TWENTY-THREE
“THE RIGAN IS dead! The rigan is dead! Hail the new rigan! Long may he live!”
The cry echoed repeatedly over Faerwyn-Joss until the very air rang with it. The saddened faces of the entire populace—mired in the shadows of gloom and death—gradually shifted and looked to their future leader. The bier of Odrim remained above the earth for all to see, yet this would be the last time any would look upon his mortal remains.
The line of mournful watchers was a great host, stretching out as far as the eye could see. It weaved down through the hills surrounding the ancient castle of the Sids until it reached the sea. Then it continued along the shore to the towering heights of Ben Rishel, white-capped and shimmering in the distance. There, on the sands of Brynn-Jurish—in the ancient tongue, the Gate of Heaven—it stopped at last. There would Odrim’s final journey begin. There would his earthly vessel join once more with the elements: with the wind as flame and with the earth and sea as ash. He would become a well-loved and cherished memory.
Ashara stood with her kin, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears. On her right stood her brother, Shaan, his hand clasping hers. Though his face bore the stoic calm of the Swordkind, she knew his grief was no less. Yet he had the blessing of knowing his father for two hundred cycles, not the brief score of her allotted time.
To her left was Mendiko, son of her father’s brother, now third in House. With him was his betrothed, Shaleen of Reamur. How sad that death should dim their happiness. Her cousin’s eyes gazed out steadily, yet she knew he was troubled. Since the passing of his immediate family, the ancient castle of Sherlyn Faer-Van had been his home and Odrim like his father.
Beside her brother stood her other cousin, Reed Brynn-Jago, son of her mother’s brother and now chieftain of their clan. She had not seen him for three cycles, not since his posting to the Rim Fleet. He was a tall man with features much like hers, dressed in the black, flowing robes of an Adept of the Fifth Rank. His mouth remained set in a firm line, but knowing him as she did, she could see he struggled to keep his emotions in check.
These were her only kin, the last of the Sids. They were the hereditary rulers of Faerwyn-Joss, a line existing unbroken since the joining of the clans under her ancient ancestor, Kurdis. Yet many others had come whom she counted as friends. The Pat’Riark of Swords stood with head downcast, looking at the frail remains of the rigan, his eyes darkened by sad thoughts.
Surrounding the bier like a guard of honor stood the Ten, their staffs glittering with a subdued light of power. Close by was Lady Niobe, the sturdy arm of Deemus clasping her shoulders.
A little apart, yet near the forefront stood House Mondragon. Them she had deliberately avoided, though she had noticed the questing glance of the archduke pass over her many times. Zel was beside him, in company with the ever-present duo of D’ia Mor.
Baroness Georgina stood motionless and subdued, her eyes studiously avoiding all others. It did not matter to Ashara. Her grief blotted out any other emotion—even hate.
Of the Grimman-Seth hierarchy, only two had come: Vull, First Talon of the High Halcyon War Clan, and Hye, First Talon of the Terg Clan. They stood apart, cloaked and wordless. Neither bore a growler—a contrived lack sparing them the necessity of offering commiserations.
Arturo de la Vega, Conde of the Fourth Wen, stood slightly apart, his squat, bloated form seeming out of place amongst the gathering. He alone of all the wenlords was not of the sword, and rarely did he leave his palace in Largo. His unsavory repuatation as a womanizer and worse was known throughout the Pentarchy. Yet at least he had made the effort to attend this sacred occasion, and she could find no fault with that.
A mighty host of Rudd astride their dolphins had collected upon the water near the shoreline, and a Fortress of Power rose majestically behind them. Most prominent were the High Lords of the Zuma. They had come in their entirety, each outfitted in the full regalia of his office and bearing the tined scepter. Only Frayle had come to the land dressed in the Sleef. He stood near the shore behind the line of Magi. His eyes, with their large and glittering irises, were enigmatic. He had been a frequent visitor to the court of Odrim in turns past. In the deep waters of Faerwyn-Joss, his clan had made their home.
Kronus stood with Arkadies Venn and the Chieftains of the Guild. Ashara recognized Riva Bard’s tall silhouette among them, and beside her stood F’Arundel.
The Gardai too had come, led by the Lord Marshal, massing in ranks five deep and forming an impassable cordon around the assembly of nobility.
There were those she knew who should have been there yet could not be, and one especially she longed to see. But this also was impossible. He faced a trial far greater than both her grief and her loss combined.
Ashara was uncertain how long she had stood there watching, but she knew she could not endure much more. “Please, Brother,” she sighed, “let us make an end to this.”
Shaan turned and raised his arm in a gesture of command. He was now both Rigan of Faerwyn-Joss and Pentarch of Solarian.
The gleaming staffs of the Magi burst into Flame as one, lighting the bier. Within seconds, it became an inferno of smoke and flames and fiery ash. Out over the land the sparks flew and gradually settled to earth. Others rode the stray currents out of sight. A few made it to the sea, falling at last into gentle eddies. They sizzled briefly and were gone.
The royal retainers heaped log upon log onto the fire until the blaze towered and the heat drove them back. And then there was no more wood to add. The flames receded, until they were nothing but glowing embers of charcoal and ash.
Odrim’s mortal form, like his spirit, had departed.
