The White Mists of Power (33 page)

Voices clamored in Ikaner’s head. She shielded against them, rubbed her fingers against her temples.

The dogs of the prophecy!
Zcava’s presence rose above the others, penetrating Ikaner’s shields.
So far the white mists has followed the prophecy to the end. If he completes the last stage, the blood will flow upon the land, it will grow hungry for blood, and we must kill them to feed our grasses, our fields, our trees. The Old Ones have called us because the last stage of the prophecy begins. When the last stage is fulfilled, we must return to our lands and begin the deaths. I am sorry, Enos, but time travels in circles and we are bound.

Ikaner thought of her land, its love for water and sun. Traces of blood lust had remained in the soil when she arrived at the bluff. It had frightened her, that land memory, made her hungry in a way that sent slivers of pain through her. She liked the touch of the human, liked the way the injured man had felt when she healed him, liked the love lodged in the white mists’ heart.

The white mists is trapped by the prophecy?
Ikaner asked.

As are we all.

The Old Ones should allow change. Trees withered and died, the land grew green, then brown. Change was part of living. Ikaner leaned against the sapling whistle-wood and wondered at the cruelty of the Old Ones and the blood upon the lands.

Chapter 25

i

The suite smelled musty. Dust motes rose in the air, although Byron had ordered the rooms completely cleaned. Fresh linen covered the bed in the back room, and the coverings had been removed from the furniture. A servant brought in the last of Alma’s clothes and hung them in the large wardrobe. Byron’s two outfits hung in the other wardrobe. Alma said she would have tailors come to make him more clothes.

Alma sat before a mirror in the dressing room. She wore a skimpy white shift and leaned her head to the side as she combed her long dark hair. Byron caressed the smooth skin on her shoulder. “You’re cold,” he murmured.

She took his hand and kissed the palm. “Do you want to warm me up?”

He touched a finger to her lips and then pulled away, his body trembling. He would love more than anything to stay here with her, to consecrate the room and begin their life together. But their first action as a couple would not be lovemaking; it would be participating in his father’s funeral.

Byron lifted a curl from her back and kissed her neck. She smelled of roses and her own warm musk. He sighed. “Get changed, Alma. We have to be ready for the service.”

Byron shrugged. “I don’t know, but I want to concentrate on him right now. You and I have time to concentrate on each other this evening. Now change. I want you at my side in the mausoleum.”

Alma turned back to the mirror. Her reflection was distorted, her eyes too wide, her chin too narrow. “Impertinent bard,” she said, “ordering ladies about.”

Smiling, Byron left the dressing room and crossed the suite to his own room. He pulled open the wardrobe and stared in at the two outfits hanging there. Not elegant enough for a king, but they would have to do. He removed the silk shirt and matching trousers and tossed them over a chair. Then he stripped, staring for a moment at his body.

The last time he had lived here as a member of the royal family, he had been fat and out of shape. He was trim now, almost too lean, with more scars than a man ought to have. Once he had been frightened of being like his father; in appearance at least, he had nothing to fear.

He did, however, have to watch his back. The gentry were frightened of an active monarch in Kilot. This afternoon they would discover that he had already consolidated some power by making Alma his consort. He should have waited until the mourning period for his father had ended, but Byron had to move quickly. Most of the gentry would be at the services. Byron had to use the time well.

He slipped on his clothes and brushed his hair, making sure he took as much time as he could. Alma and his mother were to ride around the grounds in the black carriage as part of the mourning ritual. He should have gone with them, but he couldn’t bring himself to climb into that carriage again. He would wait and say good-bye to his father in the mausoleum itself.

He glanced around the room and saw his lute. He touched it, wishing he could bring it. But this afternoon he had to be a monarch, not a bard. Moving without the lute on his back made him feel naked somehow.

