Why all the commotion for one dead guy?

The funeral procession was moving catastrophically slowly. Demos had to keep glancing down, treading carefully to avoid the myriad white flowers scattered on the ground. The imperial dynasty’s standard was being carried by two members of the honor guard, their faces unintelligent. Demos remembered them. No matter how prestigious the guard was, serving in the quiet palace did nothing to improve their skill in battle.

On the other hand, their livers get plenty of work.

Behind the guards was a procession of clergy, all enveloped in white clothing embroidered with silver. The songs the masters and friars were singing praised the Keeper, his last son Gillenai, and divine love, promising eternal life to the righteous.

The casket with the emperor’s body was set on a wagon decorated richly with black cloth and harnessed to eight black horses. Drowning in a sea of fragrant flowers that still could not conceal the smell of the embalming ointments, Margius looked tranquil and at peace. Demos envied him just as much as he envied the runaway empress—she got to skip the ceremony entirely.

Eyes watered, under assault from the burnished armor of the Order’s brother protectors. The warrior monks—on horseback and on foot, armed with spears, swords, shields, halberds, and maces—carried clerical banners and echoed their prayers. Demos fixed his glance on one of the brother protectors as the latter stepped unhurriedly past the treasurer, his eyes focused straight ahead.

Not even a hello? Where are your manners, Renar? Or did you forget that we’re related now that you’re a knight in the Order? Still mad at the family, brother?

Demos and Gregor Voldhard, both close relatives of the late emperor, were first in line on either side of the wagon. Gregor’s face was focused, but that was all. The Duke of Highligland, incidentally, had it even worse than Demos—his polished ceremonial armor weighed much more than the treasurer’s thin tunic and light pants.

Shining armor, a handsome figure…all the result of a good bit of time spent in the Order, I imagine? Barely here in the capital, you’re already showing off your warrior side. Is that a hint of a threat or do they wear armor in Highligland even in peacetime?

Chancellor Irving Allantain was right behind Demos. The procession was difficult for the old man, but the Duke of Osvendis was holding steady. His overweight son Bryce was the picture of courtesy as he offered his assistance. Tired of his civility, however, the frail chancellor shushed his heir, who dejectedly found a place in the crowd.

Interesting, I wonder how sticky Irving’s ass is, what with his son kissing it all the time.

A few steps away from Gregor, glorying in the impression they made, strode the rulers of Gatson. King Enrige was in fine form—his beard was pomaded, his crown golden and inlaid with shining gems, his train brocaded. Demos couldn’t help but think the Gatsons might have confused the funeral for a wedding. Princess Vittoria, as well, was not to be outdone by her father. She was just as fabulously dressed, her head just as proudly thrown back. Demos noted the woman’s vivacious beauty, one which was presumably the work of a good dozen maids.

Looks like Gatson is maneuvering for a well-placed marriage with someone from the eastern side of the continent. Why else would Enrige have brought Vittoria? Not to say goodbye to Margius, that’s for sure.

The rest of the Small Council was there, too, and behind them a long row of lesser nobles, representatives of neighboring realms, clergy, affluent city people, and honored guests of the capital. Somewhere in the back was Lady Eltinia, Demos’ mother, who had wanted to spend the procession in talks with the emissaries from Ennia. Demos caught a glimpse of the golden-haired allies from Latandal a bit further off. Ten men and women dressed in their particular island style moved with impeccable grace. On the other hand, Lady Irital, the bearer of the Mark of Gintare, wasn’t among them.

I’m surprised the lady ambassador didn’t come to the capital. Why is that?

But Demos devoted most of his attention to the representatives of Queen Agala from Targos. The emissaries mixed with the Ennians, discussing something hotly with the southerners and occasionally nodding in the direction of the chancellor.

Rundkar and Vag Ran, needless to say, had not sent emissaries.

I can just imagine how surprised Allantain would be to see a delegation of axe-waving barbarians or arrogant, gray-haired Vagrans. At least, they would have made the day interesting.

The closer they got to the square in front of the Great Shrine, the narrower the corridor for the procession to make its way through got—thousands of people were pouring onto the streets. The city people shouted, prayed, and sang hymns. Demos tore himself away from the religious ecstasy on their faces to look over at Irving, who was breathing down his neck. Happily, the chancellor’s son was nowhere to be seen.

“Just as I imagined, the empress isn’t at the cloister,” the treasurer said, turning around.

