Casket of Souls

Can you do that, Illia?”
    Illia made no reply, but after a few agonizing moments the mist began to thin, then disappeared altogether. The girl stirred in his arms and looked up at him in alarm. “Am I still not dead?”
    Thero hugged her. “You’re fine, Illia. Welcome back!”
    He cut the circle and Micum hoisted his daughter in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. Kari and Elsbet clung to them, weeping with joy and relief.
    Thero rose unsteadily to his feet, and a wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed him. As the edges of his vision went dark, he found himself supported on either side by Alec and Seregil.
    “Well done, my friend.” Seregil’s voice was hoarse, but he and Alec were both grinning like madmen. “I think this may qualify you for uncle status, too.”

 
    O N a crisp, cold morning, the twentieth day of Rhythin, Princess Klia, Marshal of the Queen’s Armies, arrived at the north gate of the city, not at the head of the regiments but with a small bodyguard and a covered catafalque drawn by glossy black horses.
    Alec stood with Seregil and Thero among the privileged nobility on one of the red-and-gold-draped platforms that had been set up outside the gates. Elani stood with Korathan in the open gateway, surrounded by the highest-ranking members of the court.
    There had been a good deal of speculation as to how Klia would present herself to the young queen-to-be. Although Elani was the queen now, the formal coronation and succession rites could not be performed without the Sword of Gherilain.
    Elani was dressed in a flowing black gown and the gold-chased ceremonial breastplate Alec had seen Idrilain, and then Phoria, wear. An empty sword belt hung around her hips. Her head was bare except for a diamond-and-ruby circlet.
    As Klia neared the gate, Alec could see that she had a sheathed long sword slung across her saddlebow.
    “Beka and Nyal aren’t with her,” he whispered in dismay.
    “They’re still in Plenimar,” Seregil whispered back.
    Still some twenty yards from where Elani stood, Klia reined in and dismounted. Taking the sheathed sword down from the saddle, she walked the rest of the way until shestood before Elani. Without a word, she knelt and placed the sword in Elani’s hands. Elani slid it into her sword belt, then extended her hand and brought Klia to her feet. In front of the assembled throng, she kissed her aunt on both cheeks, then embraced her. Despite the gravity of the occasion, people broke into cheers at the sight. The succession was secure. Korathan embraced Klia next, then Aralain. The four of them, Phoria’s heir and the last of Idrilain’s children, walked to the catafalque. Soldiers lifted aside the wooden cover, revealing the dead queen.
    The drysians had done their work well, preserving the body from decomposition on its long journey by sea and land. Phoria lay on a raised bier, dressed in her uniform and cape, boots, and gorget. Her grey-blond hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, hands folded on her breast. Her face was gaunt, but peaceful.
    A hush fell over the crowd and people went to their knees as Elani and the others silently accompanied Phoria through the gates of her city for the last time. Inside, they mounted horses and continued slowly through the Harvest Market and on down Silvermoon to the Palace, with Alec and the other nobles walking behind the court.
    Every foot of the route was lined with crowds of citizens, come to pay their respects to the fallen and the victor, many holding candles and victory wreaths swathed in black silk. Like a great wave, they fell to their knees when the catafalque and the new queen passed.
    At the gates of the palace grounds the courtiers continued in, while the lesser nobles went their separate ways. Retrieving their horses, Alec and the others set off for Wheel Street.
    Thero wiped his eyes. “She was a hard woman by all accounts but such a warrior! At least she died a good death.”
    “Such a short reign,” Seregil noted. “But this marks the beginning of a new era for Skala, I think—a kind and gracious queen and peace. What will we do with ourselves, eh?”

 
    S EREGIL sat with Micum on the wall of the sheepfold, watching Alec and Illia petting the spring lambs. In the distance herds of still-shaggy horses gamboled and grazed in verdant, rolling meadows.
    The two men didn’t talk; watching Illia play and listening to a murder of crows palavering in a nearby tree was enough. The sound of singing