Bishop Perceval concluded his first round of prayers.

  “Blessings,” responded the crowd.

  “Blessings,” added Dawkin, knowing his silence would be an insult to the Church of Mar. I must keep up appearances. Say the words. Even when I don’t mean them.

  The ceremony went on for many more prayers and blessings. The Maidens of Mar swept in with their flowers and small statues of driftwood, which they placed within Audemar’s casket for good fortune in the afterlife. Perceval flung more saltwater on the King after each pronunciation and set of prayers, until Dawkin could have sworn th
at his father lay drenched. Finally, as the edge of the sun touched the horizon, High Bishop Perceval said the final blessing.

  “With this, Good Mar, we lower our beloved King, Audemar, to his final resting place.”

  The ceremony had been too long. Dawkin’s leg cramped from all the standing, his body yearning to take a seat. He wanted nothing more than to separate himself from the customs, the pleasantries, and most of all, the eyes that had watched him for hours upon hours.

  “Wait,” he said, in spite of it all.

  High Bishop Perceval turned to him. “Your Highness?”

  Dawkin found the eyes of the crowd, royals and bishops and all, strictly set on him. He had not considered his next move, on how to explain the pause he requested of the High Bishop. Panic set in as he looked to his grandfather.

  The old king, once the epitome of all that was strong and holy, met his stare. Dawkin searched his eyes. Like his, they were pained, portraying a grief that defied labels or descriptions. More like those of a babe than of a seasoned patriarch, somehow they provided Dawkin with a sense of comfort, as if to tell him that he was not alone.

  Artus reached out to put his hand on Dawkin’s shoulder. “Go on, son. Say good-bye in your own way.”

  Dawkin, his mouth ajar, looked back at his grandfather, unsure of what to do. So he did the only thing that came to his mind.

  He glanced at Taresa. Then it dawned on him.

  He broke from his position by the grave. He weaved through the onlookers. His move did not take but a few seconds, not even long enough for others to gasp or gossip.

  Dawkin stopped before the Princess. He bowed.

  “My Lady,” he said. “Though you did not know him, I think you would have found favor with my father, especially given our... possible arrangement. If you would be so kind, could you provide a token? That is, something for me to add to his casket? A memento of a happier time?”

  Taresa, her hand to her chest, stared back at Dawkin in awe. He knew that it had never occurred to her to bring such a token, nor had she considered being approached by the Prince during the service. As murmurs rose from the funerary audience, and Dawkin remained with his head bent, he pondered whether his request had been too much.

  “Your Highness,” Taresa finally sputtered. “I am deeply honored. Only, I do not know what to give.”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  Taresa looked around and about her, considering. She searched the length of her dress and her arms. Then, her eyes widening, she reached up into her hair.

  “Taresa,” Queen Belitta begged. “Not that.”

  Taresa pulled a pin from her hair, allowing one of the curls of her dark brown hair to fall upon her left shoulder. She held it out to Dawkin, placing it before his face.

  “It’s carved from a single pink abalone shell from the Jokarre River. They are rare, and are prized among fishermen and nobility. This was a gift from my grandfather to my grandmother, on the eve of their Promise.”

  Dawkin, studying the antique hair pin, straightened. “Princess Taresa, I fear I have overstepped my bounds. I never meant to suggest that you sacrifice such a personal...”

  “Please,” she urged. “I must insist. In memory of a great monarch. Your father.”

  Dawkin, no wanting to decline Taresa a second time, gingerly took the pin from Taresa. In doing so, his fingers brushed hers.

  His heart skipped. So this is how Gerry and Ely felt.

  “It is a generous gesture, my Princess,” he said, bowing once more. “A reflection of the greatness of your kin.”

  “Thank you, Prince Jameson.”

  The looks from her family were not lost on Dawkin. Queen Belitta was beside herself, as were her other two daughters, to a lesser degree. King Felix, though not outwardly taken by the exchange, stared on at Dawkin, unblinking. Whether impressed by his boldness or insulted by his nerve Dawkin could not say. Bowing to both the Queen and King, he withdrew to the grave and his father’s casket.

  Artus motioned to the casket, choosing to stand opposite of Dawkin as the young prince came to his father’s side and knelt. He placed the hair pin, which glimmered in the light of the setting sun, atop his breastplate, right where a four-pointed compass had been etched.

  A warrior. A king. A father.

  There he lies. Here I see him. For the last time.

  “Farewell, Father.”

  Dawkin lifted his head to High Bishop Perceval. Rising to his feet, he nodded.

  Pulling away from the casket, he watched as the Maidens of Mar came from the side, the lid in hand. They lowered it, covering King Audemar. Attendants, standing by with nails and hammers, swept in to nail it shut before securing ropes underneath to lower it into the grave.

