"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."
--Second Part of Henry IV; III.i.
No one had stopped Roald of Conté as he had quietly made his way into the Sun Chapel. It had been almost empty, and the sole worshipper, the elderly Lady Hildegarde, had been finishing her prayers as he entered. Nothing to do but assist her to rise and offer to escort her out.
"Your Highness is most kind ," she said, as she took his arm, still graceful in spite of her age. They walked slowly down the side of the chapel to the doors. "Oh, dear! Your pardon, sir." Releasing him, she began to bend down to untangle her gown, which had caught on the base one of the particularly ornate candelabra which lined the walls. She started to fumble for it, reaching the wrong way.
"Please, my lady," said Roald. It was an easy matter for him to kneel and unhook the thick cloth. The situation was not uncommon and the courtesy simple, made doubly obligatory by the lady's age.
Lady Hildegarde accepted it with decorous and polite indifference. "My thanks to Your Highness." She shifted her train before allowing him to continue to lead her out. "I remember King Jonathan," she said softly. To him? To herself? "A noble man and a good king, Your Highness."
"Indeed, my lady."
"Almost as great a man as the Old King." The Old King? But yes -- Lady Hildegarde was not even the only one to have lived through the reign of Jasson the Conqueror. Three Conté kings. Four, now. "I hope Your Highness will follow his example."
"I shall try to do so, my lady." Follow Jasson's example? What in Mithros's name did she mean? He supposed, he thought ironically, that he could try for the rest of Tusaine, if it would make the old woman happy. Or was it simply the wandering of a half-addled mind? He had memories of Lady Hildegarde, ever sharp-eyed and quick-witted, dancing as well as any younger woman, as opinionated as any scholar, but she had been slowing down these past ten years. She was quieter, less active, but not, he still thought, less clear-headed. He wondered of what she was thinking. They had reached the door. Roald bowed her out. "My lady."
She bent her head in acknowledgment. "Your Highness."
Roald watched her carefully-moving figure. She had grown up with his namesake. She remembered the Barzun Conquest. She had witnessed three kingly deaths. And of them, only Jasson's had been peaceful, he supposed. Perhaps that was what she had meant. Foolish, really, to try to fix any great meaning to idle words and thoughts. He turned back towards the Sun Altar and his original purpose. It was customary to ask Mithros's guidance and protection before a major magical ritual.
Not that he was nervous about the day to come. No, he was not. It was -- well it was not a routine working, but he did know how to use his father's Dominion Jewel. 'Only in the greatest need,' his father had said. 'Never become dependent upon it. Never abuse its power. Never forget that it always a carries a terrible price.' But there was no other way. A magical cage could not hold forever, and conventional magics had no paradigm for redividing souls. And this time, the Jewel would not draw its power from Tortall itself. He thought Father would not disapprove of the logic underlying logic: that the University mages would offer their Gifts to repair what one of their own had wrought. Mithros surely appreciated the justice of it, and the irony. Salmalín had expressed some concerns that the working might prove fatal to him and his colleagues. Roald hoped otherwise, of course, but he found himself undisturbed, as he would not have been… before. What must be done would be done.
He started to approach the altar, but was inevitably drawn just beyond it. Father. Awkwardly, automatonically, he knelt to offer the standard prayer for the dead. What four-year-old Vania had lisped this morning by his side, when the family had gathered round to pay their respects.
Blessed Mithros,
Fairly judge him,
Hold not mortal faults against him,
To Your Glory admit him.
So mote it be.
Too soon, it was said, and Roald opened his eyes to find himself staring at King Jonathan's gently-glinting mail. Why had this morning's Council been so difficult? He had grown up with most of the lords: Father's advisors and (one-time) year-mates, his own knight-master, his gods-parents. All men (and a woman) who had known him from his infancy, with whom he had been on terms of mutual respect and friendship all of his adult life. Who were now, almost all, in varying states of dissatisfaction with him. Olau angry because he had been too severe on the mages; the Lioness angry because he hadn't been severe enough. Legann and Naxen upset because he was trusting Salmalín. Queenscove displeased because that trust was so wary.
Roald let out an exasperated sigh. And here he was taking a middle course, even. It was true, then, what Father had said so many times, that a the first thing a man lost when he became king was friendship. 'Each man has his own idea about what should be done,' King Jonathan had told him, 'and because it's what he believes, he will never understand why everyone doesn't share it.' True enough, that; he had seen evidence in plenty for it today. Father had always shaken his head, smiling a little at the folly of his fellow men, when he had said it, and he, Roald, had always nodded in agreement. For who could judge better the follies and misconstruings of the nobles and the commons? Who could know better than Father what would truly be best for Tortall? But he himself? In what way was he distinguished from those men, who were older and more experienced than he? Ultimately, it would be his idea -- influenced and modified by others', perhaps, but his nonetheless -- that would be enacted. He had sat formally on the King's Council since reaching his majority; Father and Sir Gareth had included him in their policy discussions from long before that, and for as far back as he could remember, there had been the late-evening "lessons" with King Jonathan. He hoped that it was not arrogance to think that his opinion was as informed and reasonable as any man's. But was it better?
Uncle Gareth had told him that he had done well this morning, that he had done very well. That was something. Perhaps the feeling of absolute terror -- the constant chill, the racing pulse, the dancing nerves -- were simply something to which one had to accustom oneself. Perhaps.
He was tired. He ought to go to bed. Ought to sleep before the next morning. Ought to be confident and sure of himself. Ought not to let anyone know that he had doubts. Couldn't let anyone know that he doubted his own judgment. Couldn't confide in anyone. Couldn't let the nobles see him as weak. So much to do, and so few guiding lights. And Father was gone. Gone. The body before him, the serene face: it was all nothing, dust and clay. Gone.
He turned to kneel before the great altar. "Mithros guide Your servant truly." But the gods, watchful and awesome as they might be, were far away. He was here. He was now. And he was alone.
Revised/Edited 16-3-06
