Page 285 of The Cradle of Ice
Kanthe stared into that sunny glare. Though only a month had passed since the attack, the window had been mostly replaced, its rosette reset with new stained glass, slowly returning the Illuminated Rose of the Imperium to its full glory.
The same repairs were happening across much of the beleaguered city.
The palace and its throne room had been scrubbed of blood and its blast scars filled. The lower city and docks echoed with the pound of hammers and the endless sawing of wood. The noise continued day and night. And while it should have been grating to the ear, it sounded like hope.
Farther out in the bay, Stone Gods were being returned to pedestals as massive stones were barged into place, ready to be chiseled back to life. Overlooking this work, the town of X’or had been cleared of its wreckage and its baths restored. Kanthe had spent the first quarter of his return in those bloody baths, kept company by Jester and Mead while he healed.
Kanthe glanced to the empty half of his sleeve, pinned back to his elbow. He still felt flashes of pain from his missing arm, but that, too, was fading—if not the nightmares that still struck him at times. But he knew countless others who mourned more than the loss of an arm.
The city had grieved the month long, in ceremonies small and large. Emperor Makar and Prince Jubayr were interred with great pageantry, as befitting their status.
The notable absence to both was Prince Mareesh. He had vanished after the attack, but no one was naïve enough to think this marked the end of his challenge. During long talks on Rami’s balcony, his friend had admitted that he could have killed his brother during the battle in the throne room, but he had stayed his hand, choosing to chase Mareesh off instead. Rami still believed his brother could be redeemed. Sadly, Kanthe could not scold that decision. He understood Rami’s sentiment all too well, knowing the inner conflict he had with his own brother. Still, he hoped Rami’s compassion didn’t ruin them in the end.
While Emperor Makar and Prince Jubayr were celebrated and mourned publicly, Aalia grieved them privately, too, descending often into the mausoleum deep beneath the palace. Not even Tazar disturbed those intimate moments. She would tolerate only Rami, who also spent time alone with the dead.
Kanthe appreciated their need for privacy. They were both struggling between grief and guilt—something he recognized all too well.
Kanthe had heard of his father’s brutal slaying, and despite what was claimed across Hálendii, he knew it had been no plot by the imperium. Kanthe suspected the true hand that wielded the fatal blade belonged to his brother. Yet, Kanthe also could not dismiss the fear that what had ultimately forced Mikaen’s hand was the weight of a gold signet ring. Back on the Hyperium, Mikaen had believed Kanthe intended to challenge his birthright and, in turn, the lineage of his children. While any such claims made by the Southern Klashe could be dismissed as a lie, only one person in Hálendii knew the truth—and to remove any future threat, that person had to be silenced forever.
Kanthe suspected such a fate would have eventually come to pass, knowing the friction that had been growing of late between king and prince. Still, Kanthe hated to have played a role in it. Like Aalia and Rami, Kanthe grieved for his father, while guilt further weighed his heart.
Still, after a month, even mourning had to end. Life had to continue, a city had to be restored, a morale had to be bolstered. To that end, this day would host two great pageantries. While Aalia had been widely revered as the new empress, she still had not formally donned the circlet.
She would do so now.
As the two reached the thrones, Kanthe stepped aside and joined Rami. Aalia crossed to the larger of the two seats as the ceremony began, which involved prayers to thirty-three gods, repeated blaring of horns, and a series of lengthy proclamations.
At one point, Rami leaned into him, drowsing off for a moment.
Kanthe straightened him. “Wake up. We’ve a long day ahead of us still.”
“And night,” Rami groaned.
The second ceremony would start with the moon’s rise, marking the auspicious peak of the solstice. Kanthe stared over to the second, smaller throne, a seat that would be his after he married Aalia this very night.
He matched Rami’s groan with one of his own.
Off to the side, near the front of the gathering, he spotted Cassta with her black-draped sisters, looking his way. The young woman’s face was stoic, but he swore there was the slimmest smile of amusement, as if she were enjoying his discomfort.
He sighed and turned away.
Finally, a circlet was lifted and carried to the throne by the head cleric of the Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom. Aalia removed a veil woven with diamonds from the fall of her black hair, which had been oiled to a mirrored sheen. Her gown was silver, laced with the faintest image in gold of the Haeshan Hawk. Normally, a cape with that sigil would already be gracing her shoulders—but her father’s cloak lay wrapped around her brother’s body, its gold clasp forever secured to his throat.
The cleric gently rested the circlet of meteoric black iron and its sapphire gems atop her head. Aalia stood as she accepted its weight and responsibility. A beam of sunlight from the broken window struck those jewels and flashed azure shafts across the room.
Thunderous cheering erupted, drowning out the blare of horns.
Aalia stared out across the throngs, her face firm and assured.
Still, Kanthe noted the tremble in her fingers.
As she descended, he crossed and took hold of her hand and clasped those fingers. “You’re not alone in this,” he whispered. “Know that.”
She clutched his arm, leaning on him—but only for a breath. She loosened her hold and stood straighter. He escorted her down the last step, honored to be at her side.
The new empress of the imperium.
After all the dark devastation, Kanthe felt something burn brighter inside him, something he had not felt in a long time.
