“Sir King,” she said, standing. “They tell me breakfast is ready downstairs, or someone will bring it—”
“I’ll go down,” he said. One of the King’s Squires went ahead of him; Paks moved to his side as if he’d commanded her; the other King’s Squires fell in behind. “You did sleep last night?” he said to Paks.
“Enough,” she said. He eyed her. She was still much as she had been when he first saw her. Yet … not. She had been just another recruit, and now she was Gird’s paladin. Not, as she had pointed out, his to command any longer. “Captain Dorrin’s awake; she has a report on the cohort for you.”
“I wonder if Sir Ammerlin made it safely back to Vérella.” More than that, he wondered what the Tsaian Council would do, with one of its dukes now king of a neighboring domain and another proven traitor.
Paks did not quite shrug; he could sense her lack of interest in these things. Her quest had been to find Lyonya’s king; she had done so; now she had a respite before, he assumed, Gird sent her somewhere else.
In the passage outside the dining hall, a group of Lyonyan nobles milled about as if waiting for something to happen. He saw Dorrin, looking faintly amused, standing to one side, and a smaller group of elves even farther away.
“The king,” announced the lead King’s Squire, and everyone stepped back, bowing, murmuring greetings.
“Good morning,” Kieri said. He could think of nothing else to say. Apparently that was enough, because the doors to the dining hall opened and he led the way in. A man in the green castle livery bowed him to a seat at one end of a table large enough, he thought, to hold fencing matches on … far too large for breakfast … and by the time everyone was seated, it was only half full, if that.
Breakfast, in Lyonya, meant hot breads, butter and honey, soft cheeses, fruit. None of the porridge he was used to, no meats, no eggs. He made no requests, wanting to know first what was expected. The talk at table was general, casual—nobles asked after each other’s children, or discussed the likelihood of a good crop of wheat this year. Nothing of substance, and nothing addressed specifically to him. When he felt almost full, another tray came in, this one holding rolls of flaky pastry tied with thin green ribbons. One was placed before him, and then before each of the others. Silence fell. Kieri regarded the pastry roll; the others looked at theirs, and then at him.
He picked it up, unwrapped the ribbon, and took a cautious bite. Pastry crumbs scattered, as the others did the same. One of the nobles—Sier Belvarin, he thought he recalled—turned to him.
“Sir King, we really should begin planning your coronation.”
So … the pastry rolls were a signal that business could be discussed? That the king could be addressed? He nodded at Belvarin.
“You know that I am not familiar with all your customs and traditions—what do you suggest?”
Glances passed back and forth across the table. “Well …” Belvarin seemed reluctant to go on. Kieri waited. “The period of deep mourning for the late king has passed, but by custom—”
“Not that it matters,” another noble spoke up. “Your coronation must supersede—”
“We must respect—” another began.
“Excuse me,” Kieri said. Silence fell; they all looked at him. He felt a moment’s amusement. The former king had been sick a long time and perhaps had never been a commanding presence. He would have to be careful not to startle these men with his parade-ground voice too often. “If there is a traditional period of mourning for the death of your king, or ceremonies to be performed, that must be respected.”
The impatient one opened his mouth and shut it again. Sier Belvarin looked relieved. “It would be—it would be appreciated, Sir King, if it suits you …”
“How long is the official mourning?” If they would not follow hints, he would ask directly.
“Four hands of days in deep mourning, during which no official business can be done except for emergencies. Sending the paladin to search for the heir was deemed an emergency.”
“And then?”
“Four more hands of days preparing for the transfer of kingship, but that does not start until the king is chosen. As you are here now, that period can begin. With the ceremony usually performed on the fifth or tenth day after that.”
“Surely there is a ceremony of mourning, which the new king should attend—”
Glances again shifted around the table. “Well … yes …” Belvarin said reluctantly. “But as custom requires, he was interred on the fifth day …”
“I must do something,” Kieri said. “He was my relative on my father’s side, though I never knew him. I have had no chance to honor or grieve for any of them—my parents, my sister, the others—”
Paks, down the table, nodded at him; he could see for himself that the other nobles and even the elves were relaxing a shade more.
Belvarin’s brow furrowed. “Sir King, you would wish to combine all these into one ceremony?”
“I do not know your traditions,” Kieri said again. “I depend on you for guidance—but surely the late king’s memory must be honored now, before I am crowned.”
“It would be better,” said one of the elves, “if the other ceremonies—at least for the elfborn and half-elven—were separate, since their deaths were long ago in your human terms. Each life deserves its own measure of respect; they are not kindling wood, to be bundled together.”
A few shocked looks from the human nobles, but no disagreement.
“Thank you,” Kieri said. “I mean no disrespect and will be guided by your counsel—all of you—in this matter. Now, Sier Belvarin, tell me what is appropriate in the matter of the former king.”
“It is what we call laying the boughs,” Belvarin said. “It can be public or private, with someone to guide you through the ritual, but it should be soon.”
“I will be ready whenever you say,” Kieri said.
“And then your coronation …” Belvarin said.
“I see no need to rush,” Kieri said. “At the regular time, after the days of preparation. You are not like to change your minds, I hope?”
A quick murmur of negatives.
“You came on an auspicious day,” Belvarin said. “Forty-five days after he died. And four hands more brings us five days from the Spring Evener. Your coronation could be on the Spring Evener or another day that hand.” Then, seeing Kieri’s expression, he went on. “Nine times a hand, Sir King—the elves consider nine auspicious for deeds of power.”
Kieri nodded; he knew the elves cared far more about numbers for their own sake than any other race.
“This is, I presume, an unusual—perhaps a unique—situation in your history?”
“It is indeed,” Sier Halveric said. Though he was Aliam Halveric’s elder brother, he looked younger and sleeker—he had not spent his life leading an army in battle, Kieri thought. “For that reason, it is my belief your coronation must be more elaborate—”
“We must consider our resources—” Sier Galvary said.
Kieri had no idea what resources Lyonya commanded. What did a kingdom covered with forest and full of elves and a few humans produce? He had only the vaguest memory of seeing goods identified as coming from Lyonya in Tsaian markets. Where else could they trade? What did they trade? Aliam Halveric had taught him long ago that finance was the foundation of a successful mercenary company—or steading—or kingdom.
“Excuse me,” he said. They all fell silent again. “I was last here as a youth, a young man—living with Aliam Halveric as his squire, and then in Falk’s Hall preparing for knighthood. I apologize for knowing so little about your—our—land, but I have no idea what these resources are. You will need to instruct me … it is not my intent to ruin the land before I know it well, by undue extravagance, but on the other hand, your honor is due some ceremony.”