I’ll have to do something about that.
At the top of the stairs, Therrador drew his sword from its bejeweled scabbard and offered it to the High Confessor. When Aurna accepted it, Therrador went to one knee, head bowed and hands clasped before his heart. The cheering and whistling ceased as the blare of trumpets ended, echoes fading to silence a few seconds later.
Therrador closed his eyes; butterflies fluttered in his stomach. So many years of being the faithful servant, of waiting and planning, finally coming to fruition. He thought of Graymon, and of his poor, lost Seerna. He’d never forgive Braymon for what happened to her, but here was his vengeance, and he hadn’t raised a sword. When he imagined these moments, they tasted sweet-not so now. The specter of Graymon’s abduction clouded his mind, stealing enjoyment from every thought and deed. He drew a deep breath.
It occurred to him the throngs would think him praying as he knelt there like a good, Gods-fearing king should. He was praying, of a fashion, but not for the things which they’d want their king to pray. He prayed for Graymon and that the Archon would hold to her word. He silently told the Gods he’d give the entire kingdom away to get his son back safely.
The priest spoke, interrupting Therrador’s thoughts.
“Earth and Wind, Fire and Water,” he intoned in a deep voice practiced at addressing crowds. “The elements, the Gods, have brought before us this day our new king, to guide us and lead us in these troubled times.”
A neophyte appeared beside Aurna to take Therrador’s sword from the High Confessor. A second boy gave the priest a wooden box intricately carved with scrollwork on all four sides. Aurna opened the lid on ancient, creaking hinges, put his hand in and came out with a fistful of soil.
“Earth supports us, gives us food and hope as the king supports us, loves us, provides for us.” He waved his hand toward Therrador sending a spray of soil first across one shoulder then the other as he remained head bowed and eyes closed. “By Earth, with Earth, do you vow to provide for and love your kingdom and all its people?”
Therrador raised his head and opened his eyes.
“As king, I swear by Earth.”
Aurna nodded and returned the chest to the apprentice, brushing dirt from his soft white hands before the boy closed the lid. The next neophyte came to the High Confessor’s side and handed him a wooden tube. Aurna accepted it without removing his gaze from the man kneeling before him.
“Wind guides us and moves us, brings us weather and seasons as the king guides us and steers us through times of feast and famine, abundance and drought, war and peace.” He pressed the wooden tube to his lips and blew through it onto Therrador’s face. His breath smelled of last night’s wine and a bit of spittle landed on Therrador’s cheek. “By Wind, with Wind, do you vow to guide and steer your kingdom and all its people no matter the season?”
Therrador swallowed, resisting the urge to wipe the saliva from his cheek. “As king, I swear by Wind.”
Aurna nodded and passed the tube back to the apprentice, then received a lit torch from another. The torch guttered and spat in the still air, sending black smoke swirling toward the ceiling.
“Fire warms us and lights us, keeps darkness and cold at bay in the deepest night, protects us from all it holds as the king holds us close and keeps us from evil.” The High Confessor touched the torch first to Therrador’s right forearm, then his left. The kerosene spread upon them before the ceremony burst into flame. The crowd gasped. Therrador held his arms to the side keeping the flames from his face. “By Fire, with Fire, do you vow to be the light of your kingdom and keep the evils in the dark from your people?”
“As king, I swear by Fire.”
A sheen of sweat shone on Therrador’s brow and cheeks. It was good Water was the next God to be addressed. As another neophyte appeared, handing Aurna an ewer filled with clear water, the flames on Therrador’s arms faded leaving a layer of black soot on his previously dazzling armor. He cursed to himself.
“Water gives us life, replenishes us and strengthens us as the king lends us strength and keeps us alive.”
Therrador tipped his head back as Aurna lifted the ewer. The High Confessor sent a thin stream of cool water trickling over Therrador’s face, running down his neck and under his armor. It felt good after the fire, refreshing, but would be uncomfortable until it dried.
“By Water, with Water, do you vow to give your life to strengthen your kingdom and all its people?”
“As king, I swear by Water.”
He lowered his head, looked at Aurna, and felt the droplets of water running off his face. The High Confessor looked back at him with bloodshot eyes brought on by last night’s wine. The church guarded Aurna’s secret indulgences like a new born babe, but the king must know all for it might come in handy one day.
As a final apprentice took the ewer, the High Confessor raised his arms above his head, hands spread open, palms facing Therrador.
“By the Gods Earth and Wind, Fire and Water, the givers of life, the takers of life; the Gods see all and know all, and now they know Therrador as king, regent of Erechania, Protector of the Realm, the Life of the People.”
Aurna stepped away from the new monarch, hands still held above his head. No one in the hall made a sound as the High Confessor disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the dais and Lord Emon Turesti, Chancellor of the High Council, stepped out to take his place.
Turesti wore the red robe trimmed in white ermine denoting his office; a golden belt adorned with jewels of many colors, no two alike, encircled his waist. The chancellor carried a great sword in his hands, six and a half feet long and gleaming gold. The Sword of the Realm, the Chooser of Kings. Its edge honed daily by a master, the sword saw little work these days. Two decades had passed since it last chose a king and, under Braymon, beheadings became scarce. With war happening, the Sword of the Realm would see more work in the future as there were always traitors and enemies to be made examples of during wartime.
Therrador, still kneeling, swallowed hard as Turesti stood before him; the water Aurna splashed upon him had collected at the small of his back, causing him discomfort.
Thank the Gods this will soon be over.
“The Gods have given their blessings, Therrador Montmarr,” Turesti began, his voice surprisingly loud and strong from a man so slight and frail. “But it is the Chooser of Kings who passes final judgment. Are you ready to be judged, Therrador Montmarr?”
“I am ready.” Therrador kept his voice steady with effort. If he didn’t flinch, if the blade didn’t draw blood, he’d be confirmed king.
Therrador wondered if he should trust Turesti, who held his fate in his hands. If the chancellor didn’t want Therrador to be king, all he need do was touch the sharp edge to his flesh and all would be at an end. Bringing the blade down on the right spot meant everything. A hair’s breadth to one side or the other could mean the kingship, or death.
Too late for worry now.
Therrador breathed deep and held it, readying himself as Turesti raised the blade above his head, thin arms shaking with the effort. Sweat broke on Therrador’s brow. Perhaps it wasn’t trust he needed to worry about, but strength. Could the frail man wield the sword? It was the chancellor’s job, no one else’s.
The great hall fell into deeper silence as the crowd held their breath along with the man who’d soon be their king. Therrador bowed his head but kept his eyes on Turesti’s shadow to see the blow when it came.
Light glinted on the blade and it made a faint whistle as it sliced the air. Therrador gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bunching. The clang of metal meeting metal rang through the still hall. Therrador didn’t move.