Dreamwalker (34 page)

‘Your highness, you look ridiculous.’ Inquisitor Melyn stepped into the room, dressed in his usual dark brown robes. Beulah cursed him silently for the privilege of his order. The warrior priests of the High Ffrydd only ever wore simple garments, unlike Seneschal Padraig and Archimandrite Cassters, who would no doubt be trying to outdo each other with their raiments today.

‘I quite agree, Melyn,’ Beulah said, turning to talk to the man rather than his reflection. ‘But it’s something I will bear. Just for this day. Is it time yet?’

‘I came to fetch you, my lady,’ Melyn said. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

‘Carriage! I haven’t ridden in a carriage since I was three. Why can’t I ride?’

‘In that gown?’ Melyn asked as Beulah struggled to her feet and cursed the stupid high-heeled slippers some genius had designed for her to wear. She longed for her soft leather trousers and well-fitting boots. Even the outfit she had worn to her birthday party would have been better than this, but possibly a little inappropriate.

‘This won’t be over a moment too soon,’ Beulah said, allowing the Inquisitor to take her arm and leaning on it perhaps more heavily than she would have liked as she fought for balance.

‘Patience, my lady,’ Melyn said. ‘Your time will come soon.’

The carriage took them across the palace complex to The Neuadd, where the king lay in state in front of the Obsidian Throne. Beulah was secretly grateful for the ride, though it would normally have been no more than a ten minute walk.

King Diseverin looked healthier in death than ever he had in life, a testament to the mortician’s art. His face was pale pink, rather then bloodshot, his eyes closed. Washed and prepared with the arcane skill of the preservers, ironically he no longer smelled like a rotting carcass in the middle of a vineyard. The funeral robes in which he had been dressed were new, expensively cut and bore no stains of food and drink that had missed their target.

Beulah sat on a small throne alongside the empty black chair as each of the leaders of the three orders gave their eulogies. Then she followed the bier as it was carried out of The Neuadd and loaded onto a magnificent hearse pulled by six white chargers. The cortege proceeded at a snail’s pace through the main streets of Candlehall in an ever widening spiral. To each side of them the crowd stood silent, most heads bowed. Everyone wore the deep red of mourning so that it looked as if someone had sliced the throat of the city and even now it bled thick venous blood.

After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the chapel of Brynceri, nestling by the city walls. The bier was carried inside and Beulah followed her father on his last journey. The chapel was small, with barely enough room for the most senior members of the orders and a few of the oldest nobles. More eulogies were said, the same old trite half-truths and exaggerations. Beulah wanted to shout out for them to get on with it, or at least to tell the truth that her father had been a weak and useless king, that he had allowed his own wife to die and had sent his youngest daughter to the castle of his sworn enemy when she was only six. Instead she bit her lip and held her peace. Time was on her side. She could afford to wait.

Finally the king was placed in an alcove in the city wall, alongside the hundreds of other kings and queens of the House of Balwen. Beulah watched as the masons bricked up the hole, wondering why her mother’s body had been laid in a simple grave in the chapel grounds. She had been queen and surely ought to have had a place in the wall. Earlier kings had made arrangements for their dead wives to be buried with them, but Diseverin had somehow forgotten. Yet another notch on the tally of reasons why she hated him. Perhaps it was tactless, maybe it even shocked a few of the elder statesmen present, but she lingered only long enough to see the last stone in place before turning her back and returning to her carriage.

The journey back to The Neuadd was quicker, taking the direct route. People still lined the streets, their red cloaks and dresses gleaming in the midday sun. This time no heads were bowed and some even cheered. Beulah smiled and waved though in truth the common people irked her. They were so simple-minded and petty, so easily aroused and easier pleased.

Back in The Neuadd the small chair beside the Obsidian Throne had been removed and Archimandrite Cassters stood on the steps in front of her. Seneschal Padraig stood to one side, holding the crown of state on a cushion. She suspected there had been much wrangling as to who would have which job in this coronation.