***
Night had fallen by the time the crowds dispersed. Those visitors closest to the family of Sid retired with them to the ancient castle.
They sat around the massive oval table in the center of the Great Hall, eating and drinking in a time-honored custom similar to Earth: friends gathered together in good company to honor memories of more joyous times. As the hours passed, the talk became more and more cheerful. Even Ashara smiled as she listened to glowing tales she had never heard, happening in times she had never known.
“I will remember him as he was in the Joining,” Fortunatus intoned, and the gladdened memory softened his features. “He was by then a great leader—a force to be reckoned with. He accepted graciously what must have seemed an awesome gift and an even greater responsibility: to become one of the chosen five realms of a great empire.”
“He was a worthy connoisseur of fine food and drink—the only man I ever met who matched me in his appreciation of these things.” Arkadies Venn sat in the rigan’s chair, it being the only one to bear his weight. His arm rose in salute. Clasped in his fist was a cup brimming with wine, which he smartly quaffed in toast. The others followed his example.
“He often came to the Hall of Scrolls in cycles past, asking about this tome or that. He had already amassed a sizable library here by then.” Kronus’ voice slurred now. He had partaken a goodly draught with each toast, so much the lids of his close-set eyes drooped.
“It is even larger now,” Shaan smiled at the Lord Chronicler. “I and my sister and my cousins have enjoyed many a happy hour within.”
“I will be glad to show it to you on the morrow,” Reed Brynn-Jago offered. He sat next to Ashara, his arm naturally draped around her shoulders. Now that they were together, the others marveled at their likeness. They could have been twins rather than cousins.
“How are you finding your duty on the Rim, young Reed?” The offhanded question came from Fortunatus, yet it caused the heads of both Deemus and Lady Niobe to turn in his direction.
“Well enough, my lord,” Reed responded readily. He was young for one of the Serum-blessed, being only ninety-five cycles in age. His handsome face mirrored his eagerness and enthusiasm. “Our new commander, Jedron Speer, has made even such a forlorn posting one of interest.”
At the mention of the name, a shadow passed over the features of the Pat’Riark, and he offered no response. It was Lady Niobe who replied with a question.
“Victor awarded him the post, did he not?”
For a moment, Brynn-Jago’s face reddened, but his reply was steady enough. “That is correct, my lady, over the arguments of Argus.”
It was common knowledge that Speer resembled the archduke. There had long been rumors he was the unacknowledged offspring of Victor Mondragon, though no one had ever proven this. The Lord Chronicler controlled the Codex, and Kronus rarely allowed anyone access. Even the Judicata could only gain admission upon the commission of a High Crime. Yet Speer’s rise in the Gardai had been meteoric. Equally undeniable, his abilities as a leader were exceptional.
“There is a rumor in the fleet that he may enter the Korda,” Reed added.
“I had not heard,” Shaan replied with no little interest.
“No disrespect, Cousin, but he would be a force to be reckoned with, even for you.”
“Yes, he would.” A frown now marred the forehead of the new rigan.
“Better, then, that he does not!” Fortunatus’ eyes captured Shaan. “You will need all your strength and skill if you are to defeat Zel.”
Ashara jerked at the mention of the name, and Reed was quick to apologize. “I am sorry, Cousin,” he whispered, “I did not mean…”
Ashara shook her head, unwilling to pursue the subject further.
Shaan too had stiffened at the Pat’Riark’s words. “I will defeat him…”
“Please…” Mendiko’s quiet plea silenced them both. Gently, he placed his hand on his cousin’s arm. “Now is not the time to speak of such matters.”
“He is right,” the Guild Jain's heavy voice rumbled, laden with disapproval. “Our purpose in coming here was to honor an old friend who is no longer with us. Let the contests of the Great Moot take care of themselves, and in their own time.”
“My apologies,” Shaan replied gravely. “To you all. My manners are unforgivable.” At once, he ordered more food and drink. With the aid of the Guild Jain’s abundant sense of humor, the mood of the gathering once more lightened for a time. Yet the thread had broken.
Shaan was first to leave. He took Kronus with him, for the Lord Chronicler had fallen asleep at the table.
One by one, the others retired until only Deemus and Lady Niobe remained.
***
Deemus sat in silence, watching his lady. He sensed something was troubling her. Knowing her as he did, he understood she would tell him at the right time. Yet the minutes passed, dragging into half an hour. Still, she had spoken not a word. Even the limitless patience of Deemus could wait no longer.
“What is your wish, my love?”
Niobe laid her hand over his and sighed. “The Aether troubles me. I do not speak of a vision, yet I sense great evil approaching. I fear for Shaan especially, though there is no doubting his strength and power. Yet something else tantalizes me. It began only a short while ago.” She reached up, rubbing her eyes. “My eyes hurt. It is an ache I have not felt…”
Her words choked off and she stiffened. A sob escaped her throat as though she were in pain. Even as Deemus reached for her, she jerked to her feet as though pulled by some powerful force. She uttered a scream of incredible intensity and collapsed into the waiting arms of her consort.
Deemus studied her face anxiously, thinking she had lost consciousness. But her eyelids flickered open. For an instant, he was sure they focused not upon him but some inner vision. Her voice was ragged and rasping in her breathlessness.
“I saw him! Talisman has touched the Flamen!”