She nodded, trying to appear comforted.
“Royce and I will get him,” Hadrian said.
“I think I should be one of his pallbearers as well,” Mauvin said, and followed them out.
They returned with his body and gently laid it on a golden table. Arista draped a blanket over him, and they gathered around it in a circle.
“Dear Maribor, our eternal father,” Myron began, “we are gathered here to say farewell to our brother Alric Essendon. We ask that you remember him and see him across the river to the land of the dawn.” He looked to Arista, whose eyes were already tearing again.
“Alric was my broth-” She stopped short as tears overtook her. Hadrian put his arm around her shoulders.
“Alric was my best friend,” Mauvin continued. “My third brother, I always said. He was my rival for women, my fellow conspirator in plans of adventure, my prince, and my king. He was crowned before his time, but we did not know then how little time he had left. He ruled in an era of terror and he ruled well. He showed valor and courage befitting a king right to the end.” He paused and looked down at the blanketed form and laid a hand on Alric’s chest. “The crown is off now, Alric. You are free of it at last.” Mauvin wiped the tears from his face.
“Does anyone else-” Myron began when Gaunt stepped forward, and all eyes turned cautiously toward him.
“I just wanted to say”-he paused a moment-“I was wrong about you.” He hesitated for several seconds, as if he might say more, and then glanced awkwardly at the others before stepping back. “That’s all.”
Myron looked to Arista again.
“He’s fine,” she said simply while nodding. “At least I know that.”
“And so, Lord,” Myron continued with a bowed head, “we say farewell to our king, our brother, and our good friend. May the light of a new dawn rise upon his soul.”
Myron then began the song of final blessing, and all of them, even Magnus, joined in. Unto Maribor, I beseech thee Into the hands of god, I send thee Grant him peace, I beg thee Give him rest, I ask thee May the god of men watch over your journey.
Mauvin stepped out of the tomb into the crypt and returned with a dusty crown, which he lay upon Alric’s chest. “Sometimes the price of dreams is achieving them.”
Arista could not stay any longer. She felt like she was suffocating and walked out into the crypt. Entering one of the alcoves, she crouched down and hid behind one of the sarcophagi. She sat with her back in the crux of the corner. Her knees were up, and once settled, she let herself cry. She shook so hard that her back bounced against the wall. Tears ran down her face. She let them run unabated, dripping onto the robe, which dimmed until it went out.
She wanted to believe that when Gaunt blew the horn it had stopped the elves, that perhaps they had heard and were coming to dig them out, but it felt like a lie. She was deluding herself because there was nothing else to hope for, nothing to expect beyond despair. In the darkness, she laid her head down on her arms and cried until she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 23
The booming thunder continued shaking the walls and the floors beneath their feet as the metalsmith hammered the last rivet into the helm. The old man’s face was etched with deep lines partially hidden behind a mass of gray bristles, a beard he had no time to shave away. “There you are, lad. As fine a helm as you’ll find. It will take care of you. Protect that noggin of yours right well. War is upon us, my boy, but don’t worry-that’s only thunder yer hearing.”
“It’s their thunder,” Renwick replied.
The metalsmith looked at him curiously for a moment; then Renwick saw fear cross the man’s face as he put the pieces together.
“Yer the boy, aren’t you? The one who warned us? The one who rode up ahead of the elven army. You’ve seen ’em, haven’t you?”
Renwick shook his head. “Not me, but yes, my friend did.”
“Did he tell you what the devils look like? Rumor has it anyone seeing an elf turns to stone.”
“No, but I wouldn’t turn an ear to their music.”
“You’re Breckton’s squire now, eh? Aide-de-camp to the marshal-at-arms?”
Renwick shrugged. “I don’t even know what an aide-de-camp is.”
The old smith chuckled, wiping the sweat from his face with a filthy cloth as overhead an especially loud roll of thunder boomed. Renwick felt it in his chest.
“An adjutant,” the smith told him. Renwick shrugged again. “You’re like his butler, messenger, and squire all rolled into one, except you’re more like an assistant than a servant, which means you’ll get some respect.”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever he says, lad-whatever he says.”
Renwick placed the helm on his head. It fit snug around the forehead and the thick batten felt soft and cushioning. He banged his head with the heel of his fist. The helm absorbed the blow. He felt almost nothing.
“It’s good.”
“You’ll be all right. Now get back to Breckton. I have more work to do, as I suspect you do too.”
Outside, the streets were wet; warmer air had melted some of the snow. Icicles dripped, sounding like rain, as overhead the sky swirled and thunder crashed.
He jumped a large puddle but did not account for the added weight of the armor. He had never worn any before. It was only a breastplate and helm, but with the shield and sword added, it was enough to throw off his balance. He came up short and splashed in the middle, soaking his foot with ice-cold water. He felt foolish holding the shield as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. The other soldiers wore shields slung on their backs. He paused in the street, examining the straps and trying to determine how to do that, when a flash of lightning arced across the sky and he heard a terrible crack. People on the street ducked into doorways, their eyes skyward. This got him moving again and he jogged the rest of the way to Imperial Square.
Men filled the open area. Soldiers and knights sat on the dry sections of cobblestone or stood in puddles. He worked his way in, trying not to hit anyone with either his shield or his sword. Renwick felt conspicuous. Men with missing teeth and scarred faces glared at him as he picked his way through the crowd. He felt a heat building on his skin, his face flushing with embarrassment as he realized how ridiculous he must look. Renwick knew he did not belong there and so did they.
“Renwick! Over here, lad!” He heard a familiar voice and saw Sir Elgar waving from the center of the square. Never before had he been happy to see him.
“Make room!” Elgar bellowed, and kicked Sir Gilbert and Sir Murthas until they shifted over. Renwick quickly sat down, trying to become invisible.
“Here, lad.” Elgar took the shield from him. “Carry it like this.” He pulled his arm out roughly and slipped the long strap over his shoulder. “A lot easier that way.”
“Thanks,” he said, making sure his sword lay flat behind him and was not in anyone’s way. Suddenly he felt a jolt as Elgar struck him hard in the chest with his fist like a hammer. Renwick rocked back and looked up, stunned.
“Good armor!” The knight grinned at him and nodded.
A moment later Murthas drew his dagger and hit him hard with the pommel. The sound rang and again Renwick rocked back, shocked, but unharmed. “Excellent.”
“Stop!” Renwick shouted, looking at them fearfully.
The two laughed.
“Tradition, boy,” Elgar told him. “It is good luck to have new armor tested by friends before enemies. Just praise Novron we’re sitting down!”
“Aye!” Sir Gilbert said. “When I got my first helm, Sir Biffard rang it so hard I passed out, but I woke up in the care of Lady Bethany, so I can attest to the good luck of a sound beating on new armor!”
The knights all laughed again.
“Who is this pup?” the man seated across from Renwick asked. His blond hair came nearly to his shoulders, his blue eyes as bright as sapphires. He wore ornate armor inlaid with gold designs of ivy and roses. Over his shoulders he wore a purple velvet cape, held by a solid-gold broach.