He let himself out of the dressing room. The suite smelled of Alma’s perfume and when he looked in her dressing room, he noted that she had left. She was a good choice for him. Her strength would help him, and maybe, after a time, the attraction they felt for each other would grow into something. He smiled, feeling a sadness. The Enos had said to him in another life, in another time:
You came to find out if you would be loved.
Then he had said no. Now he would probably say yes.

He opened the door and let himself into the hallway. Two guards stood beside the door and nodded at him as he passed. He walked down the stairs and felt the jitters grow in his stomach.

A ruler is loved differently, Highness.

And right now he wasn’t loved at all. He would go into that chamber and participate in a ritual before people who hated and mistrusted him. And some who had tried to kill him.

He pushed open the double doors out of the north wing and stepped outside. The air was chill and fresh. A slight wind made the whistle-woods moan. He blinked at the brightness of the sunshine. To his right, carriages lined up in the courtyard. He recognized Lord Lafa’s and Lord Dakin’s. Everyone had come to see what Byron’s future would bring. He shivered once. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

The mausoleum was a gray stone building half hidden by the palace walls. It was long and rectangular. The roof rose in spirals around the edges. A large round chimney stood in the center of the roof, to release the smoke from the bier.

The guards outside the mausoleum bowed when they saw him, then pushed the door open wide to admit him.

The mausoleum smelled damp. Thousands of candles burned along the walls and beside the pews. A hundred people faced forward staring at the bier and the large crypt beyond. Gentry that Byron had met and some that he hadn’t waited for the ceremonies to begin. The stone floor was cold, and each movement echoed in the stillness. His mother and Alma stood to the side, waiting for him.

His father’s body rested on the bier. He looked smaller, as if death had diminished him. Three large circles, one inside the other, enclosed the bier. Each circle represented an Old One, and each contained symbolic significance. The circles predicted the next monarch’s future.

Alma handed Byron a burnstick and took his arm. Her hands were cold. Her hair shone and her gown was simple and chaste, no low-cut bodice, no lace on the collars. Byron glanced at his mother. She was hunched and she trembled as she moved. Her face was hidden by a thick veil, but occasionally the candlelight would reflect her tears. She leaned on Alma for a moment, then stood and led the procession down to the bier.

The crowd stood as his mother passed. Byron waited until she had almost reached the Flame of Life, then he and Alma started down. He clutched his burnstick tightly. The gentry watched them, and he heard a ripple of whispers as people realized what Alma’s presence meant. He could sense the shock, feel the discomfort. It did not please him like he thought it would. He just wanted the ceremony to end.

His mother dipped her burnstick into the Flame of Life. The flame turned blue as the burnstick caught. His mother then brought the flame to the center of her consort’s bier, lighting the Circle of Remembrance. As the flame encircled the bier, she leaned over and kissed her husband for the last time. Then she took her place behind the bier, standing to the side of the door to the crypt.

Byron approached the Flame of Life. It generated little heat, but he could smell a wisp of smoke. He stuck his burnstick into the flame and watched as it turned blue. Through the fire, he saw Lord Lafa. The lord appeared sober, and seemed as majestic as he had when Byron first met him. The lord was watching Alma, and his gaze was filled with hatred. Byron made himself look away. He carried his burnstick to the bier and lit the Circle of Power, canonizing his father’s past and establishing his own control. As the flames engulfed the circle, he took his place beside his mother.

Lord Kensington sat in the first row. He showed no surprise at Alma’s presence, and did not seem to resent Byron’s participation in the ceremony. The lord’s lack of emotion made Byron tense. He had believed that even Kensington would have enough respect for the dead to wait until last rites had ended before challenging the new monarch.

Alma carried the flaming burnstick to the last circle, the Circle of Future. She as consort guarded the future of the kingdom in her womb. If Byron had had a child, that child would have been lighting the circle. As she lowered her burnstick to it, a small draft caught the flame and it flickered. The gentry gasped. Byron twisted his ring. If the last circle didn’t burn, custom decreed that he had no future. He would die before his rule truly began.

