“May the King live forever!”
A shiver of foreboding made tears rise in Sanglant’s eyes, but the crowd had already raised its voice to acclaim him, and those in the square and streets beyond shouted and sang as well, heard as a distant echo.
Right behind him someone coughed.
Ekkehard muttered, “My feet hurt. I’ve been standing for hours.”
Psalms must be sung. Each biscop and prince and noble must come before him to kiss his ring and make known that they, each one, accepted his authority to rule. So it would go in every important town his progress stopped at as they rode west into Varre. So it would go for the rest of his life. Time, at least, was neither male or female. He did not desire death. He could wait, truly, for a good long time before he must embrace it, as every mortal creature must. But he hoped that Time would not abandon him. Yet if it was the Lord and Lady’s will that each soul spin out a certain length of thread upon Earth, had his mother’s curse then shielded him from Their touch? Surely not. His mother was not as powerful as God’s will, even if she did not believe in Them.
That thought struck him all at once as he spoke words and greeted and nodded and looked each person in the eye to mark the honesty of their gaze. What did his mother believe in? How did the Ashioi explain the existence of the world? What did they worship?
Surely Liath knew.
“Your Majesty.” Waltharia knelt before him, her expression solemn. She nodded to show her approval. The gesture reminded him uncannily of her father, who had a habit of nodding in just such a way, with a slight twist to the chin.
Shouts and frantic cries drifted in from outside. They lifted into screams, a chaos of fear that rolled into the church.
“Your Majesty! Come quickly!”
“Save us, Your Majesty!”
He leaped up. Wearing robe and crown and still carrying the staff, he strode down the nave. The train of the robe swept the floor behind him. The crowd parted to let him through, although there was a bottleneck at the doors where terrified people from outside tried to press into the sanctuary.
“Make way! Make way!” cried his soldiers.
He knew their voices. They did not sound afraid.
He had glimpsed them sporadically on the march east. They spent most of their time hunting. Now they circled low, waiting for the square to clear before they swooped down to land next to the steps. Liath had risen. Folk scattered into the avenues and alleys of Gent, fleeing the monsters. A few foolhardy youths wavered at the edge of the square, measuring the response of his soldiers, who instead of fleeing had merely moved back to leave room for the griffins. Others crowded onto the porch of the church. Many cowered inside.
He strode out onto the steps.
The griffins hit hard and not particularly gracefully. Argent whuffed and spread his wings discontentedly. A handful of sharp wing feathers drifted down. Domina raised and lowered her gleaming head, bobbing up and down, stalking back and then forward. Her movements had the quality of a dance. At intervals she shrieked, and when she had done, she crouched and sprang into flight. The backdraft of her flight stirred his robes. Liath’s hair was swept back, then settled, as the two griffins circled once, twice, rising higher, before they caught an updraft and rose dizzyingly. Soon they were only specks climbing toward the clouds.
“They’ll talk about this ever after,” remarked Waltharia, coming up beside him. Her voice trembled. Like the others, she had never become easy around the griffins, even though usually they kept their distance from all large habitations of humankind.
The others surged out after her, chattering as they stared and pointed. Because of his presence on the steps, the townsfolk crept back into the square to see him standing before them robed and crowned in the vestments of kingship.
“You have powerful allies,” said Mother Scholastica, who let no earthly creature frighten her. “The griffin is a heavenly creature that partakes of the nature of an eagle, a lion, and the serpent, who is sometimes also called a dragon. In this way, it reminds us of Wendar. Yet I wonder what this display portends?” She looked up at the sky, squinting as she attempted to trace the dwindling figures.
“What do you think it portends, Aunt?”
She measured him. “Some will say that this is a sign of God’s favor.”
“And what will others say?”
“That you are ruled by sorcery. Your legitimacy will always be in question, Sanglant. Do not believe otherwise.”
“You crowned and anointed me.”
“So the griffins remind me. Yet they may not always remain with you.” She looked toward Liath. “Choose your alliances wisely.”