‘King Diseverin is dead,’ the archimandrite said in a loud, pompous voice. ‘Who dares to take his place on the Obsidian Throne?’

‘I bring you Beulah of the Speckled Face, Princess of the House of Balwen.’ Inquisitor Melyn stood beside her like the father of the bride at a wedding. He sounded bored.

‘Come forward, Beulah,’ Cassters said. She glanced sideways at the Inquisitor and rolled her eyes in desperation then tottered forward on her uncomfortable heels towards the archimandrite. At least the flowing lengths of her gown hid the frantic small steps she took, maintaining the semblance of an air of dignified competence and majesty. She reached the steps and knelt on the soft red cushion that had been laid out for her, bowing her head to the old priest for what she vowed would be the last time in her life.

‘By what right do you make your claim to the twin kingdoms?’ Cassters said, his voice quavering with the importance of his task. ‘By what right do you seek to take the Obsidian Throne for your own?’

‘By right of my birth,’ Beulah said, trying to disguise her impatience with the whole ceremony. Behind her, standing in their carefully arranged rows of seniority and influence, the great merchants and noblemen of her realm waited in silent anticipation. This was something that they expected to witness, a shared experience that tied them into her power base. Yet another one of the tiresome and seemingly endless round of ceremonies and functions that were supposed to stamp the mark of her authority. She would rather have sent her loyal warrior priests into the houses of any who dared to gainsay her. Fear was a much more potent motivator than mindless adulation.

‘And is there anyone amongst us who would deny this claim?’ The Archimandrite said, raising his voice for the whole hall to hear. Beulah waited, counting the seconds, daring anyone to speak. She could sense the tension in the air, the massed thoughts all hesitant and expectant. Close to the great throne and its focus of the power of the grym she could hear some of those thoughts, though she couldn’t identify who was thinking them. They were all caught up in the excitement, some simply empty and waiting, some wondering how best they might manoeuvre themselves into positions of favour, one or two even lovesick at the thought of her. One thought jarred against the sea of approval and she focussed on it as she might a lone poppy in a field of golden wheat.

There is one with a better claim. He will come forward and take what is rightfully his. Then, as if it knew it was being heard, the thought vanished, the presence that had hovered behind it closed to her more totally than even Inquisitor Melyn could manage.

‘The Twin Kingdoms have no leader, the Obsidian Throne sits empty,’ Archimandrite Cassters said, his voice bringing Beulah back to her senses. ‘Beulah of the Speckled Face, Princess of the House of Balwen has claimed the right to rule and none have sought to gainsay her. Do you, Beulah, swear by The Shepherd to maintain the rule of law, to hold the scales of justice, to protect your citizens from harm?’

‘I do so swear,’ Beulah said, projecting her words as a thought to all the gathered witnesses. ‘I will maintain the rule of law. I will hold the scales of justice. I will protect my people from those who would do them harm.’

‘Then by the power of The Shepherd, our most mighty lord and master, I crown you Queen Beulah. May your reign be long and glorious.’

Beulah felt the crown being placed on her head and for an instant all she could think of was a hope that it had been well-washed since her father had worn it. The last thing she wanted was to catch his lice. Then she realised that all around her voices were shouting ‘long live the queen.’ She looked up into the smiling, round face of Archimandrite Cassters.

‘You must take the throne now, my queen,’ he said, kneeling before her. Slowly, she rose to her feet, cursing once more the awkward, uncomfortable slippers. Then she remembered the crown on her head. She could do what she liked now and hang the consequences. She kicked off the slippers, losing three inches of height in the process. She reached up for the strap that held her red gown of mourning around her neck, unclasping it and throwing the garment to the floor. Beneath it she wore a plain but elegant dress of royal blue. As she strode passed the kneeling archimandrite and up the stone steps to the throne, she could hear a murmuring amongst the crowd as if some thought it too early by far to be casting off her mourning. Yet she knew that even more would be impressed at her willingness to put the past behind her and begin her reign on a positive note. It was all about symbolism, and though it bored her to distraction she would play the game of state to the best of her ability.

