Peatükk 1
The black chapel stood on the edge of a wood, in the centre of a semi-circle of trees. Isolated and a million miles from civilisation, it was made entirely of glass, and its smooth black surface contrasted with the rugged ground, patchy with snow, and the bare, skeletal trees. The sky was dark with clouds, heavy-laden with imminent snow, and it seemed to press down close to the earth; the top of the chapel's soaring spire was barely visible.
At the front of the chapel, coming down the stairs lined with thin, glassy pillars, were six men carrying an ebony coffin, their faces downcast. They headed towards a freshly dug hole in the frozen ground, by which stood an elegant, black carriage, as smooth as the church, but covered in intricate patterns and pulled by a team of beautiful, ebony, Arabian horses. Beside the carriage, a little closer to the grave stood three men. One was elderly, and wore a priest's robe and a dog's collar, and carried a small prayer book in his hand. The other two were younger and wore tailcoats, with a black flower in each of their breast pockets. They stood either side of the old man, and the one to his right held a wreath of black roses.
The snow began to fall lightly, as the coffin reached its destination and was begun to be lowered into the ground. The priest began to chant, the prayer book open in front of him, and his voice echoing off into the pressing silence. The coffin was lowered into the ground, and the earth was piled on top of it. The priest finished his chant and the impatient silence returned. The man who held the wreath placed it on top of the mound of earth. "God rest her soul," he said softly, then wished he hadn't, for the words seemed to hang on long after he said them. The nine men stood there, and glanced nervously at the carriage, or stared at the ground. The silence pressed and the horses began to grow restless. The snow began to fall heavier, and still no-one moved.
Inside the carriage, the young queen sat, and stared at the mound. She was beautiful; her eyes were large, her lips red, her face as pale as the falling snow, with a slender jaw line and a fragile figure. But her eyes were grey, and cold, and lifeless, and covered by a black veil. As she stared at the ground, she did not notice the men and their discomfort, or the restless horses, or the swirling snow. She just stared at the mound where her mother was buried. And it was the only grave in the graveyard, for the church had been built for this sole purpose. And not her cold, stony eyes, but something about the position of her face, or the inclination of her hand screamed the injustice of the thing before her. And something in the line of her mouth, or the stiffness of her shoulders screamed for revenge.
After an eternity, the young queen raised her hand once, and withdrew her eyes from the fresh grave. The men moved as if by clockwork; the two young men that had stood with the priest got into the queen's carriage, two of the coffin bearers climbed in front to drive and the other five men set off for another carriage, almost entirely obscured by trees. The carriage left the glade, and the queen did not glance back.
For a few minutes, a stiff silence arose in the queen's carriage. Her majesty did not seem to notice, but stared blankly ahead. The man who sat directly opposite her stroked his moustache awkwardly. "I'm dreadfully sorry for your loss, your majesty," he murmured. He removed his hat and fiddled with it, anxiously waiting for a reply. The young queen did not speak for a few moments. "Thank you, Captain of the Guard," she said tonelessly. The Captain looked relieved. "Her death was premature, an injustice," he continued. She did not reply, and the Captain relapsed into uncomfortable silence. Eventually she spoke again. "Have you no condolences to offer me, Captain of the Hunt?" The brown-haired good-looking man sitting on her diagonal turned to face her from his staring out the window. "No words of mine could make your tragedy less real, or less painful," he said. "I will save my condolences for a time when your pain is not so raw, and you can bear to accept them without experiencing your pain all over again." When he returned to silence, it was as powerful as his speech, and he sat with the aura of a true leader. The queen turned her icy gaze on him, and for a moment she seemed to grow warmer. "That is a good answer." She said, "A very good answer." The moment left, and she did not speak again.
The Captain of the Guard sat awkwardly, and fiddled and perspired. In the army, death was not uncommon, he knew, although he had never fought in a war, but he could see already that it was difficult to deal with. He tried to make stilted conversation with nobody in particular several times, and each time found he petered off. He was large, red faced, middle-aged and anxious, and would probably be replaced come a war, but in this peacetime he was a useful man to commandeer a group of useless people who desperately wanted to be useful.
The Captain of the Hunt was his opposite; tall, handsome and gallant with sandy hair and wise eyes, ageless, but not old. He had an aura of leadership and a smile of mystery and where he went, people followed. He was a useful man who commandeered a group of useful people who were responsible for feeding the country and bringing honour to the court. He didn't try to make conversation, but knew when it was time to be silent.
The snow fell heavier, and the carriage rode on, back to big cities and a place where life doesn't end with death, just your own.