Morten hadn't seen his father's coronation, but he had heard tales about it. There had been tables heaped full of food so rich that even the man considered to be the court glutton couldn't eat more than three helpings. There had been musicians and pyrotechnics that everyone was sure had to be magic, though Hjalmar had told him they were caused by a special powder mixed with different sorts of materials. It sounded a great deal like the various coronations he had been able to attend, and he had been sure his own would be almost exactly the same. He would be surrounded by his family, with a wife by his side, and perhaps a child or two, and there would be a full week of festivities.
This day was, however, one of the most somber the Southern Isles had ever seen. It was only two days after the funeral for the dead Westerguards, and though a few people tried to be cheerful, their happiness was feigned, and Morten had assured them that he wouldn't be able to keep a smile on his face either. That, of all things, seemed to relieve them, and he had already heard people whispering about how he would be remembered. King Morten the Solemn seemed the most common, but King Morten the Understanding was a very close second. When he was a boy, he had wanted to be King Morten the Bold or King Morten the Peacemaker, but solemn seemed to fit him far better. After all, no king before had ever looked so pale and wan at his own coronation, and he had lost enough weight over the past few weeks that his robes needed to be refitted so they wouldn't look like they were falling off his body. Even with that, he knew he looked ill, and people looked at him cautiously, as though afraid he might faint before the ceremony was complete.
He was determined to stand strong, though. Until he could find a wife and father a son, he would be the last king of the Southern Isles, and he wouldn't have it said that he was King Morten the Weak.
At least there was some family at his coronation. Nearly everyone had died, and Antimony was still too weak to rise, much less attend a formal ceremony, but with Queen Elsa's help, Hans had been captured and brought back to the castle. Morten had thrown him in the darkest cell he could find, but now he had asked for his uncle to be brought out. People whispered about his presence, but Morten ignored them. They would understand soon enough, and they would see that he was not a man to be trifled with.
Perhaps he would be called King Morten the Just.
Hans looked young and faint, especially weighed down by his heavy chains and surrounded by tall, burly guards. He couldn't be twenty-five yet, but something seemed to have aged him. He was deathly pale, and his red hair was knotted and matted. Morten had considered allowing the man to clean up before the coronation, but then he had decided against it. After all, he had left Antimony to die in his own prison cell. He didn't deserve any mercy. Even being allowed out for the day wasn't a mercy, as he would find out soon. Morten hadn't thought he could feel happy after seeing Antimony dying, but now he felt a savage joy light up inside his heart. Perhaps it was for the best that his sister wouldn't be able to see the coronation. He didn't want to distress her.
The crowds in the hall parted as Morten walked toward his throne. Everyone bowed, and even Hans was forced to bend his head by one of the guards pressing his hand on his shoulder. The man stumbled, and Morten swept past him quickly. He wouldn't be as cruel to his uncle as Hans had been to everyone around him, but he certainly wouldn't be kind. The time for that was long ago.
The coronation itself was almost anticlimactic. Morten had built it up to be a grand moment, one that would be the turning point of his life, but it wasn't much more than kneeling before a priest and holding a sword in his hands as he swore to lead his people wisely and well. Once the crown was placed on his brow, he rose, holding the sword aloft as the people cheered. It was heavy, but he kept his arm steady. The sword was to be the center of the day. It looked exactly like the ceremonial sword used by his father and grandfather in their coronations, but he had asked for it to be sharpened. It was unconventional, but everyone had acquiesced, and now, even though it had opened up little cuts on his hands, he felt good. It wasn't a happy sort of feeling, but simply one that settled inside his body like a comfortable weight.
"It is traditional for a king to make some sort of first act on the day of his coronation," he said once the cheers had died down. "My father opened trade negotiations with Weselton. My grandfather pardoned five prisoners. Though it took me some time to decide, I now know what I would like my first act to be." He lowered the sword and walked down the stairs from his throne. The people gathered there stepped away, leaving a half-circle of open floor in which he stood. "Guards, bring forward Prince Hans Westerguard of the Southern Isles."
A murmur ran through the crowd, and though it didn't look possible, Hans grew even paler. The guards dragged him forward and forced him to his knees, but he looked up and met Morten's gaze, green eyes alight with fever or madness. "So you're going to kill me?" he asked, sounding breathless, though Morten couldn't tell whether it was from terror or some strange exhilaration. "You'd be the first kinslayer king of the Southern Isles."
