Aeolwyn hadn’t been to a Temple of Laryn since he left Teorton, never mind the Arch Temple. It was a massive and grandiose building. Unlike the polished, gleaming opulence like the palace and the Star Children’s temple, the Temple Laryn had its own majesty.

  It was built of well-crafted stone left bare instead of being plastered and whitewashed. Despite its regular cleaning, the stone was still stained and pitted from years of abuse by the wind and salt from the sea.

  It was a tall building—nearly 150 feet for the main building, but the spires and towers were well over 200 feet, all built using the same smooth stone. The only extravagance on the whole exterior of the building was the copper roofs that were ornamented with gold.

  Despite being built in the same simplicity, the inside could only be described in a single word: reverent. The building had a round center, from which the main spire erupted. On the sides of the central sanctuary, long aisles reached out, each facing a point of the compass.

  Inside the sanctuary was where the altar stood, and a marble statue of the primary god of magic: Laryn. At the juncture of the central chancel and the naves stood Laryn’s children, each representing a different school of magic: Agyassa the violent was depicted as an angry woman holding sword and hurling a lightning bolt, Utashu the Blessed was an old woman holding a jar of salve. Jakitradus, the god of balance was depicted with both arms outstretched, each holding the same heavy weight. Finally, Samahdin the Illumined was depicted as an old man, nose buried in a book.

  Each statue had once been painted and were still trimmed in gold, despite the paint having worn off over the years. The lack of paint on the statues only added to their reverence, as though, despite having human forms, these gods were much more than simple humans.

  On the altar lay his father, King Llarwyn inside a plush golden coffin lined with velvet. He looked terrible. Gone was the strong, fat, confident man. In his place lay this sickly, emaciated form that Aeolwyn barely recognized. His skin was dry and crusty, and clung to his bones in an unnatural way.

  He seemed to be resting so peacefully, despite the violent spasms that had brought the king to his end. Davinya hadn’t wanted to describe her last moments with the king, but Aeolwyn made her. No matter how upsetting and painful it was, he needed to know.

  He and Reiva were the first to arrive at the temple. Reiva wanted to scout the area out before the funeral, and he wanted to spend some time with his father before the entire city arrived. The rest of his family was able to spend time with the former king, and he wanted the same.

  He wondered why no tears came as he stared at the body. He had expected to be a blubbering mess by now, but he might as well have been looking at a statue for all the pain he felt. Sure, he still felt the loss and loneliness the void in his life his father’s death had created. But the sadness was absent. It made him question whether he actually had loved his father at all.

  Aeolwyn stood in front of the corpse until his legs ached. He wasn’t sure how long that was. It could have been all night for all he knew. It wasn’t until his mother arrived and guided him to his seat in the Royal Stalls that he realized the service was about to begin. She sat beside him.

  She urged him to leave with her so that he could arrive in the procession with Alfyn and the rest of his family, but he refused. He couldn’t bear to leave his father again. The last time he’d seen the man was when he’d been exiled from Teorton. He should have come home, if only to visit.

  But that wouldn’t have been allowed. He had been exiled. Even now, he was only allowed back to the city by special dispensation from Star Captain Rinlous. Aeolwyn was just glad that he hadn’t had to go to the Star Children and beg to be allowed to attend the funeral. His mother told him that had been a possibility, but his brother Alfyn had forbidden it. Maybe the new king had some small shred of decency.

  Behind him, the monks of the Temple of Laryn slowly made their way in, singing their mournful dirges and still ringing that damned bell. Aeolwyn wished he could go over there and smash the thing to smithereens. Each ring felt like a dagger to his heart.

  The monks took station surrounding the body, with the bell ringer standing just at the foot of the casket. To his benefit, the bell ringer looked as sorrowful and mournful as Aeolwyn. He nodded to the prince as he took his position.

  Once the monks were in place, the temple began to fill up. The nobles came first. Aeolwyn saw Egnever’s father Lord Thaed come in with his son. Lord Asconce came in with his wife, who was carrying a young child. Asconce scowled at Aeolwyn as he found his way to a seat. The man still blamed him for the death of Rurik. If he had time, Aeolwyn would like to visit with Asconce—if the lord would have him.

