David Drake - The Fortress of Glass

Sharina wore court robes of silk brocade with embroidery and a cloth-of-gold applique to make them even stiffer and heavier. Garric's molded and silvered breastplate wasn't comfortable, but at least it wouldn't prevent him from swinging a sword. The court robes were far more restrictive.

Normally Liane would be seated slightly back of his left side, formally his aide because she wasn't legally his consort. They'd planned the wedding over a year before-but events had prevented the ceremony, and further events had pushed it back again. The royal wedding would be an important symbol that the Kingdom of the Isles was truly united for the first time in a thousand years…

But before he claimed the symbol, Garric had to create the reality. He grinned. Kingship was much more complicated that it'd seemed when he read Rigal's epicCariad. The hero Car had fought many enemies, both human and supernatural, in founding his kingdom, but he'd never had to settle a wrangle between the Duke of Blaise and the Earl of Sandrakkan as to the order of precedence of their regiments when the royal army was in full array.

"I could handle that for you, lad," said image of King Carus, shaking his head in rueful memory. "Nobody argued with me about anything to do with the battle line because they knew I'd take their head off if they did. Unfortunately I dealt with tax commissioners pretty much the same way, and I can't tell you how much trouble that caused."

Today Liane was in charge of the royal involvement in the funeral and apotheosis rites. She had an instinctive feel for protocol and precedence, what should or shouldn't be done in a formal setting. That was a better use of her talents than sitting beside Garric and calming him by her presence; but he half wished now that he'd left the arrangements to one of Lord Tadai's stewards.

The shrieking of horns and trumpets halted. Choruses of boys and girls came forward from behind the bleachers. The youngest singers were only six or so, and the choir masters and assistants trying to keep the lines in order looked more harassed than the children did. It was almost time to light the pyre.

Lord Protas was to Garric's right; Lord Martous was whispering to him. The boy looked stiff and uncomfortable, but that's how he'd looked ever since Garric met him on theShepherd. Garric realized with a touch of sadness that a 12-year-old boy whose father had just died was an obvious subject for sympathy, but he-Prince Garric of Haft-had none to spare.

Protas seemed biddable. He could take over the government of First Atara with the 'advice' of a commissioner from Valles, leaving one fewer problem for Prince Garric to concern himself with.

"There's nothing wrong with sympathy," said King Carus, standing on the balcony of a tower that might never have existed. "And don't pretend that you lack it. The trouble comes from letting sympathy keep you from doing what has to be done. Anger does less harm than false kindness; and I've gotplentyof experience of how much harm anger does."

Martous handed Protas a glass bowl in a filigreed framework; it held a pine torch lying on a bed of sand which'd been soaked with oil. Sluggish flames wobbled from the sand as well as the pine.

"Go, your highness!" the chamberlain snapped. "Don't delay the ceremonies!"

Garric put his right hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it, smiling at him. He didn't speak. Protas nodded appreciatively, then got up and started across the broad cleared space toward the pyre. His back was straight and his stride firm except for one little stumble.

"No sympathy!" repeated King Carus with a gust of laughter.

Tenoctris sat cross-legged on the ground beside the bleachers where she'd asked to be. A lifetime of studies with no servants and little money had made her adept at making do with what was available. There was almost always a floor, but chairs and stools were harder to come by; she'd gotten into the habit of drawing her words and symbols of art on the surface she sat on.

Garric glanced at the old wizard. She was muttering an incantation over a figure drawn on ground packed hard by the feet of generations of buyers, sellers, and spectators. The bundle of yarrow stalks lay by her left knee and a vellum scroll was partly unrolled to her right, but she didn't appear to be using either one.

The four Blood Eagles detailed to guard Tenoctris formed an armored U-shape on all sides of her but in front. They kept their eyes on the crowd and possible threats rather than looking at what Tenoctris was doing, but her wizardry didn't seem to worry them the way it would most laymen. Lord Attaper had learned to pick the wizard's guards from those who knew something about the art: men who'd had a nanny who worked spells or whose father's cousin was a cunning man back in their home village, that sort of thing.

Cashel stood behind Sharina's throne, as placid as a resting ox and as impressively big at a quick glance. When Garric's eye caught him, he smiled softly. He was unique among folk dressed in splashy finery: his tunics were plain except for a curling pattern in subtle browns that Ilna had woven into the hems.

Spectators who'd seen Cashel brought their eyes back to him, though. That was partly because of the simple elegance of the man and his costume, but also because of that woven pattern. No fabric that Ilna wove wasonly a piece of cloth.

Protas had covered most of the distance between his throne and the base of the pyre. Liane signalled the commanders of thead hoc military bands; they in turn snapped commands to their units and raised the tools they used for directing. The fleet's music master had a slim silver baton, but his army counterpart used the long straight sword he carried as a cavalry officer. The musicians lifted horns and trumpets to their lips.

Light trembled over the instruments of brass and silver and even gold. Tenoctris glanced up; Garric followed her eyes. The sound of the second meteor, for now only a rasping undertone, reached his ears as he saw the fluctuating light and looked quickly away.

"May the Shepherd guard me!" a man called in a high-pitched voice.

The signallers blew together. For a moment, the shriek of their instruments filled the air, but the thunder of the oncoming meteor overwhelmed even that raucous blast. People throughout the crowd were shouting though their voices went unheard, and the ancient king in Garric's mind said, "Sister swallow me if it isn't coming straight at us!"

Protas didn't stop or look up. Lifting the torch from the bowl in which it rested, he touched it to the faggots. Yellow flames spread too swiftly for green wood: the bundled brush had been soaked with oil. Protas backed a step and paused, then hurled the burning bowl onto the pyre also. It shattered on the steps, igniting the red muslin.

The meteor exploded unthinkably high in the heavens. For a moment there was only the flash; then the sound reached the crowd, throwing everyone to the ground. Garric felt himself lifted, then slammed down hard. The crudely built throne cracked under his weight, and the casque bashed his forehead.

He stood up. His ears rang and he felt each heartbeat throb in his skull. There was a stunned silence over the plaza, relieved by the sounds of prayers and sobbing. The fire was beginning to bite on the funeral pyre. A crackling indicated that the olive oil and beeswax had ignited the wood.

Garric looked at the topaz crown in his left hand. His grip had twisted the soft gold circlet, but the big stone was more vividly alive than a diamond. The things moving in the brightness were no longer shadows but streaks of flame spinning sunwise around the white-hot heart of the stone.

Garric was spinning: not his body but his mind. He felt the suction and tried to throw down the topaz, but he couldn't open his grip. Voices cried wordlessly like a winter storm.