Dishonour by Dee Carteri (simple e reader TXT) 📕

them! What do they care that our brothers in the West are being slaughtered as we speak, that Gaia's shrines are being defiled? They don't understand!" he exclaimed bitterly. "Gelir, well, wants you here to give him council. He thinks you're Gaia himself. Anyways, we need you to show the others the error of their ways."

Cigal looked out the window, while Hadise silently concentrated on the cork in his hand. Cigal said, "Well then, we'd best get started."

Gaia's Day, August 25, 1268 A.R.
The Hall of Kings was silent except for the depressing footfalls of a lowly servant in some dark corridor more often trod by the silent feet of ghosts and memories than the wooden clogs of the living. Half-dreaming ravens and scrounging magpies scurried about the rafters in seeming satire of the drifting minds of the shocked people below, each browsing his or her own maze of stunned sadness or devious delight. The time for quiet contemplation of the deceased was almost over, and soon the funeral procession would take Garek VII, King of Octania to the Angelos temple to be buried. The ladies who did not naturally break into despondent tears managed a grotesque imitation with skill honed by years of callous ruthlessness. The men present simply sat and were silent, an occupation soon mimicked by the women. Since her husband's death, her Grace the Lady Bolare had retracted from the world of the living, and rarely responded when spoken to. Her maids had coerced her to attend the funeral, but her face was a shade of unchanging sad indifference. Some of the men in the hall had known and loved the now deceased king for most of their lives and simply stood in shadows where their eyes could well with tears unnoticed. William would have laughed had the blazing flame of impenetrable silence not consumed all sound. The walls themselves chose not to echo for fear of the oppressive silence. Lord Iaen, in his shadow, drew his Honour Blade ever so carefully so that not even the smallest rat hiding silent in a corner could detect a noise. He sadly dissected it, his hidden eyes skimming over ever inch of metal, every carved engraving or defeated scratch.

He had received the broadsword, along with the duchy of Yantsima, from Garek after he slew the magus Sarune in the Sybürmian War. Although he was in his early sixties and had not ridden into battle for at least a dozen years, he still carried the sword everywhere as a memento. Iaen was well-loved by both his vassals and his peers. He was fairly wealthy, although he often gave gifts of land, gold or title to those who served Yantsima or Octania well in anything from fields of grain to fields of battle. The Duke was quite healthy and vigorous for a man his age, and William had no doubt that he was still fit for combat. The Honour Blade was just like every other issued to all the knights of Octania: three and a half feet long, three inches broad, made of a steel sheet folded twenty-six times and inscribed with runes of strength and swiftness given to Lesk Trunam by the elven Runemaiden Sade in ages past.

The bell sounded and the funeral guests left the Hall in a slow column headed by six knights in full armour and heraldry bearing an elaborate litter on which rested the remains of one of the greatest Octanian kings since Lesk Trunam himself. Iaen's brother, Sir Iaec, leader of the Knights of the Monastery and Lord Randolph, Marquis of Whiterift, marched in front according to tradition. Behind them marched the King's guest as specified in his will. Lord Iaen bore the litter with pride. The remaining three in the procession would usually be the three main Marshalls, but Maceol and Rodul had yet to reach the city. Lord Karel, the Marshall of the Silver Bows, held the litter alongside two replacements: Garek VIII's standard bearer and Nesel, Garek's nephew. They had put the funeral off for a week, but could do so no longer. To hold a funeral on a day other than Gaia's Day or after the first new moon after the death of an individual would be nothing short of sacrilegious. The mourners marched about six hundred yards, leaving Whiterift Castle and entering the inner city. Everyone in the city had remained home that day, as befit an occasion of prayer and mourning. Even the lonely homeless beggars had made their way to hostels or courtyards around the city so that they would not be accused of disrespect to the deceased king. Short and seldom, brief conversations were whispered in hurried tones among the funeral guests, and this helped give the seemingly dead city an altogether unwholesome atmosphere.

They arrived at the Angelos temple, a high roofed, broad and ancient building made of the same grey stone as the walls of Whiterift. The walls were alive with religious carvings, some covered by thick vines of ivy allowed to grow down from the roof. The entrance was two monolithic stone scimitars jutting out from the wall, the Twin Swords of Gaia, that met at the ornate hilt cross-guards and tips to form an archway. The thick door made of black wychelm wood bore carvings of Lesk Trunam and his endeavors to build this temple almost twelve centuries before. Seemingly balanced on the tips of the swords was a wide balcony on which was planted an ancient oak. Today they had no need to enter the temple of life, nor the gardens of the courtyard within. The procession went around the temple to the grove behind. Here was a veritable forest of neatly lined yew trees, a symbol of royalty. A grave had already been dug at the end of one row of trees. The back wall of the temple was painted with an exquisite mural of a village. In the centre, just above the back entrance to the inner sanctuary was painted the Twin Swords in an oval field of white to represent Gaia's hand in the opening of the White Rift, supposedly in this very river valley a millennia before. The villagers who lived near the Swords were fat and happy, their children playing carelessly alongside gardens overflowing with fruits and vegetables. Predictably, those who chose to live away from the Sword's gardens were little more than barren dust heaps, their houses collapsing sunken huts, their children emaciated beggars. The mourners, unconcerned with vain matters of appearance or comfort, settled themselves in the wet grass to listen to the blessings and eulogies.

