Lamentation

The fur-clad man was a shaman. He had been sent for from the distant northern mountain Cansod. Cansod was both the mountain and the god the Seabreaker’s people had made of it. It is known for its wild ranges, ferocious beasts, and the quality of its ore.  The shaman led with his shaky steps up and into the throne room. Guards were dressed in black and grey uniforms to indicate their mourning. They were stone as the procession passed. The only sound was the rasp of the old man’s steel staff on the marble, the pace too slow to click a heel.

The doors of the throne rooms were thrown open, and the morning splashed across the room. The throne had been removed from the dais, and in its place sat the sarcophagus of King Illian Searif Seabreaker, the first of his name. The shaman stepped aside and motioned to Ignatius, “The room is yours, Crown Prince.”

Ignatius turned his attentions to his uncle’s ragged face. Sarrin’s loss was painted in deep lines. “Uncle,” Ignatius spoke, “you may.”

Sarrin strode into the room while everyone else watched. Tears rolled down his face in a slow, tired fall. The sound of his step echoed, seemingly through the entire city. His face passed through the repeating shadows of the windows, and he stopped at the foot of the dais. He reached out and up, setting his hand gently over the breast of his brother’s image on the sarcophagus. He held for a moment, then collapsed in sobbing grief.

Ignatius took the shaman’s shoulder, “Perform the rights in private. I will collect my Uncle.” He walked to Sarrin and gently picked him up. And if I were to give Ignatius a single description, I learned it in that moment. His greatest attribute is grace, and he deserves to be king.

All eyes watched Ignatius help his noble Uncle from the throne room. All but mine. I watched Patient Sail, knowing the next move was his.

Grief

The city was woken by the sounding of mourning bells. After years of infirmity and poor health, the king of the Grazian Empire was dead. Massive bell towers in the palace shook with dower thunder. The sound pulsed the sad news to the furthest reaches of Grazia’s urban sprawl. Though it had been expected for some time, a dark mood fell upon the city. Though I take no pleasure in it, people in mourning ask few questions. The passing of a king made it all the easier to move undetected in my observations.

I had made myself into one of Sarrin Seabreaker’s estate guards that day. I managed to convince the quartermaster to attach me to the family’s palanquin for the procession down to the palace. We waited in the courtyard for over an hour, the front door to the mansion flung open. It remained a dark and unchanging maw, an unnerving image. I will always think of it when considering Grazian grief. When at last Sarrin led his family from within, he was withered and pale. Though he still stood tall and monstrously large, his brother’s passing had drained him of anima. He wept silently for everyone to see. His tears rolled off his cheeks to stain the grey tunic he wore. No words were exchanged as the family took their place in the palanquin.

Patient Sail was more stoic than his father, but clearly disturbed. I’ve no reason to believe the boy was close with his regal uncle, but who is not rocked when faced with the grief of a parent. How inconsolable they seem and helpless you are left to feel in the wake of their need. It was painted across the boy’s face, his gaze immobile from his father’s despondency.

The procession moved through silent streets. Haunted faces looked down at the grey and black parade as it passed. The markets were quiet and the houses of trade were closed. Few dared the streets, uncertain of what would come next without their king. Though I had at first sensed hope, almost anticipation, rising with Ignatius’ ascendency it was now lost in sadness. For generations, the Seabreaker kings had brought prosperity to the people of their empire. But it seemed all that coin could only purchase a sense of loss.

Black cloths draped down from the towers of the palace as we arrived. Ignatius and his mother stood waiting the arrival Sarrin’s family. Behind them, an ancient man in thick furs stood leaning on a staff of tempered steel. It was this man who came forward, shambling against his staff as he crossed to meet the palanquin. Sarrin Seabreaker rolled himself out into the courtyard, his gaze fixing on  the aged man. The square was silent save the tap of the staff against the stone.

The fur-clad man reached Sarrin, and offering a sad smile, placed a hand on his arm, “He’s been called back to the mountain, Sarrin.”

“Thanks be to Cansod.” Sarrin replied weakly.

Consent

I marched from the courtyard, following the young prince. As he went up the spiral stairs to the main floor, I changed my disguise and became a serving girl, beneath notice. Patient Sail made his way out of the palace, and I became an errand boy whose path just happened to coincide with his. Though there were rooms for the in the palace, Sail's father Sarrin chose to keep his family in their own estates. We spent an hour making the way up from the palace and through the markets. Patient Sail strolled and perused the goods in the market. He was warm and genial with the merchants, but also aloof. He plodded along with casual curiosity, eventually making his way up to the Estate district.

Sarrin Seabreaker had built high walls around his complex. No surprise, with his being the Admiral-General of the Grazian navy. The gate was an ornate image of a mountain printed with anchors and swords, which the guards swung open to allow Patient Sail to enter. I had to employ more stealthier and more athletic means of ingress. I raced around to the far side of the wall and scaled it. From there I leaped to the rooftop and crawled my way along to a window which looked down on the mansion's lobby. I arrived just in time to see Patient Sail cross the threshold.

Sarrin Seabreaker met his son in the entry. Sarrin's a massive man. If not for his careful grooming and colorful dress, he could pass for a bear. He smiled down on Sail as the boy came in, then drew the bastard sword he wore on his hip. The thing rasped as Sarrin drew it, the sound seeming to draw out the guardsmen hiding in alcoves throughout the lobby. They too drew weapons, a cadre of 4 men including Sarrin closed in on Patient Sail. 

The boy looked at the four faces coming at him and was unfazed. He coolly eased into a combat pose as a slight golden glow began to come off him. The first guard came on, a solid thrust of his blade. Sail leaned away from the blow and caught the man's wrist. With a twist, he disarmed the guard and claimed his weapon. Sail spun the man around and kicked him into the wall to collapse. 

The other two guards took up side-by-side positions and moved in slowly. I was impressed with how calmly the boy moved about the room. His superior footwork cost the guards their position, lining them up to come one by one. Sail pirouetted in his attack, the edge of his blade catching the guard of his opponent. The twisting blow spun the weapon from the guard's hand with a ring. It shot up into the air. As the guard watched his sword fly from his hand, Sail delivered a forward kick to his chest. The blow drove the guards together and out of the fight in a crumpled heap. As they fell, Sail caught the descending sword and faced his father. All three of his would-be assailants groaned with ache to punctuate the scene.

Father and son paced one another. Sarrin's form was unusual for the size of his blade, but his technical prowess was clear from every line of his body. They traded a few cautious blows, trying to bait one another. Both father and son had gleeful smiles; clearly Sarrin had been handling Sail's instruction personally. Sarrin raised his blade and bellowed his attack. His huge sword fell in a deadly arc for Sail's head. The boy got a blade up to parry the blow, but it would smash his guard. As Sail met the blow, he side-stepped. His parry only suggested Sarrin's attack fall slightly to the left, leaving the father over-committed. As Sarrin's weight shifted, Sail dropped his parrying blade and spun behind his father, the edge of his second sword at the man's throat. Sail spoke, "He said yes, father." He dropped the second blade and freed his father.

Sarrin beamed at his son with pride. He scooped him up in a gigantic embrace, "Of course he did, my son! I am not surprised but I am very proud of you, Sail."

"So I may go then? When Ignatius is crowned?" Sail's tone was full of hope.

"You will still need to get permission from one more person." Sarrin chastised gently.

"Who is it this time, father? Have I not proved myself yet?"

"To me, clearly. But you must get the consent of your king. And Ignatius will be your king. You will speak with your cousin, and if he allows it, you will go on your quest." Sarrin put his arm around his son and led him deeper into the mansion, and I decided I had pried quite enough for one day.