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.