lines of folk, some of whom had traveled for a day to be here, filed past.
Then the procession began again after two candlemarks, stopping twice more for two more memorial ceremonies. And at long last, they entered the Gates of the Palace. By then, they were all exhausted, even those who had only joined the procession when it entered Haven.
Sendar was to be interred in the crypt beneath the floor of the Palace Chapel, along with the rest of his line; all was in readiness there, and had been, presumably, for days. The Guard now marched off to their barracks, leaving a much shrunken company to enter the chapel behind the coffin. They all filed inside, where at least it was possible for those who had been walking for so long to sit down.
Candles had already been lit all over the chapel although the last light penetrated the western windows, and the interior was overly warm, with the golden and reddish light making it appear warmer still. Incense warred with the scent of lilies for supremacy. The chapel was packed solid, shoulder to shoulder; Alberich, who had been riding all day rather than walking, took a standing position up against the wall beside the Royal pew. He was glad to be there, truth to tell; the stone wall felt cool against his back.
It could have been awful; speaker after interminable speaker eulogizing the King, until grief turned to benumbed boredom. And that would have been a terrible thing to do to Selenay. But someone had been wise; there were no interminable eulogies, only a few, brief speeches by those who had known and loved Sendar the best, punctuated by some of the most glorious music that Alberich had ever heard. Not for nothing was this also the site of Bardic Collegium; the Bards had exerted themselves to the utmost, and even though he had thought that the depths of his grief had been plumbed and exhausted, it was the music that brought tears again to his eyes. Anyone who could have listened to such music and not wept must have had a heart of stone.
Needless to say, when it came time for the last of the speakers—Selenay—she mounted the podium with reddened eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. But her voice was clear and steady as she spoke.
'Sendar was my King as well as my father,' she said simply. 'He was outstanding at both tasks. It can't have been easy to rule this unruly land of ours, and at the same time govern an ungovernable child, being father and mother to her—but he did it, and did it well. I will spend the rest of my life missing him; wishing he could be here to see—so many things. I suspect Valdemar will miss his steady hands on the reins, too. I can only pray that I can be as wise and compassionate a ruler as he was; I doubt very much if I can ever equal him as a parent. And I would gladly give my own life to have our positions reversed.' She raised her head a little. 'Nevertheless, such a sacrifice demands more than just words; it demands deeds. It demands that we be worthy of it; it demands that we all go beyond what we think is enough, making our own sacrifices in the name of a better life for all of Valdemar. That, in the truest essence, is what he did. That is what I will do. That is what he would expect of all of us; he deserves, and should have, nothing less than excellence as a fitting tribute to his memory. Only then can we be worthy of such a great and terrible gift—the life of a King.'
She sat down in silence. And it seemed to Alberich that she had surprised many of her listeners—nonplussed some—and actually startled others. They were not sure how to react to her. This was not the speech of a young woman, overwhelmed with grief, that they had expected to hear....
More music filled the silence, then, a final prayer, and the service was over. A small and very intimate party followed the coffin down into the crypt for the final interment; Alberich was not part of that procession, nor did he wish to be. He had been an integral part of a funeral that had stretched on for far too long, from the Border to Haven, and—meaning no disrespect to Sendar's memory—he was weary of it, and wanted only to rest.
:Believe me, Selenay feels the same,: Kantor told him, the weariness in his mind-voice clear as cut crystal. :She's going straight to bed, and she told Caryo that she is going to sleep for a week. We're already bedded down, and Caryo and I intend to stay here and rest. I told Caryo to stay as long as Selenay stays asleep.:
:Good,: he said, and meant it. He remained where he was only long enough to see them all emerge from the crypt, see that the Seneschal cut short the line of those wishing to offer condolences, and watch Selenay vanish through the private door at the rear of the chapel that led straight into the Royal Suite with Talamir, Crathach, and the Seneschal in close attendance. Then he made good his own escape. Perhaps he should have stayed to listen to the Court gossip and read what he could out of expressions and what was not said, but—
—but that, frankly, was Talamir's job.
Then he recalled what Talamir had looked like, and wondered if Talamir was even capable of descending to such mundane and petty depths now. All right. I had better start to learn it. But not tonight.
The air in the chapel had been warm, and now it felt stifling; too hot, too heavy with the mingled scents of candle wax, incense, and lilies. He was only too glad to get out into the night. It was sultry and humid out there, but not as suffocating as the Chapel had been.
And he was unsurprised to be intercepted at the door by Dethor, who must have stationed himself right at the exit. He'd sensed the old Weaponsmaster lurking somewhere about, but he figured that Dethor would wait until he was free before greeting him.
'By your Sunlord, boy, it is good to see you,' was all the old man said, but Alberich felt something inside him warm at the welcome. He seized Alberich's shoulders in both hands, and stared into his eyes, while the last few mourners filed out of the chapel door behind them. 'I wish I could tell you just how good it is.'
'I think that I may know, for as good it is to see you,' he replied quietly, and sighed. 'A thousand things, I
