Lark shifts uncomfortably, feeling the full weight of her armor. The coronation hall is crowded with all the silk-suited, portly nobility that Larynth has to offer. She can smell perspiration. A thick fog of facial powder looms about the noble women standing behind her, all murmuring in each other’s ears. Next to her, Drair is motionless, silent except for the soft swishing sound of her thumb against her wrist, her dark hands clasped behind her back.

  The great hall is the grandest room in the castle at Erah. A spacious expanse of marbled tile blankets the floor, the ceilings climbing through the second floor and past the breadth of the battlements outside. It is painted white and gold, heavy mesquite rafters hailing from the desert holding the weight of the walls over their heads.

  The High Priest, gowned in a trailing white gown stitched with golden threads, stands on high at the altar. Four priests stand at his sides, each holding a coronary piece. They wear brown woolen robes and the crest of the sun god around their necks, a coiled rattlesnake. The youngest of the four, a pale, mousy man, holds within his hands a small pillow, atop which rests the crown ring. Next to him stands an older gentleman, his hands shaking. He holds a wooden bowl in which pools the holy anointing oil of the High Priest. On the left of the Priest are presented the coronation sword, clasped confidently by an ostentatiously poised clergyman, and the Crown itself, held in the hands of an elderly parson.

  A small acolyte rushes up to light the wrought iron candlesticks that flank the altar. Next to them stand the generals, Tygoh and Nathis, garbed in the black and gold half capes of the Royal Guard. Anarah stands vigilant at the left of the doorway. The royal council is seated to the right of the altar, clothed in the magnificent jewels and damasks of their houses.

  The rear doors groan open, and the walkway clears, patrons shuffling to the sides. Sunlight pours in through the opening and the crowd goes silent. The High Priest’s steady voice calls over the heads of the nobles.

  “May the nobles of Larynth please kneel to welcome our prince.”

  Lark bends a knee, hearing the clank of metal as her armor meets marble. A hush of shuffling garments joins her as the nobles kneel before the prince.

  The prince himself arrives in the doorway, wearing a gold and fawn colored doublet. A trailing black cape drapes over his shoulders, following his feet as his leather boots stamp along the marble. His normally shaggy hair, black as night, is combed back into a small tail at the back of his head. Lark meets his verdant eyes for only a second, and his smirking face mirrors hers.

  There is only silence from the crowd as Taeg climbs upon the steps of the altar to stand below the High Priest. He comes to a halt, eyes facing forward. Lark tries to control her breathing. It sounds too loud in the spacious hall.

  “Please rise,” the priest calls.

  Another great shuffle buzzes off the stone walls as each noble rises to his feet. Soft gasps echo from the mouths of the women at Lark’s shoulder. The members of the Royal Guard rise to meet the others, removing their swords and placing the tip gently upon the floor, grasped by the hilt. Lark yearns to be there with them, her sword cold in her hands.

  The prince stares fervidly at the man above him. A moment passes as the cleric allows silence to reconvene in the hall. The High Priest speaks again.

  “Upon this 65th day of our summer months, Taeg Kerrich, son of Roen and Vilania Kerrich, presents himself to receive the greatest honor and the arduous task of wearing the crown of the sun god. Taeg, do you observe the duties, honor, and judgements that do so accompany the position of a consecrated monarch in the eyes of our god and this country?”

  “I do.” Taeg’s voice is low.

  “These duties weigh upon your shoulders until your spirit passes into the next world or is removed from his office by the voice of the law. Do you accept these terms?” the High Priest peers at the prince over his nose.

  “I accept.”

  The Priest turns and steps toward the mousy man holding the silk pillow. He carefully removes the Crown Ring from its perch.

  “This ring has graced the hands of previous kings and queens since before my time. It represents the lives of the people that you now carry with you until your reign is finished,” the cleric speaks as he moves toward the prince. “My prince, please offer your right hand.”

  Taeg’s arm rises from his side mechanically. The High Priest slides the hammered gold ring onto the prince’s fourth finger, its facets catching the light.

  “This ring is so inscribed with the words, I do serve. Its humble nature is set to remind the reigning monarch of their position in society: a sovereign, a disciple of our god, and most importantly, an attendant of the people. As king, you willfully take upon yourself the protection and justice that belong to the people of Larynth.”