About halfway through the first eulogy Sir Maceol walked into the park, followed by his squire and Sir Rodul. They both looked extraordinarily weary, as if they had not rested since they crossed the border into Octania. Besides hastily donned cloaks of office, Maceol and Rodul were still garbed in travelling gear. They sat down amongst the delegation from the Knights of the Monastery.

Maceol looked about, worried. The deceased's son, Garek IX, was not present. Perhaps he had business in the northern isles, Maceol thought, and hadn?t heard about his father's illness until a few days ago. He glanced at a bewildered Sir Rodul, who shrugged. Maceol counted the days since the peasants they met said the king died, on the second Wedding's Day of the month. Like Maceol, the peasants were illiterate and did not easily reckon numbers, and so could only tell the date of his death as reference to the ten days of the week: Sun's Day, Moon's Day, Wedding's Day, Gaia's Day, Shadow's Day, Lynoxi's Day, Polaris's Day, Lunath's Day and Rest Day. The Marshall realized with a shock that wherever Garek was, by now he would be king. Traditionally, the new king was crowned one week after the old lord's death, whether or not the prince was present.

The ceremony ended with a Seer blessing the sight of burial, ending with the words, "As all flesh came from Gaia, so shall it be returned to Him. And so life begets life."

Two temple acolytes lowered the king, without a coffin, into the ground. They removed the boards holding back a pile of soil, letting the grave be filled, so that the king's body might be decomposed and returned to Gaia. More than one face broke into tears as the king's ashen face saw it's last glimpse of light.

The Seer planted a yew acorn into the freshly dug soil. His eyes flashed green, causing a seedling to sprout and grow until it was strong enough to survive on it's own. The Seer reeled in exhaustion for a moment, but recovered enough to announce the end of the ceremony. The funeral party retired to the courtyard of the temple.

Maceol slowly walked out of the temple, too jaded from battle to weep for Garek. The clouds were still weeping softly for the king, and road, quarry and other such work would have been hindered had the day not been declared one of prayer and mourning. A voice behind said loud but gently, "Sir Maceol." Recognizing the voice, Maceol turned about and bowed to one knee in the same motion, soiling his cape of office in the mud. The man before him was Lord Nesel Trunam, a baron of seventeen years who, until he was recalled to Octania a year before, served with the army in the Westerlands. The boy was thin but muscular, like his uncle Garek, and a few inches taller than Maceol. He had black hair, long and curly, which he wore tied back like a horse's tail. His brown eyes regarded the Marshall, a hint of humour sparking beneath a blanket of sadness.

"Arise, you fool. It's been too long," he commanded with a staggered sigh that might have been a laugh in happier circumstances.

The older knight rose grimly and clasped Nesel's arms. "So it has. I mourn for your uncle," he said out of respect and genuine grief.

"And I also." Nesel intoned.

Maceol decided to get the question out of the way. "Yet your cousin does not?"

"My cousin," the baron explained nervously, "My cousin converted to the worship of Lynoxi last winter."

The boy waited anxiously for the implications to sink in. A king must worship Gaia, or forfeit his royalty. Even if Garek IX wished to convert back to the religion of the Protecter, the Seerhood, feeling spited, would deny him the ceremony.

It struck Maceol with the speed and ferocity of a warlock's spell. He dropped fiercely to both knees, arms crossed over his chest in salute and deference. "Sire," he stated, his face burning with embarrassment at showing so much disrespect to his lord.

Nesel laughed, "I'm not king yet, Maceol." He lowered the collar of his doublet to prove that he wore no circlet of red gold.

The Knight-Marshall staggered awkwardly to his feet. "But, hasn't the coronation ceremony happened by now?"

"No." Nesel focused intensely on a nearby flagstone. "There is another candidate." Despite his efforts, the young lord had difficulty disguising the anger and malice in his voice.

Maceol understood instantly. "The Bolare clan," he whispered inquisitively.
"Yes. Lakent. He announced his bid to rule the day Garek died. The Knights of the Monastery support me, but most of the artisans and many of the peasants of the kingdom support him. And, and the Seerhood. Dear Gaia, the Seerhood supports him." Nesel turned suddenly to Maceol. "Marshall, listen now. Lakent moves to withdraw all forces from the Westerlands. He would leave our allies to the knives of the shadow worshippers. We have both seen what they are capable of. Our allies cannot stand without us. The rows of crosses would be as an endless forest of bloody