Alma’s burnstick went out. Small sparks flew in all directions. She was forbidden by law to return to the Flame of Life. Her gaze caught Byron’s, and he thought he saw fear in her eyes. He wished he could go to her. Whether or not the superstitions of the bier were true, they would affect his support among the gentry. A small smile made its way across Kensington’s face, and Byron felt a chill run down his back. He should have checked the burnsticks before the ceremony. Kensington could have had his magician treat the sticks.

Alma waited for the circle to light. As she stepped away, a whoosh echoed, and the far corner of the circle erupted into blue flame. Byron felt some of the tension flow from him. The bier had sent a sign: he and his descendants had a chance to continue ruling in Kilot, but the chance, like the flame that spread around the circle, was slim.

Alma took her place beside Byron and slipped her hand through his arm. She was trembling. She too knew that the sign boded ill for their future. Fear flashed through Byron. If Alma thought she had no chance of surviving with him, she might turn against him. He slid his hand over hers, wishing that he could reassure her.

His mother bowed to the figure on the bier, then walked into the crypt itself. Byron bowed and followed, as did Alma. The crypt seemed even colder than the outer room had, and had a damp, musty odor. They stopped at the cornerstone on which his father would lie and placed the burnsticks into the small circular holes carved for them. Byron looked past the monarchs into the side reserved for the royal family and noted that one crypt near the end was empty. He squinted to read the inscription and started when he realized that it had been his. He wondered who had rested on the bier in his place.

The three of them left the crypt and returned to the great room. They again bowed to the dead monarch, circled the flames, and walked up the aisle. Byron could hear the rumbling as the first row of gentry made their respects to the bier.

He followed his mother out of the mausoleum and into the dying sunlight. They would have a half hour before the death banquet. His mother continued toward the palace, Alma behind her. Byron stopped and gazed at the mausoleum. Smoke rose from the curved chimney on the roof. He would see that smoke for another month or more, until the flames completed their circles and his father was laid to rest with his ancestors.

For weeks people in the palace had watched the smoke rise from a burial that was supposed to have been his. Byron shuddered. No wonder so many of them found it hard to accept him.

He entered the palace as he had left it, through the north entrance. He hurried up the stairs and pulled open the door to his chamber, half expecting Alma to be waiting for him. The outer room was empty. He opened all the doors in the inner chambers. The musty odor had returned and dampened the smell of Alma’s perfume. All of the rooms were empty. For a moment he thought of trying to find her, then rejected the idea. He would see her at the banquet. They could talk after that.

He grabbed his lute and walked to a chair in the main room. The instrument felt warm to his touch, like a living thing. He tuned it, then played a random series of chords. The sounds filled the chamber, made the empty feeling disappear. He hadn’t realized until he heard that most of his chords were in a minor key how much the lighting of the Circle of the Future had frightened him.

His fingers found the melody of a lullaby and he let the notes echo. He rocked back and forth, feeling himself gather strength. Soon he would have to face the gentry in the banquet hall. Afeno was angry at him for going ahead with the death banquet in traditional form.

The traditional form followed the pattern of the bier: the monarch and his family sat in the center, with the past council members in the inner ring, present council members in the middle ring, and the rest of the guests in the outer ring. Guards were stationed outside the room, so as not to hear any state secrets that could emerge in impromptu eulogies. Afeno had pointed out that Byron was trapped and a single dagger could find him easily. But Byron was gambling that Lord Kensington was too smart to attempt that assassination. If Byron did die, the lord would first have to be tried for treason before he could take over.

A knock on the door made his heart leap. He knew it wasn’t Alma–she would have come in–but he found himself hoping for her anyway. He set down his lute and pulled the door open. A page stood in the doorway. “The guests are ready, sire,” he said.

He thanked the child and closed the door behind him. Then, flanked by two guards, he walked down the long, narrow hallway leading to the banquet room. Alma stood outside, her back to Byron. She was talking with a retainer wearing blue and gold. Kensington’s colors. Byron closed his eyes. Already it had begun.