“You’ve made some enemies today, boy.”
Relam turned and saw Oreius at the far end of the front porch, half hidden in shadow. “You made it!” he cried, stepping towards the sword master quickly. “Have you been there the whole time?”
“It would appear we need to keep working on that awareness drill,” Oreius observed drily. But there was a half-smile on his face and his eyes were twinkling merrily.
“I had a bit on my mind,” Relam replied peevishly. “What with that crowd of vultures-”
“Careful,” the old man murmured. “Don’t let on how much you despise them, not yet.”
“Right,” Relam agreed. “I should at least try to get through one day with them.”
“Precisely,” Oreius agreed, beginning to move towards the palace doors. “There will be time to annoy them and insult them later. I promise.”
Relam laughed. “Of course,” he agreed, following the old man. “But not today.”
“No,” Oreius agreed. “Today, we celebrate.”
Master and apprentice stepped into the banquet hall together, into the milling mass of nobles trying to get to their seats. Relam navigated the crowd skillfully, making his way to the ornate chair that was now his. Somewhere along the way, Oreius vanished, probably to find Tar and Yavvis.
When Relam sat down, the nobles sat down as well, almost immediately to avoid keeping the king waiting. All along the table, chairs scraped back then jerked forward as their occupants settled themselves. Relam noticed happily that the nearest eight seats were filled with the people he most wanted there. The lordlings and sword masters, the team that had fought with him at the Citadel and believed in him.
The moment the last of the guests had taken their seats, the servants’ entrances flew open and a parade of white clad cooks’ assistants marched out, pushing carts laden with trays. First came an assortment of soups, stews, and salads with fresh, crusty bread and six different cheeses. Relam had eaten a very light breakfast in anticipation of the sumptuous banquet and he dug in hungrily now, the others around the table following his example.
After the initial courses came the main courses, pushed along on large carts as they were delivered to the table. There was pork, wild fowl, succulent southern sea bass, and even, to Relam’s immense delight, a roast to choose from. Most of the guests refused to choose and merely sampled them all, exclaiming at the impressive spread.
Throughout the meal Relam was quiet for the most part, as were his friends. The predominant sound amongst them was that of dedicated eating. Further down the table, the Assembly and the Council insisted on ruining the banquet with talk of politics and the future of the kingdom. Another reason that Relam had deliberately surrounded himself with the younger crowd.
But as the plates were cleared away the lordlings began to talk more as well, wondering what was to come. Wondering how they would complete their training with D’Arnlo gone, wondering how the rest of his accomplices would be ferreted out. Cevet participated little in this talk, toying with his fork instead and gazing off into space.
Relam leaned forward, intending to reassure his friend that nothing had changed between them, that the actions of his father did not reflect at all on Cevet himself. But as he did, the doors of the banquet hall flew open, banging against the wall to either side with immense force.
Immediately, Relam, the lordlings, and the three sword masters were on their feet, weapons drawn, the others moving to form a protective ring around Relam. Then, they realized who had entered the hall and everyone froze, uncertain how to proceed. Then, Oreius broke the tableau by sheathing his sword.
Relam shook his head slowly in disbelief as Lord Clemon stepped quickly into the hall. The chatelain was wrapped in a brown traveling cloak and sturdy pants with a leather breastplate over top. His hair was tangled and matted and he had a weathered, beaten look to him, far from the stuffy noble that King Orram had dispatched weeks earlier.
“Your highness,” Clemon gasped, bowing, as he approached Relam. “I apologize for the intrusion and for my state of appearance, but I have urgent news for your father. I was told the king was here,” he added, looking around the hall quickly. “Has he stepped out for a moment?”
“No,” Relam said quietly, grief welling up in his chest.
“Then where is he? This is urgent, my boy!”
“He’s gone, Marc,” Relam replied.
“Gone? You mean . . .” Clemon sucked in a quick breath and looked up at the crown on Relam’s head. “Oh! Your majesty,” he breathed, tears filling his narrow eyes. “I had no idea. Word had not reached Ardia when I left and . . . please accept my humble condolences, my king. Your father was a good man. A good king. I-”
“You had news for the king, Clemon?” Oreius interrupted pointedly.
“Oh, yes,” Clemon said, raking a hand through his tangled hair. His eyebrows drew together worriedly and he bit his lip. “Your majesty . . . I bring grave news from the south.”
A dead weight seemed to settle in Relam’s stomach. He took Clemon by the arm and led him away from the celebration a little ways. “Tell me everything,” he murmured in an undertone when they were out of earshot.
Epilogue
King Orram was buried the following day. The ceremony was simple, very similar to the queen’s, but no less powerful or moving. Most of Etares had made their way to the palace gardens to witness the event and watch their fallen king as he made his final journey to join his ancestors.
Relam walked behind the casket alone this time. Alone, save for Narin and the guards
