The old hardwood gates of Gruen creaked open, and the procession from Briganta, by way of Wargsdale, passed through in solemn tread, led by a great black draft horse pulling the wagon bearing Ceryd’s coffin. Behind it rode Una and Cerenid, side by side, wan and weary from the long road, their countenances carved in ash and grief.
From her window overlooking the gate, Regent Fia beheld their coming and hastened down, clinging still to the vain hope that her firstborn was merely delayed. Yet when she came upon them, one glance upon their countenances dashed that hope to ruin. Stepping to the wagon, unsteadied by shock, she climbed onto it with the aid of a footman. With a trembling hand she pulled back the banner covering a modest pine box.
“Open it!” she commanded.
The footman bowed. “My Lady, I must warn—”
“I said open it!”
Neither Cerenid nor Una intervened, their faces relinquished to the storm of a mother’s grief.
With a groan of nails and splinters, the footman pried the lid loose and slid it aside. Fia stood firm, looking down upon the remains of her beloved son, seeing only a pile of blackened bones and a skull, less menacing and more humble in its fleshless expression. She gasped, then wept in a full flood. Her beautiful son, the wellspring of her pride, the product of her youth, the only goodness to spring from her union with Cleon— the heart of Gruen’s future would no longer beat. All her hope was extinguished. Though his nature was closer to that of his father’s, in his living face she saw her own. She loved him most between her sons, for only his strength and decisiveness could calm her worry. Now, before her eyes, his noble visage was reduced to eternal desperation.
Fia descended from the wagon, her limbs unsure and weak. Una dismounted to help her, and there upon the cobbles they embraced with long faces, grief entwined as kin and fate.
The remains of Ceryd Rex were carefully set into a proper coffin and placed on the altar of the temple, remaining there for seven days. Candles burned at every hour and chants echoed through the vaulted hall. On the seventh day he was carried by twelve sworn men into the catacombs beneath the keep, and there interred beside the kings of old. And the golden crown of Methundor Rex was placed by the high priestess upon Cerenid’s head, although it did rest upon his brow somewhat askew. And those who attended the crowning whispered: “May The One breathe fire into the brother.”
In the moments before his first counsel, Kethu, feeble and withered, was helped to Cerenid’s side at the long table by a servant, and the two sat alone in the antechamber, silent for some time. Then Sol moved through the sky and it’s rays, shined through the window, falling upon and brightening the old Aeonite.
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Seizing this, Cerenid asked, his voice low and uncertain, “what wouldst thou advise me, steward?”.
Kethu pondered long, hands trembling with great age. In a voice as thin and brittle as parchment he whispered, “always beware the first who cometh making demands rather than offerings. For he hath loyalty neither to thee nor unto Gruen, but only unto himself.”
Soon after, the doors of the chamber swung wide. Entered the Master of Coin, then Captain Menek and Gedain, and after them, Olian with the lesser thegns. Fia came last, saying no word, acknowledging no man, and sat in cold silence. Absent was Una, her presence forbidden for her allegiance and standing in Dregrove, though Cerenid was not consulted on whether she should be admitted.
Throughout the council, Gedain spoke little, sitting with hands folded, eyes never straying far from Cerenid’s face. He watched him as a hawk might watch a rabbit. Once, when Cerenid faltered in speech, Gedain’s eyes glinted, though whether in contempt or calculation none who say could say.
The matters of state were debated for many hours, yet to Cerenid, each word sounded distant, as hollow as some foreign language uttered by haggling merchants. And when the matters of state were finally discussed at length, the council was adjourned. Fia departed first, yet silent, still stricken. The others followed, save Olian, who lingered until only he and Kethu— now asleep in his chair— remained with the young rex.
Olian stepped close, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “My Lord, we must act ere Mendo passes and Madrot becomes reik. Grant me a dozen riders and we shall fall upon him in Dregrove and finish what justice hath not.”
Cerenid frowned. “Was justice not already rendered?” Would you have my brother’s death be for nought?”
“No, my Lord. No.” Olian’s face flushed deep with vehemence. “It was no justice but a Blodwin contrivance that slew your brother. I seek vengeance upon them… for your brother… and to restore the honour of Gruen.”
Upon saying this, his fist struck the table, making the cups rattle.
“I will ponder it,” Cerenid answered, almost meekly.
“Yes, my Lord, ponder it. Yet heed carefully the counsel thou keepest.”
“You refer to my aunt?”
Olian’s eyes flashed. “Aye, Una. Though she appears prudent and measured, her loyalty bends to Dregrove, not to Gruen.”
Cerenid straightened. “I assure you I shall ponder it faithfully,” he replied more firmly.
Olian probed Cerenid’s eyes for a hint of his leaning. Not finding what he was searching for, he bowed stiffly and withdrew. When the chamber door closed and the footsteps faded, Kethu stirred in his chair and whispered:
“When the door is opened, the knaves show their faces.”
Then he drifted back into uneasy sleep.