The throne towered over her, magnificent almost to the point of absurdity. Its true seat was head-height to her and wider than the largest bed in the palace. Legend had it that King Brynceri had carved it himself after defeating the last great dragon, Gog, though Beulah had never understood why he had made the thing so large. Its legs were now hidden by the stone steps that climbed up to it and a smaller stone seat, more suitable for a man, had been inserted into the original. It was obvious that this was from a later age than the original. The stone was a lighter, coarser material, painted to match the smooth polished black of the original, and the quality of its carvings were not in the same league as those that adorned the original arms and that massive towering back.

There were many mysteries about the throne, but its power was undeniable. All her life, Beulah had felt it whenever she came into the great hall of  The Neuadd. She had longed for it as an alcoholic yearns for the oblivion of drink, and yet she had been forced to wait by the constant vigilance of Seneschal Padraig and his countless Candle spies. She glanced sideways at the old priest, who had backed away from the spot where she had been crowned and now resumed his habitual place. That would change soon, she thought as she turned to face the congregation, feeling the power of the throne behind her and savouring the moment.

A thousand faces looked at her across the great expanse of The Neuadd. The cries of long live the queen had fallen silent and everyone waited for her to take the throne. This was the moment she had worked for all her years and yet as she felt the expectant gaze she hesitated. She could see mapped out for her a long, hard life of ruling. No more would she be able to take a horse and ride out into the countryside alone. Nor could she visit the monastery at Emmass Fawr unannounced. She would have to deal with daily requests for money, help, advice, justice. Soon she would have to choose one of the half-wit nobles as a consort and worse, bear him children. Her own childhood had been miserable, why would she want to inflict that on anyone else? Yet the state needed an heir, and most likely a spare as well, to avoid the inevitable civil strife that would build up should she not reproduce. Her life would no longer be her own.

For a long moment, Beulah wavered. Was this really what she wanted? Then she remembered the look on her little sister’s face as she was taken away from the palace. She saw her mother lying dead in a pool of her own blood, the king sprawled in a drunken stupor in a chair nearby. She saw perfect Lleyn kissing the enemy in a bower up at Ystumtuen, giving herself and the twin kingdoms away to the House of Ballah like some cheap whore. All the things that had driven her to learn and grow strong came back to her in that instant. And ahead of her, unmoved from the place where he had left her, Inquisitor Melyn fixed her with his calm, penetrating gaze and nodded.

Beulah took a deep breath, grasped the cold stone arm of the throne and hoisted herself into the seat.

Cheers of jubilation rang out in the great hall. Some people even threw their hats into the air. Beulah drank in their adulation, feeling herself at the nexus of everything. She let them cheer for long minutes, focussing on individuals nearby and marvelling at how open they were to her probing mind. It was as if the throne amplified the power of the grym, concentrating it into her and filling her with energy. How could her father have been so dead to this that he had to drink himself insensible? Or maybe it had been just too much for him; maybe that had been the cause of his affliction. Well, it was hers now and she was going to make the most of it. With a single thought, she reached out to all the assembled gentry, projecting her words along the lines so that they all heard her voice booming out like a giant.

‘My people, I thank you for your support on this most special of days. You will see that I have thrown off my gown of mourning. I would ask you all to do the same. King Diseverin is gone. Not even the power of the House of Balwen can bring him back. Let us remember his best moments and move on.’

Beulah had them spellbound and their rapt attention fed power into her that almost made her dizzy. There was nothing she could not accomplish with the combined might of the twin kingdoms behind her. Now was the time to begin the tasks she set herself.

‘I sit here on Brynceri’s throne and see our twin kingdoms grown soft and weak,’ she said. ‘We have grown used to the comforts that our wealth brings us, but we’ve forgotten what brought us this wealth in the first place. We were once a powerful nation that stood up to all who would do us ill. Now we make poor treaties with our enemies and send them our children to be slaves. That will end. No more will we bow to their belligerence.’