  Taeg lowers his hand.

  Lark shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her breastplate is rubbing into her shoulderblades. She watches the Guard members on dais, each one still as stone. Nathis’ forehead gleams with sweat.

  The Priest moves to pluck the wooden bowl from the shaking man behind him. He dips a single thumb into the oil and meets the prince at the steps. He allows a single drop of oil to rejoin the bowl before placing his thumb gingerly upon the forehead of the prince, drawing it across his brow.

  “You are anointed with oil in the name of our god. With this gesture, you are promised eternal life under the observation that you fulfill your duties to our lord, the Crown, and its people. You may now kneel, my Prince.”

  Taeg sweeps his cape from his legs and takes a knee before the clergy. The graying cleric returns the bowl to the second priest, now moving to withdraw the coronation sword. He grasps its plain, faded hilt with a firm hand and brings himself to stand before the kneeling prince. The crowd hushes.

  Lark remembers her studies on the knighting sword. It was the sword of the first scout to make it to the southern border of the continent. The original settlers of Larynth had come from a northern continent, fleeing a rampant disease that thrived in the cold environment. They came upon the land that would become Larynth’s province, Cale, where a large lake near the ocean provided the settlers’ first food.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  When expansion became necessary, scouts were sent into the desert. To the east, they found the Pfeist Mountains. To the West, they found a lifeless sandpit. But to the south, the first scout to make it across the desert found the remnants of a sandstone castle, the same structure they now held the coronation in. By the time the scout’s bird made it to Cale, both him and his horse had perished in the heat. The scout’s sword, found near his body inside the great castle, had been used to crown Larynth’s first king.

  Despite its dull, marred appearance, that sword now hovers over Taeg’s slim shoulders with the same intention. Lark stares aptly, aching to get her hands on it, to polish the grisly blade until it shines. Nathis had been sure to mention that this was expressly forbidden, and that the sword’s patina was a reminder of our humble beginnings and the merciless flame of the sun god. She’d laughed at this.

  The High Priest, sword in hand, looks heavily upon the young prince below him.

  “This sword has touched the shoulders of your father before you and his father before him. Taeg Kerrich, would you please recite the Oath with me as I perform the accolade.”

  Taeg bows his head. As the High Priest raises the sword above the prince, their voices come together, echoing off the walls of the great hall.

  “I deliver the promise of justice,” their voices chime as the sword lands lightly on Taeg’s right shoulder.

  “I demand the right to peace.” The cleric moves the sword over the prince’s head to touch his left shoulder.

  “I serve the eternal flame of our sun.” The High Priest sets the tip of the sword to the altar floor, hearing a resounding clunk. Silence follows.

  The High Priest hands the sword back to his attendants, and reaches to cradle the crown in both his hands, a smile tugging at his mustache. It is a glowing, polished brass. A simple piece, the band is shaped like a rattlesnake, a single ruby laid into the eye of the serpent. As the High Priest turns to the prince, Lark feels her lips upturn as she catches sight of the royal crown. She, and hundreds of nobles, watch as the High Priest lays the crown atop the dark, bowed head of their young prince. Taeg does not move. The only sound that moves through the hall is the resonating voice of the graying cleric.

  “Taeg Roen Kerrich, under the watchful eye of our country and our god, you are consecrated and enthroned by Larynthian law. Please rise as our king.”

  The man that rises to his feet is not the same boy Lark remembers clobbering in the mess hall as children. She feels the tension of the crowd behind her as the new king rises and turns to face his nobility. A hush of cloth echoes again as the people kneel. The small clang of armor can be heard as every member of the Guard bows their head.

  Lark’s heart races. The High Priest raises a hand. Quietly, he speaks.

  “May we all rise for a secondary ceremony into which our king shall welcome upon us two new members of the royal Guard.”

  Lark’s eyes open wide and she jerks her head up to meet Nathis’s smiling eyes, squinting at her from the dais. The people behind her rise, their murmurs filling the open air. She remains kneeling, dumbfounded, looking from Nathis to Taeg. The general gestures for her to rise and she drags herself up, shooting Drair a questioning look.

  The High Priest directs all but two of his attendants away, those holding the small bowl of oil and the roughhewn sword.