  When the casket finally settled at the bottom, High Bishop Perceval sang a new round of prayers. Dawkin endured the first few words before catching the whinny of his father’s horse.

  He peered over his shoulder to spot the stallion pulling his reins from the hands of a squire. He rose to his hind legs as he kicked out with his front, sending the servants scurrying around him, so as to block his escape.

  Dawkin, seeing his opportunity, withdrew from the audience. The others, aside from a quick look, kept their heads bowed as the Prince marched to the gathering of servants and horses.

  Everitt, apart from the royals, with the other knights, came to Dawkin’s side.

  “Your Highness, allow me,” he offered.

  “No need, Sir Everitt. This is my father’s steed.” He then came in close, to whisper. “Besides, neither I nor my father could stand one more prayer anyway.”

  Everitt nodded, and Dawkin thought he caught a smirk, which further lightened his mood. With another whinny, he dashed to Willelm, and soon cradled his head in his hands.

  “Thank you, old friend,” Dawkin said, patting the length of his nose. “I needed that.”

  Chapter 21

  “I can dress as a Voiceless, if need be,” Symon offered. “It won’t be any trouble.”

  “The Voiceless have as much chance of being assassinated as we do once above,” Dawkin insisted. “Being the prince’s protector is as dangerous, perhaps more so, than being a prince.”

  “I can handle myself. Besides, it’s for Ely’s benefit.”

  “I’m sitting right here, you idiots!”

  Ely sprang from his chair, slamming both his hands on the table as he leaned forward. He looked to Symon, then Dawkin, before glancing at Gerry. The three had been bantering so much concerning his mental state they had overlooked his presence.

  “Forgive us, brother,” Symon replied half-heartedly.

  “We became caught up discussing your safety, is all,” Gerry muttered.

  “My safety? My safety?!” Ely extended his arms, looking about the Fourpointe Chamber. “Look at us! For our entire lives, we have confined ourselves to this, this cave. This underground hovel. And for what?! So that one at a time we can emerge to play the prince while the other three huddle in our rooms for fear of the unknown. Where has it got us, huh? What good has that done? It left us restricted to a legacy built on cowardice. One that prevented the four of us from being above ground - in the castle where we along - on the day our father was slain.”

  Ely tipped over his goblet, spilling a deep red wine onto the Fourpointe Table. The liquid spread and flooded the grooves of the map carved on its face, putting a crimson blotch on the continent of Greater Afari.

  He turned his back to his brothers as they fell silent. Running his fingers through his hair, he began to pace the length of the chamber.

  “If it were up to me, I’d tear down every wall of the underground city and have us rise to claim the throne as four, not one.”

  “But it’s not up to you,” Dawkin interjected. “It’s up to us.”

  “I know that, you fool.”

  “Ely!” Symon yelled. “End this nonsense. You’ll go nowhere with your rants and petty insults.”

  “Is that right, brother? So what w
ill you do? Will you challenge me if I don’t stop? Will you fight me? Slay me? Your own flesh and blood.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Oh, my!” Ely said mockingly. “Who will save me?”

  Symon left his chair to charge toward Ely. Ely raised his hands, preparing for a fight. For his sake, Gerry and Dawkin came between them.

  “Ely, apologize!” Dawkin demanded.

  “Never! I say we do as I proposed. Ascend. Four brothers. Let us put an end to this charade,” Ely insisted.

  “It was Father’s will we act as one,” Symon retorted. He pushed Gerry aside. “You hear me? His will. That we act as one. As Prince Jameson.”

  “Father is dead! He is dead!” Ely exclaimed.

  “He’s dead because of us!”

  The three stopped. They swung around to find Gerry atop the Fourpointe Table, staring them down. The wine had pooled at his feet to soak into the suede of his finest boots. Yet he did not care. His stare – and the anger that came with it – diverted all his focus, all his energy, towards his brothers.

  “It’s not the work of the Ibians. Or the nobles. Or some fox. Father is dead because we failed him. Every one of us.”

  “Gerry,” Ely began, dumbfounded. “Have you gone mad?”

  “No more than you. The three of you.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Dawkin inquired. “We don’t even know who killed him, or how that person or persons came so close to him. On two separate occasions no less. How can you think to blame the lot of us when we still don’t know what happened?”

  “It’s precisely for that reason that we’re responsible.”

  “Brother.” Symon extended his hand. He motioned for Gerry to step from the table, concern spread across his face. “Come. Get down from there.”

  “I’ll stay and you’ll listen.”

  “Very, well, Gerry. Very well. Say your piece.”

  “Father sprung the news of King Felix’s visit on us. Which meant he hid it. Why?”

  “I assume he didn’t want us to overthink the situation,” Ely ventured. “Plus, he probably didn’t want to hear us drone on and on about him promising us to Princess Taresa without our consent. Not that there is anything about her to protest.”