"But not the first kinslayer in our family," Hans said. "That would be you, if only indirectly."
"Indirectly?" Hans struggled to rise, but the guards held him down firmly. "What do you mean? I shot Antimony through the heart!"
"She's still alive, but only just." Morten started to lift his sword. "Since you've admitted to your crime, I –"
"She's alive?" Hans laughed, but it could just as easily have been a strangled scream. "But that's impossible. I saw her fall and was sure she had died."
"I don't know how she lived," Morten said. "It's enough for me to know that she will survive." She was still weak, but the doctor assured him that there would be no serious damage, not even to her heart or spine. Everything was healing as though a miracle had occurred, but Morten didn't believe in miracles. He hadn't since he was a little boy. The world was a cold place, and he would do his best to hold onto anything that made him happy and get rid of whatever tried to threaten that happiness.
Hans slumped, and some of his hair fell forward, partially covering his face. "It seems I can't kill anyone right. I thought I'd done it correctly this time. I made sure that there were no mistakes. We were alone – but we were alone that first time, and she still lived – and I didn't leave until I was sure she was dead. What could be more sure than a crossbow bolt through the heart?" His voice was trembling and rose until it sounded almost like a shriek. "I should have smothered her. There were pillows there; she would have died more quickly, and there wouldn't have been a chance that she could live and give me up. How did she live?" Hans tried to rise again, and again the guards pushed him down. "Tell me!"
"I don't know," Morten said. "It doesn't matter."
"No," Hans gasped. "No, of course not." This time the sound he made really was a laugh, but it was the most self-loathing laugh Morten had ever heard. "What would it ever matter? Just kill me and be done with it."
His uncle was mad. It was so obvious that Morten wasn't sure how anyone could have missed it. For a moment, he pitied the young man and wondered what could have led to such insanity. He's a murderer, he reminded himself. He nearly killed Antimony. He deserves to die.
But there must have been some reason for Antimony to go to the cell. Perhaps she had been fond of him in some way, or perhaps the seeds of that same madness had been planted in her. They were both the youngest siblings of large families, and they both were, apparently, rather neglected. Morten almost lowered his sword and allowed Hans to go, simply out of pity for his sister, but then his grip tightened on the hilt. He couldn't be weak in front of his people, not after he had vowed to himself that this would be his first act. He would be known as a king who meted out justice with his own hand, and he couldn't let Hans live just because he was family or because he reminded him too much of Antimony.
He had just raised the sword again when he heard Hans speak. It was low and faint, but Morten clearly made out the words, "Thank you."
"For what?" he asked, pausing. "What do you mean?"
Hans looked up, and Morten thought he saw tears in his uncle's eyes. "Thank you for doing this yourself. At least my family cares enough to kill me personally."
Then Morten brought the sword down, and all was silent.
Dark red blood poured over the floor, and Morten stepped away to avoid getting his boots in it. "Someone clean this up," he said, "and see to it that his body is given a halfway decent burial."
"Your Grace?" One of the guards, who had just lifted the head, paused, frowning. "He was a traitor and a murderer. Why would you want to give him any burial at all? Your father would have tossed him into the sea or left him for wild dogs in the wood."
"I'm not my father!" The words came out more strongly than Morten had intended, and he sighed as he handed the sword off to a servant, who carried it away at a run. "He was all you said and more, but he was also a Westerguard. He was my family, and he deserves at least to have a burial. There will be no funeral, no day of mourning, but he will have a grave in hallowed ground, a bit away from the family mausoleum. You will treat his body with respect, and if I learn that anyone has done otherwise, there will be severe punishments. Is that clear?" He glared around the room, and no one dared to deny him. "Good. You are all dismissed."
Normally, there would have been a grand feast in the garden. Children would have run about, laughing and plucking what fruit they could from the trees, and the adults would dance and be merry. Today, all the nobles and peasants alike went to their homes, and Morten went to his chambers. They had been his father's, but in the days approaching the coronation, they had been cleaned out and refurbished. Now, they felt like his old rooms, only much larger.
He would have to find a wife, and sire an heir, but for now he was so weary that all he could do was set the crown on a table and drop onto the bed, not even bothering to take his boots off. After he slept, he would visit Antimony, if there was time, and tell her what had happened. If she did care for Hans, it would be better she heard the news from him.