  “My king, please…take your place.” The priest smiles and moves to his right, allowing the new king to make his way up the steps to his rightful place at the Church’s side. Taeg’s footsteps echo through the hall, his black and gold cape sweeping about his ankles as he turns to face the nobles. He seems to take a deep breath then, his voice boiling from his stomach.

  “I ask both Drair Abidan and Lark Viet to come forward.”

  Shaking, Lark gulps air into her lungs as she makes a move toward the altar. Every eye watches them. Lark keeps her sight on Taeg and he does not waver. A small strand of dark hair has escaped its bounds and spread itself across his forehead, the crown resting just above it. He looks different, green eyes lined black, missing their usual spark.

  Suddenly, she is aware of how warm the hall is. Sweat seeps out from between her breasts and down her lower back. They step side by side to the stairs, awaiting the High Priest’s instruction. The crackle of the torches at her right and left are all she can focus on. Her vision swims. A sick feeling wells in her stomach. Beside her, Drair is stoic.

  The High Priest, allowing the crowd to settle, moves to take the anointing oil from the priest behind him.

  “Drair and Lark,” he says softly, “you take upon you the responsibility of protecting king and his country. You will defend the helpless and the poor. You will uphold the law and serve as a role model for those behind you. Do you accept these terms?”

  “I accept,” comes Lark’s cracking voice, bolting from her chest before she can stop it. Drair’s languorous drawl joins hers.

  “Please, recite the knight’s oath before us and know that it is binding.”

  Lark takes a deep breath. She has had the words to the oath branded in her mind since the day she came to the castle at Erah. She recalls Nathis standing before her, speaking the words, her arms shaking at her sides. “You must remember this always, as it is not only your oath to the king, but to this country,” he’d said.

  Her voice comes too quickly, and she struggles to match up with Drair, their voices bounding through the crowd.

  “I will always defend our king. I will speak only the truth. I will devote my faith to God. I will fight only with honor. I will defend those who need my strength. I will serve my country with sincerity and fortitude, never yielding to that which may seek to subvert.”

  In a rush, the words are out. Lark feels her cheeks warm. An eternity passes before the priest continues.

  “You are now consecrated as protectors of the royal family under the eyes of God.”

  He dips a thumb into the oil, drawing a line across their brows. The priest steps aside, allowing their new king to present the knighting sword.

  “Lark, Drair,” Taeg says, meeting their eyes one at a time. “Please kneel.”

  Lark kneels, head bowed. She can feel Drair’s heat next to her. She waits as Taeg touches the sword to each of Drair’s shoulders. Her breath is caught in her lungs. Above her, she hears, “I, Taeg Kerrich, King of Larynth, knight Drair Abidan as a member of Royal Guard.”

  She watches his shadow move across the marble to hover over her, his cape waving around her head. Her hands shake, perched atop her knee. She feels the sword touch the armor on her right shoulder with a soft clink.

  “I, Taeg Kerrich, King of Larynth, knight Lark Viet,” the sword touches her left shoulder, “as a member of the Royal Guard. You may both rise.”

  As Lark rises, a rush of blood leaves her face, her vision sparkling. Her knees crack. The face of Taeg greets her at full height, his lips upturned, a close second to the Taeg she knows.

  “Congratulations,” he says. “You are both sworn to protect the Crown of Larynth.”

  The open doors at the end of the hall greet them with blinding sunlight. Together, Larnyth’s new king and his Guard make their way to the veranda over the gatehouse. Waiting below, just outside the gate, is a mass of townspeople. Approaching the railing, Taeg receives a swell of cheers. His head nods to the crowd, hands gripping the sandstone wall.

  Lark feels her stomach crawl back into its home below her ribs, and she pulls dry desert air into her lungs. She creeps to the edge next to Taeg, laying her hand on the railing. Among the crowd, she recognizes Holl, her blacksmith’s assistant, waving sheepishly at her from thirty feet below, and a toothy smile paints her face. She looks around at the people of all kinds, looking to their leader, hands waving in the air.

  In the rear of the throng, she spots a man in a gold-embroidered doublet. His face is bearded and haggard, eyes turned to Taeg. He looks her way, their eyes meeting, and Lark recognizes the narrow nose and pale skin that match her own, belonging only to the man that is her father.