At the ninth hour, Relam moved out into the main room of the royal suite to wait for the escort to the funeral. His father was not there yet, and Relam wondered briefly if anyone had thought to make sure the king would be ready. He glanced at a water clock on the far wall, measuring the time critically. There was less than an hour until Narin and his guards were due to arrive.
The hour passed incredibly slowly, each minute seeming to last forever. Relam started out sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Then, he paced the room agitatedly, picking up random objects and putting them down again. Then he returned to the chair and sat there for a while longer, brooding. And all too soon he was up and pacing again.
Fifteen minutes had come and gone. Relam was thoroughly bored and vaguely annoyed by now. He rummaged through the wood basket beside the fireplace and built a small fire for amusement. But once he got it started, the young prince was quickly reminded that they were in the midst of summer and the heat outside was suffocating enough without a fire. Unfortunately, there was no water on hand to put the small blaze out so Relam pushed the burning sticks away from each other and waited for them to burn themselves out. When the fire was out, he glanced at the water clock again. The distraction of the fire had lasted all of fifteen minutes, which left another thirty until Narin’s arrival. And still no sign of his father.
Relam stood and moved to the door of his father’s room. He knocked tentatively and, when no answer was forthcoming, kicked the solid wood portal in annoyance. That elicited no response either, so he tried the latch, only to find it locked securely from the inside. Frustrated, Relam tried the door to his mother’s sickroom next. It was also locked, and nothing Relam said or did drew a response from beyond the impassive face of the door.
Finally, the hour came when Narin was due to arrive. At precisely the tenth hour, a knock came at the door.
“Enter,” Relam called.
The door swung open and Narin marched in, leading a double file of eight palace guards, turned out in their dress armor and golden cloaks.
“Your highness, it is time.”
Relam nodded and stood, moving to join Narin. The guard commander’s gaze was sad and understanding. He rested a sympathetic hand on Relam’s shoulder and squeezed it gently.
“I know the pain,” he said softly. “We all do. We are with you, your highness.”
Relam smiled wanly, grateful for their support. “Thank you, Narin. Have you seen my father?”
“Is he not here?” Narin replied, frowning worriedly.
“I can’t get any response from any of the rooms,” Relam said, shrugging.
Narin crossed to the king’s room and hammered on the door with a gauntleted fist. “Your majesty? We’re here to escort you to the funeral.”
There was a brief pause, then the door swung open. Relam half expected his father to be clad in the same rumpled, stained clothes he had been wearing since the queen’s death. But the king had managed to stir himself to clean up for the occasion, wearing black breeches, a white shirt, a black doublet, and a silver cape. The crown was on his head, slightly askew, glittering in the light from the lanterns arranged around the room.
“Are you ready, your majesty?” Narin asked, prompting the king towards the door.
Relam’s father made no reply, merely taking up a position beside Relam in the column of soldiers. Relam turned to Narin, shrugged, and gestured for the guard commander to lead the way. Narin hesitated for the briefest moment, then left the royal suite, followed by Relam, the king, and the guards.
The young prince followed the guard commander mechanically, putting one foot in front of the other, doing his best not to trip, to stay at the same pace as those around him and not break formation. His father marched along stoically beside him, saying nothing.
They followed Narin down to the palace gardens, overlooking the Furnier River. The paving stones were still damp and strewn with puddles from the previous day’s storm, and gray clouds hovered above, threatening more rain. By the time Relam and his father arrived, the mourners had already gathered. Relam recognized most of the faces he saw. Many he wished had not come, such as the Garenes family. Every face bore a suitably sad and compassionate expression, but Relam wondered if perhaps the murderer was somewhere in the midst of the mourners, filled with triumph on this terrible day.
As the royal party passed, the mourners bowed and murmured greetings. The king made no reply and neither did Relam, marching stoically on towards the high stone table in the center of the gardens that bore his mother’s coffin. The table was twined with flowering vines and bedecked with blossoms, though how this had all been done since the rain stopped was a mystery to Relam. He stopped before the open coffin with his father and bowed his head.
His mother lay there serenely, hands clasped across her stomach, her face relaxed and free from the lines of pain and suffering that the last year had etched there. In her state of graceful repose, she appeared to be sleeping. But Relam knew better. He knew that this was the last time he would see
