13. The palace (VIII)

Oren stood guard over the bird for a moment until the company began to collect, cautiously emerging from where they had taken whatever shelter they had been able to find behind the rubble of chairs and overturned tables. They regarded the dead Swan uncertainly. All but ignoring Oren, who stepped away to let them approach, they encircled the body, drawing back briefly when its weight shifted and one of the great wings settled to rest, until it was clear that the Swan no longer posed any danger. One young woman let out a gasp of shock — or was it grief? — covered her mouth with her hand, and made a swift exit from the room; two or three of her fellows quickly went after her. The older woman, the one who had been struck by the bird's wing, was beginning to come around, and at last someone noticed her and went to her aid. Too shaken to speak, she remained where she had fallen, but Oren saw that her eyes were alert and fixed on the fallen bird.

Others were making for the door by now, and as they left Oren heard shouts in the corridor beyond. It struck him that they didn't particularly sound like shouts of celebration; in fact, he couldn't really tell what he thought they sounded like shouts of, although the urgency in the voices was unmistakable. In the room, two young men — Oren thought they were the heralds who had preceded the bearer of the lance, though he wasn't sure — were slowly beginning to pick things up, straightening chairs and setting the heavy wooden tables back on their feet. As he watched them, Oren felt something brush against the back of his legs, and turned.

“You will do things the hard way, won't you?” Lucinda curled around him. He thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of a smirk on her face; he was quite sure he saw no trace of surprise there at all. He stared at her, and only after an instant did he realize that, although she was taking evident pains to conceal it, she was beaming with pride and pleasure. He put a hand out and felt with his fingertips the gentle, even vibration of the cat's throat beneath her fur.

Summoned from other parts of the palace by the commotion, a crowd was gathering. Once or twice someone stole a glance at him, catching his eye with an indecipherable but apparently not hostile gaze before looking away. A strong rope was procured, and several men set about the task of securing one end of it to the body of the Swan. This undertaking required multiple attempts before it was at last accomplished; then, the path to the door having been cleared, and the bird having been swaddled in a carpet — no doubt to keep it from leaving a trail of blood in its wake — the company began the heavy chore of heaving the corpse into the hall. Oren and Lucinda stepped from the room as well; they watched the slow procession down the gallery until, at a right-hand bend, it lost momentum and came to a halt. More hands arrived; taking up the ropes, or setting their shoulders behind to push, they managed to get the bundle in motion once more and soon disappeared around the corner.

“We'll give them some time to prepare, and then join them later for the funeral.” Lucinda had turned to face him, in time to catch the baffled expression these words produced.

“A funeral? What funeral?” Oren blurted out.

“The Swan's, naturally,” she replied, and as this only seemed to increase his confusion, she added, lowering her voice just a whisker, “after all, he was the King's brother.”

This last confidence left Oren standing stock-still, even as Lucinda broke away from him and began to pad away. She took a few steps before looking over her shoulder. Oren hesitated, then caught up with her. She waited for him to pursue the matter further, but he was too bewildered to speak. Before resuming her course she cocked her head jauntily and lifted one eyebrow.

“Cat got your tongue,” she declared, half under her breath, and left it at that.

They walked for some time. There was more activity than usual in the halls of the palace; people bustled through, nodding briefly at Oren and Lucinda but not lingering to chat. A few carried parcels or papers or armfuls of dry branches and tinder. After a while Oren realized that the coming and going of the traffic was no longer random but was converging somewhere in front of them. A crowd was assembling, and he and the cat were forced to slow their pace and get in step with the rest. As they jostled forward a cool breeze — an outside breeze — began to ripple over them from ahead.

The congregants at last fanned out onto a broad circular terrace, open to the stars and the night air. Craning his neck, Oren saw that surmounting the outward edge of the terrace was a platform piled with branches, and that upon it the lifeless body of the Swan had been draped. In the passage through the palace its head and neck had become brutally wrenched out of position, and a young woman — Oren thought it might be Mira, but he couldn't be sure — had climbed up and was carefully — tenderly even — attempting to set it back into a more natural pose. After a moment she stepped down, and almost immediately a hush came over the onlookers, who began to back away from the platform, making space for someone who was coming through. When all had settled again Oren looked forward and saw a lone figure climbing up beside the Swan. It was the King. He seemed older now, grave and worn, but there was no doubting the commanding effect his appearance had upon everyone present. Not a whisper was heard, and all eyes were turned forward to await his words. Just as he began to speak Oren felt someone squeeze his arm and looked over: it was Mira. As she leaned her head on his shoulder he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

July 18, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.