In the Ruins (Crown of Stars 6)

“If there is anything, apply to one of my stewards.”

Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Weary, he returned to his chamber, where Hathui had kept them waiting, just as he’d ordered.

“Is all well, Your Majesty?” she asked him as he entered. She had a way of squinting as she examined his face that made him feel quite naked, not in body but in soul.

“Only reflecting on my sins. Let us go to the chapel for the morning service. Then we’ll make ready.”

She nodded. It was impossible to know how much anyone had heard, but he understood well enough that there was little secrecy and less privacy on the king’s progress. He had known that all his life. This was the first time it chafed him.

2

ON the first day of the new year, 736, King Sanglant of Wendar and Varre, son of Henry, approached the cathedral on horseback with his magnificent entourage behind him, each one splendid and terrible in rich robes and gold or silver coronets, depending on their rank. Behind them rode the twoscore soldiers out of his personal guard who had survived the cataclysm in Aosta as well as another score newly brought into his service. Down the widest avenue in Gent they rode four abreast. There was just room on either side for folk to press back against buildings, to stare and call out and sing praises and weep as he rode past. When they came into the square, he saw that the entire expanse was filled with a multitude, the people who lived in Gent and those who had walked a day or even three days to the city in order to witness the anointing and crowning of the new king and to receive the bread that would be distributed in the wake of the ceremony.

The steps rose before him. He halted his horse at their foot and handed the reins to Wichman, who as his cousin had the right to the office of king’s groom and insisted on taking his place at Sanglant’s right hand. Sibold eased forward along the side. He would hold Fest during the actual ceremony.

Sanglant dismounted. How strange to set his foot on these cold stairs where he had died—only of course he could not die. Here Adela and Sturm had fallen. Here the last of his faithful, bold Dragons had met their deaths. Up by the doors the brave Eagle, Manfred, had been cut down. This much he owed them: that where they had died he could honor them by his own triumph, if there was honor in surviving when all those around him perished.

He ought to have died, too, but he had no power over the geas laid on him at birth.

A crowd of beggars knelt on the first few steps; they would feast at a special table tonight. Above them waited the great princes of the realm in their finest clothing, his peers, who had acquiesced to his elevation because there was no one stronger and more fit to reign after Henry. He noted them: Theophanu and Ekkehard, Duchess Liutgard, Rotrudis’ sullen daughters, the powerful margraves, and a handful of important counts and nobles. Beside them stood an intimidation of biscops, abbesses, abbots, presbyters, and noble clerics. All these would witness.

All these, but there was one more who amazingly had space to herself halfway up the steps.

Liath knelt with head bowed. Her golden-dark hair, uncovered and unbound, spilled gloriously down to her rump. It curled wildly, dampened by an earlier misting rain that had ceased at midday. She had, apparently, brushed ashes over it, although only a few traces remained. Bouquets of flowers—violets, white heal-all, late primroses, and an abundance of starry woodruff—lay at her bare feet, gifts from unknown hands. There were even two wreaths woven of pale green bracken. No one looked at her, but everyone knew she was there. He moved sideways and, without speaking to her, picked up one of the frail bouquets of woodruff and carried it with him the rest of the way up the steps. Behind, the crowd quieted.

Mother Scholastica came forward to meet him and, together with the most noble biscops, escorted him into the cathedral.

In the years since the defeat of Bloodheart, Gent had prospered. The stone cathedral had survived better than many of the wooden buildings. All the broken windows had been repaired and the interior restored, repainted, and refurnished with holy vessels on the Hearth. Only the stone pillars still bore the scars of the Eika occupation. Stone angels lacked a wing; gargoyles leered out of a single eye; beakless eagles flew silently. He paused in front of the altar beside the chain fixed into the stone with an iron spike. Here, in this spot, he had been chained. As the company gathered about him, he stared at those heavy links, but they no longer had power to disturb him. He placed the fragile bouquet on the chain to remind him of Count Lavastine, who had freed him from his prison, and the nameless Eika prince who had let them go without a fight.

When everyone was in place and as much quiet as could be expected in such an assembly was gathered, he knelt. The rush of their kneeling was like the thunder of wings, echoing up into the vault.

Mother Scholastica produced from her sleeve an ivory comb studded with gold and gems. With this, she combed out his newly cut hair. The biscop of Gent brought forward a vial of holy oil. His aunt anointed him with a touch: on the right ear, from forehead to left ear, and on the crown of his head. The oil’s scent swamped him. The humble oil of olives had been liberally mixed with frankincense and myrrh to produce a profound aroma.

“May Our Lord and Lady crown you with the crown of glory,” his aunt intoned, “may They anoint you with the oil of Their favor.”

Theophanu and Ekkehard draped a cloak trimmed with ermine over his shoulders. The dragon of Saony, the eagle of Fesse, and the lion of Avaria graced its expanse, embroidered in gold thread. This cloak had been worn by the first Henry and put aside into storage by Arnulf when he took Varre’s royal family into his own house. It still reeked of cloves, having been stored with great care for all these years. Henry’s royal cloak had vanished in the south.

“The borders of this cloak trailing on the ground shall remind you that you are to be zealous in the faith and to keep peace. Let it remind you of the royal lineage out of which you spring.”

She gave into his hands Henry’s battered and scarred scepter. “Receive this staff of virtue. May you rule wisely and well. Crown him, God, with justice, glory, honor, and strong deeds.”

As a wind sweeps across a forest as with a voice, a murmur greeted this pronouncement. Out of the assembly, all the way back by the doors, a man’s voice rose.

teps rose before him. He halted his horse at their foot and handed the reins to Wichman, who as his cousin had the right to the office of king’s groom and insisted on taking his place at Sanglant’s right hand. Sibold eased forward along the side. He would hold Fest during the actual ceremony.

Sanglant dismounted. How strange to set his foot on these cold stairs where he had died—only of course he could not die. Here Adela and Sturm had fallen. Here the last of his faithful, bold Dragons had met their deaths. Up by the doors the brave Eagle, Manfred, had been cut down. This much he owed them: that where they had died he could honor them by his own triumph, if there was honor in surviving when all those around him perished.

He ought to have died, too, but he had no power over the geas laid on him at birth.

A crowd of beggars knelt on the first few steps; they would feast at a special table tonight. Above them waited the great princes of the realm in their finest clothing, his peers, who had acquiesced to his elevation because there was no one stronger and more fit to reign after Henry. He noted them: Theophanu and Ekkehard, Duchess Liutgard, Rotrudis’ sullen daughters, the powerful margraves, and a handful of important counts and nobles. Beside them stood an intimidation of biscops, abbesses, abbots, presbyters, and noble clerics. All these would witness.

All these, but there was one more who amazingly had space to herself halfway up the steps.

Liath knelt with head bowed. Her golden-dark hair, uncovered and unbound, spilled gloriously down to her rump. It curled wildly, dampened by an earlier misting rain that had ceased at midday. She had, apparently, brushed ashes over it, although only a few traces remained. Bouquets of flowers—violets, white heal-all, late primroses, and an abundance of starry woodruff—lay at her bare feet, gifts from unknown hands. There were even two wreaths woven of pale green bracken. No one looked at her, but everyone knew she was there. He moved sideways and, without speaking to her, picked up one of the frail bouquets of woodruff and carried it with him the rest of the way up the steps. Behind, the crowd quieted.

Mother Scholastica came forward to meet him and, together with the most noble biscops, escorted him into the cathedral.