Then, they stood and prepared themselves for a funeral and a coronation.
Chapter 16
A FUNERAL AND A CORONATION . . . the Baer princess . . . crown of gems and claws . . . a flaming arrow . . . a king
To hold a funeral and a coronation on the same day would be too much for most people, but the common folk of the Baersladen were made of tougher stock—and Bryn was now one of them. The weather had cleared by mid-morning with only hazy clouds over pale blue winter skies. Fresh snow covered the town’s rooftops, though the village square had been cleared, salted, and dusted with sand.
Since they hadn’t anticipated King Aleth’s death happening as soon as it had, Bryn was foisted into the ceremony with little preparation. Lada squeezed and cinched her into her old Harvest Gathering dress and attacked her hair with intricate Baer-style braids that circled her scalp like honeybuns. They fastened mother-of-pearl pendants on her ears and draped strings of pearls around her neck. Even with the extra attention to her presentation, however, the style was still spartan compared to the Mirien’s extravagant styling. There was no rust dusted on her cheeks and arms, black kohl lining her eyelashes, or shimmering silk threads woven painstakingly into her hair. When she looked in the mirror, a Baer maiden—with blond hair, granted—looked boldly back at her.
She didn’t see Rangar, busy with his own ministrations, until right before the funeral. Her heart raced with nerves as Lada led her through the great hall, which was being hastily decorated for the coronation feast, into the foyer. At the same time Bryn arrived, Oliver was urging Rangar to hurry from the other end as he went over some last-minute details on a scroll with his advisors.
Rangar stopped in his tracks when he saw Bryn. His eyes unabashedly raked down her body from the crown of her hair to the toes of her slippers, drinking in every detail of her appearance. She felt suddenly like she was back in the woods, facing some hulking wolf that wanted to devour her.
Only I wouldn’t mind a bite from this particular wolf.
Not only was he devastatingly handsome, but she’d never seen him looking so regal. As a prince, his clothes had always been presentable but never what she’d call refined. Rangar’s normal linen and fur clothing couldn’t be a starker contrast to her brother Mars and his fastidiously elegant suits. Rangar was always half-hidden beneath a bearskin cloak, with his mess of dark hair pulled down to hide his scars.
But today, the castle maids had wrangled him into winter-gray trousers with a crisp white shirt and a dark blue velvet cloak that flattered his complexion. A mantel of northern gemstones and bear claws graced his shoulders. For perhaps the first time in his life, someone had convinced him to brush his hair back off his face. The scars were clearly visible, yes, but so were his handsome features.
A king’s features, Bryn thought.A king’s eyes, a king’s lips . . .
Lips that had just been all over her. She blushed, and that seemed to draw in Rangar for the attack. He stalked toward her until he could take her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“My queen,” he said in a rumbling low voice that made her toes curl.
“You look very dashing, my king,” she answered breathlessly. Rangar’s spirit was too wild to allow him to ever look like the elegant princes from her childhood storybooks, but in his fine clothes, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.
He grunted as he tugged on his velvet cloak. “I can’t wait to take the damn thing off.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes.Always a savage.
“My lord,” Oliver said. “They’re ready for you and Lady Bryn in the square.”
Rangar held Bryn’s hands in his. “Ready?” he said low enough so only she could hear.
“Ready,” she whispered back.
He didn’t tear his gaze off her. “I want you by my side in all things, Bryn. Today and forever. In this world and the next.”
She dipped her head in a nod, not breaking their gaze. “In this world and the next. You, always.”
Her heart shot to her throat as Rangar led her out into the square before the gathered crowd. Soldiers had brought Legend and Fable from the stables, their manes braided and their bodies painted with hexmark symbols. Oliver helped Bryn mount Fable.
A team of soldiers emerged from the castle’s cellar with a wooden casket decorated with sea stones and maiden roses. Bryn felt her breath catch. She closed her eyes briefly and silently prayed to the saints for King Aleth’s soul.
The soldiers carried Aleth’s casket toward the ocean while drummers pounded a steady, slow rhythm on a mournful drum. Bryn and Rangar rode behind the casket onto the beach, with Valenden and Mage Marna following on foot, and the common folk rounding up the end in a long procession.
The funeral march proceeded down the length of the beach until they reached a rocky outcropping, where a straw-lined raft floated in the surf. The drummers pounded a new rhythm while soldiers splashed into the surf to mount the casket on the raft. Once it was secure, they awaited the signal from the drummers, then pushed it out to the open sea.
Oliver approached Rangar on Legend to offer a longbow and arrow. Rangar accepted it with a nod. Turning briefly to Bryn on Fable, he explained, “It is tradition for the new king to fire the funeral arrow.”
She watched in a mix of fascination and sorrow as Rangar whispered the spark spell to ignite the oil-soaked end of the arrow. A flame leaped to life. He raised the arrow toward the heavens, then released it. It sailed toward the distant horizon in a graceful arc that landed in the center of the raft. The straw immediately caught fire.
A wooden flute played a mournful funeral dirge as the crowd watched the raft burn. In the Mirien, people buried their bodies in the ground, so this custom seemed strange to Bryn until she realized the ground was too frozen most of the year in the Baersladen to dig a grave. She let the flute music call to her heart until the raft finally sank beneath the distant waves.
She glanced at Rangar from the corner of her eye, wondering what was going through his mind. When she’d first crossed paths with him at the Low Sun Gathering half a year ago, she’d thought him so brave as to be foolhardy. But now she knew a tender heart was hidden behind his outward courage. He felt the same fear, doubt, and grief as anyone, even if his stony face rarely showed it. She wanted nothing more than to lead Fable closer to him and squeeze his hand—but this was his custom, not hers, and she needed to follow his lead.
The procession slowly returned along the beach back to Barendur Hold. A dais had been hastily erected during the funeral, and the crowd now gathered closely while Oliver took Fable’s lead and helped Bryn dismount.