“You just confirmed our guess.” There was so much noise in the air that Demos had to read his lips. “What’s your next step?”

“How long can you keep what happened a secret from the Targosians?”

“Quite a while. But rumors travel fast when they sense something’s wrong, so keep looking.”

“I do have one idea.”

“Just one, Lord Demos?” the chancellor grinned. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

The Burned Lord ignored the sarcasm.

“You know very well how tightly guarded the palace is.”

“And you’re wondering who could have gotten past the guards?”

Demos nodded. “Exactly. The only thing that comes to mind is Master Archella’s guild…”

“But Archella has been working for us for a long time now. You want to know who else has people that skilled?”

“There are the Ennians from Rex Gerifas, but their guild doesn’t work with outsiders. Just Ennians.”

Allantain squinted.

“Check out both options, though I’d recommend looking into a third.”

“I’m listening,” Devaton whispered.

“Doesn’t it bother you that the clergy is lying to us?”

That stopped bothering me long ago.

“I already asked myself that question, and I don’t see the logic,” Demos replied. “It’s possible the capital masters themselves don’t know that Izara isn’t where she’s supposed to be. Unless…”

“Check that out,” Allantain said shortly. Catching a glimpse of his son coming over, he fell back a few steps.

Demos looked over at the casket thoughtfully.

Getting a steer pregnant is simpler than getting something out of the clergy when they don’t want to talk, even when my brother is one of the Keeper’s servants.

***

The enormous square in front of the temple was packed with people. The white-stone cathedral, which was decorated with a multitude of slender spires, delicate sculptures, and lancet windows with gorgeous stained glace, inspired awe and drew attention to the trivial corner people take up in an enormous world. And the magnificent temple, in turn, was just one insignificant part of Eclusum, the domain of Great Master Ladarius. It was there that the empire’s rulers were coronated, married, and sent off on their final journey. Demos sighed in relief.

We’re almost done.

The gentry and important visitors were standing behind the masters in strict hierarchical order, with the crowd taking up the rest of the space in the square. The farewell ritual had already begun, though the city people were still arriving in hopes of seeing the imperial pyre.

Great Master Ladarius, garbed in more silver than cloth, was offering long prayers. The casket holding the late emperor was on a tall platform loaded with brushwood. Once the songs were done, Ladarius glanced at Demos and nodded, inviting the relatives to bid farewell to Margius. The treasurer turned to Gregor.

“Looks like we’ll have to go together.”

“It would be an honor.” The Highliglander smiled and helped his cousin up onto the platform.

Seeing the dukes together, the crowd broke into cheers. Flowers flew, shouts and prayers were raised, and all honor was given to the empire and the late emperor.

To be fair, that young Voldhard made quite the entrance in the castle.

Demos took a new torch from the great master, though it was something of a task for him. Down below, the monks awaited the signal to light the different sides of the wooden construction.

Two hands, both burned and tucked into leather gloves, gripped the torch’s long shaft. The flame made contact with the straw and brushwood surrounding Margius and his casket, small tongues of fire licking at the dry wood and gaining strength. His eyes on the fire, Demos felt the tension build inside him.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

“Time to go,” he said simply.

The cousins stepped down gingerly. Ladarius gave the monks the signal to light the fire from below, and a few seconds later the roaring flames engulfed the casket. The crowd murmured and called out goodbyes. The clerics once again joined in song, drowning out even the logs crackling in the fire.

Gregor touched his cousin lightly on the shoulder.

“I’m grateful for the honor, Lord Demos, and happy to make your acquaintance.”

“As am I,” the treasurer nodded. “I only wish it had happened a few days ago in the palace.”

Voldhard smiled disarmingly.

“I’m sorry for that, as well, but I couldn’t turn down Enrige the Gatson himself. My sister, you understand… If your invitation is still open, I would be happy to visit your house when it’s convenient.”

When it’s convenient… Insolence, my boy. Well, you have only yourself to blame—the Keeper my witness, I just wanted what was best.

“Of course.” Demos stared, unblinking, into the fire. Voldhard pulled his gaze away from it to look at his cousin in alarm.

“You’re very pale. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“I appreciate your concern, Lord Gregor,” replied the treasurer. He forced himself to return the look and pulled his lips into an ugly smile. “But there’s no need to worry. It’s just that…I have a peculiar relationship with fire.”