  The quiet murmurs grew louder as the temple filled up. Once the nobles were seated, the commoners were allowed whatever remained. Between them and the nobility was an extensive line of guards, preventing any disgruntled peasant from expressing their displeasure at the nobility. Aeolwyn had already heard rumors that they were getting increasingly angry at the laws their new king was proclaiming.

  As soon as the commoners took their seats, the fanfare of trumpets began. Aeolwyn had heard the tune many times. The reminder of happier times filled him with warmth. Back when he was still a boy in the palace and his father was still alive. It reminded him of the family dinners where his father would insist they all have the barley soup, despite the fact that everyone hated it.

  He recalled the days when King Llarwyn would chase him around the palace, heedless of the impropriety of the king running around like a fool chasing his young son. Aeolwyn remembered cackling as his father chased him.

  Now that those days were gone, the trumpet fanfare took on a decidedly somber tone. A longing that he didn’t remember hearing in it before. A reminder of the impermanence of everything—even things that look like they will last forever, like the royal family and the Temple of Laryn itself.

  His brother Wolfryn escorted his sister Filliya to their seats. It was the first time Aeolwyn had seen her. She was as gaunt as her father had been, and her sunken, hollow eyes were nearly vacant. A slight smile twinged at her lips when she caught sight of Aeolwyn, but it was soon gone, replaced by a blank stare. It broke his heart to see her inflicted with the same illness that had taken her father.

  He resolved that if Alfyn couldn’t help her, he was going to take her back to Fort Camulan. Perhaps Mage-Captain Ivsar could do something for her. If not him, then surely the assembled power of the entire mage corps could.

  When Filliya and Wolfryn took their seats, Lord Smyton appeared at the doorway, holding the large staff of the office of Lord Chamberlain. He banged it loudly on the ground and shouted, “The King!”

  Where was Davinya?

  The assembled congregation rose as the trumpet fanfare reached its crescendo. The doors re-opened and Alfyn, resplendent in a white doublet embroidered with gold entered. He wore their father’s red velvet cloak. In one hand he carried the small symbolic shield of office known as The Dragonshield, and in the other a small staff with a golden spearpoint. Both symbols of the office of the king.

  Instead of their father’s massive golden crown, he wore the same simple gold circlet that he had taken to wearing just before Aeolwyn was exiled. Aeolwyn supposed he wouldn’t wear the crown until after his official coronation. He had probably wanted to, but Archstar Boress would have forbidden it. It was improper for the new king to bear the symbols of office before his predecessor was buried. The Dragonshield and Staff were unusual enough. If he’d worn the crown, there could have been a riot.

  He entered with Davinya, her hand resting atop his as though they were king and queen. His sister had a disgusted look on her face, lie she had bitten into a rotten fruit. Why were they coming in together? The only person who had a high enough rank to enter alongside the king was his queen, which Davinya obviously was not. That was decidedly unusual.

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  The commoners and nobles bowed their heads as Alfyn and Davinya walked slowly down the aisle. He escorted her to a seat between his mother and Wolfryn. He gave her a small kiss on the cheek before turning to the altar.

  According to protocol, he was supposed to bow his head for 5 minutes to their father before kneeling in supplication to his deceased predecessor. He was supposed to stay that way, on his knees, head bowed for the entirety of the ceremony. That was what their father had done upon the death of his father. Aeolwyn couldn’t verify that, having been born long after King Llarwyn ascended the throne.

  Alfyn didn’t do any of that. Instead, he mounted the dais, approached the casket, and kissed his father on the forehead. Then, to the gasps and murmurs of the assembled congregation, he walked to his left and sat on the large, padded chair that was supposed to be reserved for Archstar Boress.

  Once he had taken the seat, he made a gesture with the spear to Lord Smyton who turned and walked out of the temple. Aeolwyn could hear him speaking quietly, but firmly to Archstar Boress, who was answering in similarly quiet and firm tones.

  Finally, the archstar gave up and strode angrily towards the center of the temple. He shot a look towards Alfyn, but still bowed to him respectfully. Then, the archstar turned to the casket and made a similar bow to the previous king.

