The throne room seemed even more cavernous and quiet than usual. On either hand, the roof towering over marching rows of the kings of the past was hung with long sweeping pennons, alternate banners of black and white, the colors of mourning. In front of the steps that led up to the Throne itself stood a bier, draped in black velvet, and on that bier, shrouded under a white samite sheet, lay all that remained of King Taryn in this world.
But there was life in the room. As Thrand paced forward ceremonially, heavy steps echoing off marble walls and staff clinking with every other stride, he noticed the senior Life Witnesses seated on either side of the aisle, some way from the four corners of the catafalque. These were two high-ranking elderly Morgs and two younger rising Witnesses who were likely to remember this event for decades to come. Thrand almost nodded to himself. This was proper. This was legal procedure. As he advanced, the aging judge became aware of three more people in the room.
On the broad bottom step of the stairs that led up to Great Throne was the Lesser Throne, used for more informal occasions so the King did not always have to trek all the way to the top. In it sat Queen Innia – Lady Innia, he corrected himself – centered right behind the dead King’s body. On either side of her sat her sons, Prince Trallin and Prince Varnik. Besides noting their presence, Thrand ignored the trio for the moment. He had a job to do.
As he approached the shrouded figure on the bier, he noticed the silver Crown Helm lying at its feet, as if spurned by the proud, departing spirit. Soon, Thrand knew, that crown would be delivered to his apartment and locked away until the moment he would declare the next ruling King of the Greater Realm of the South. With merely a glance at the ancient relic in passing he proceeded to the top of the bier. The Witnesses stood up and shuffled nearer, but still a respectful distance away. Thrand took the corners of the shroud, paused, then pulled them back to disclose the face of the dead Taryn.
He was pale, as pale as the stone of his statue that stood at the end of the line of kings, as pale as his white flowing hair and stiff, bristling moustache, so that he looked as if he were carved of ivory, all of a piece. Taryn’s noble face was tranquil, composed, but his eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, so that one could already guess the skull under the skin. Soon, Thrand knew, the embalmers would be at him, but there were things to do first. Thrand put out a paw and laid it on the King’s forehead.
It, too, was cold as stone. Thrand had no doubt about the King’s state, but formalities must be carried out. He moved his hand down the face, forefinger resting a moment on the closed eyeball, then softly he pinched the slack cheek, coming at last to the neck to feel for a pulse forever stilled. At last, satisfied, he looked up and stared into the middle distance.
“He is dead,” he intoned firmly. “He is dead, indeed.”
“He is dead indeed,” the Witnesses chorused in unison. The two older drew near and guided Thrand to a small table behind the head of the bier on which a parchment certificate lay, already scrawled with signatures and blobbed with wax seals. Thrand took the pen and inscribed his name rather neatly in his official hand and pressed his own seal into the melted wax provided. The Witnesses withdrew once more, and only then did Thrand turn to address the mourning family.
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