  Then he turned and bowed to each of the statues in turn, making different hand gestures to each that Aeolwyn didn’t understand. Finally, he walked to face the large statue of Laryn himself, where he prostrated himself on the floor and kissed the statue’s feet. He lay there for a few moments, quietly praying under his breath, before rising and turning again to face the western nave, where the royal family sat.

  “The king is dead,” he said quietly.

  “Long live the king,” the group responded.

  Archstar Boress turned back to the statue of the god Laryn.

  “Almighty Laryn,” he began, “We beg that you welcome our good King Llarwyn into your loving embrace. His time in this world is done, but he is ever your servant. We pray that you love him as we did, and you see that his transition to your world is a smooth one.

  “We beseech your kindness and love, Lord Laryn, and grant him the generousness in spirit that he granted others in this life. Warm his soul and comfort his bereaved, for he is missed by many.

  “And finally, we beg that you protect the kingdom he has left behind and grant his son and successor King Alfyn the same wisdom and mercy you saw fit to give him.

  “We pray this in your loving embrace, Vani’sva.”

  “Vani’sva,” echoed the congregation.

  He turned back to face the royal family, then shrugged and turned to Alfyn. He walked over to the new king and held out his hand. This was when Alfyn was supposed to give the archstar two gold coins to place over the eyes of their father, to pay for his passage through the underworld to sit beside Laryn’s throne.

  Alfyn, not understanding, looked around, before shrugging. How could he not have known? Wouldn’t Lord Smyton have explained his duties in this ceremony? Aeolwyn knew and he wasn’t the crown prince. His brother was making a mockery of this whole service.

  Aeolwyn fished two gold coins from his pouch and quietly cleared his throat. Archstar Boress turned, locked eyes with Aeolwyn and nodded. Trying not to appear too flustered, the archstar made his way over to him.

  Aeolwyn held out his hands, with one coin in each. Boress waved his hand to each coin in blessing, before taking them. Aeolwyn bowed his head reverently, as Alfyn was supposed to have done. The archstar turned and walked back to their father’s body, where he placed coins over each of the deceased king’s eyes.

  Alfyn shot Aeolwyn a scowl when he realized what had happened. The new king was not happy that Aeolwyn had been the one to pay for their father’s journey. It certainly would lessen his authority in the eyes of the commoners and nobles alike.

  Archstar Boress gestured for the congregation to rise before turning to the casket to pray over it. The monks began chanting their slow, sad dirges again. The mournful sound of their sung tugged at Aeolwyn’s heartstrings and he felt the stinging of tears in his eyes. They wouldn’t fall though, despite the fact that his mother and Davinya were crying like small children. Even Wolfryn was silently weeping.

  The monk’s song went on for ages. Alfyn, who had been looking bored during the ceremony began nodding off during the songs. Aeolwyn wished he had some pebbles to throw at the new king to stop him from falling asleep. Not only was it disrespectful, but this was the sort of behavior that could spark a riot, or even an attempt to overthrow Alfyn.

  Finally, the songs and prayers ended. This was the time in the ceremony where Archstar Boress was meant to lift the Dragonshield and Spear from the hands of the deceased king and give them to Alfyn, symbolizing the transfer of power to the new king. But since Alfyn already had them, the Archstar wasn’t sure what to do.

  He had to do something though. Without the symbolic transfer of power, there could be no new king. Instead of the Dragonshield and Spear, he reached into the casket and took the right hand of the former king. With a flourish, he pulled off their father’s signet ring, being careful not to pull the skin or the finger itself with.

  He held the ring up high for the entire congregation to see.

  “Almighty Laryn,” he started again. “We beg you to bless this, the ring of King Llarwyn, the mighty symbol of the king and his divine right to rule. Please carry that blessing to his successor, King Alfyn as the symbol of the king is passed from one king to the next.”

  He carried the ring reverently to Alfyn, who stared at him blankly. The Archstar gave the new king a quick and subtle kick in the toes as Aeolwyn heard him whisper, “Give me your finger!”

  Alfyn shrugged and held out his right hand.

  “Lord Laryn,” he said loudly as he put the ring on Alfyn’s finger. It fit loosely and ran the risk of slipping off his hand entirely. “Please grant King Alfyn your guidance and wisdom, that he may rule his people justly, and smite his enemies fiercely.”

  Alfyn shot Aeolwyn a quick smirk when the archstar finished the last line. Aeolwyn wanted to roll his eyes but resisted. Whether Alfyn wanted him dead or not, he was still the king and deserved some modicum of respect—at least in public.

  “And remember, young king,” Boress continued, “As your father has passed to the side of Laryn, one day, so shall you, so be merciful, and be just! Vani’sva”

  “Vani’sva,” the congregation echoed again.

  Boress produced a vial of oil from his robes. He took a small rod out from the vial and shook some of the oil onto Alfyn’s head. “Be merciful,” he said. “Be just.”

  Then he turned from Alfyn and returned to the casket. He began anointing their father at the head, heart, hands, and feet, while mumbling quietly to himself. When he finished, he bowed over the body again, and then stepped back.

  “Lord Laryn,” he said. “We consign this king to your care.”

  He gestured to the monks surrounding the casket, who all stepped forward and slowly, reverently closed the casket’s lid. The loud thump it made as it shut firmly rang like a bell in Aeolwyn’s soul.

  Still no tears came.

  Once the casket was closed, the monks surrounded the casket on both sides and lifted it onto their shoulders as they continued to sing their wailing songs. The bell sounder began ringing his bell again while shouting, “The king is dead! Long live the king!”

  As the monks made their way out of the building, Aeolwyn stood, along with the rest of the family. He waved an arm at Alfyn, making sure he knew he was expected to stand and follow the casket. He either didn’t see or chose not to.

  Davinya had to walk over to him as formally as she could and hold out her arm, as though it were part of the ceremony. Alfyn seemed to understand, stood, and took her arm. She nudged him forward so that he looked as though he were the one leading her behind the procession of monks with the casket.

  Next went his mother, walking behind the new king. Wolfryn and Ulfnar should have been the next to go, followed by Aeolwyn, and finally Filliya, but with Ulfnar missing and Filliya barely able to stand, the two brothers held their sister between them, and walked slowly out of the temple.

  They slowly walked to the graveyard, and into the Royal Crypt, where every king since the founding of Camulan lay. Prior to the funeral, the monks had entered the crypt and prepared a spot for their father to lay.

  The monks laid their father down on the prepared spot and sang their last, sorrowful dirge, while the bell toller continued to ring the bell. Archstar Boress mumbled some prayers quietly to himself. Those prayers were only for the dead king and Laryn.

  When the prayers were complete, the archstar took the hands of each family member in turn and said a few kind words, before moving on to the next.

  “Thank you Aeolwyn,” the archstar said softly when it was his turn. “I’m glad someone knew what to do.”

  Aeolwyn nodded but said nothing. As the archstar left, the monks and bell toller filed out behind him, leaving only the royal family behind to say their final goodbyes.

  “That went well, I think,” Alfyn said.

  Aeolwyn couldn’t take it anymore. “Alfyn, Your Grace, King of the Realm,” he started. “You made a complete mockery of that funeral! What were you thinking carrying the Dragonshield and Spear with you? Did you not know that the archstar was supposed to formally give those to you? He had to make do with father’s ring! And coming in as though Davinya was the queen? You’ll be lucky if you don’t have a revolt on your hands!”

  Alfyn stepped into Aeolwyn, pointing the spear at his chest. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. Like I said, I have no interest in your throne. I just expected you to do better. That man wasn’t just our father, he was father to the entire kingdom. The only way you could have done worse is if you spat on his corpse!”

  “Watch your language, general. You’re speaking to the king!”

  “Boys, please.” Their mother stepped between them. “We’ve all had a very emotional day. Let’s not make it worse. Now Aeolwyn, make your apologies.”

  She was right that it had been an emotional day, but this wasn’t some fight over a toy. This was the final respects they paid to their father. Aeolwyn turned to the freshly laid casket and put his hands on the gold lid. “I am sorry, father. I will my best to ensure your legacy lasts for generations.”

  He turned to Alfyn who wore a smug grin on his face. If he expected Aeolwyn to apologize, then he was going to be sorely mistaken. Aeolwyn stood tall before him, standing nearly half a head taller. He bowed his head formally and snapped it back just as Lord Smyton had done to him.

  “Your Grace,” he said formally before storming out of the crypt.