dripping from a pipe.
Kathir whispered into Skemtun’s ear. “Who will lead the procession? You or Bolrakei?”
“We’re both allowed to walk up front with our clan flags. The other clans chose people to represent them, but they’ve got to walk in the back, because they don’t have official clan leaders right now. Now that Hergung has died, things will change. After the funeral is over, a new king will be chosen, and the other clans will elect new leaders, too.”
For once, the dwarves’ circular logic made sense to him. Then a thought came to him. “Didn’t Hergung have a son? Whatever happened to him?”
Skemtun nodded. “He’s too young to take the throne. The boy’s barely fifty years of age—he’s naught but a baby in dwarf years. If he’d been older, he would’ve been considered for the position. But the clans can’t wait another fifty years to elect a king. The clans will nominate a new king from the highest ranking members in the clans. Only dwarves from the best families will be considered.”
“The highest-ranking dwarves? So is Bolrakei going to be nominated?”
Skemtun didn’t want to admit it, but he knew it was true. “Yes… she is high born. Her blood is pure. So she’s a top candidate. She wants to be queen.”
“What about the Vardmiters? Are they invited to the funeral?”
“No,” Skemtun said, his voice irritated. “Why do ye have to bring them into this, especially today? They aren’t welcome at Mount Velik anymore.”
But Kathir wouldn’t let the issue go. “But why? Wasn’t Hergung their king, too?”
Skemtun looked pained. “Look, I don’t want to talk about them right now. After everything that’s happened, they shouldn’t come here, especially not now, while everyone’s upset.”
“What happens if a few of them show up?”
Now Skemtun looked smug. “Ha! They already did. The Vardmiters sent two raggedy emissaries here yesterday. The guards recognized them right away—with all their freckles and red hair. They arrived on a donkey, holding a silly gift and some paper flowers. The guards set them straight pretty quickly. They were given a sound drubbing and thrown out.”
Kathir raised an eyebrow at him. “You beat them, simply because they showed up and tried to pay their respects? You punished them because of that?”
Another silence followed this, but Skemtun was anxious and he broke it. “Well—of course it sounds bad when ye put it that way.”
Kathir spoke. “It sounds bad whichever way you put it. You’ve all acted terribly in this case. The Vardmiters have a right to be here—Hergung was their leader, too. Everyone deserves a second chance...I should know.”
Skemtun didn’t expect to feel guilty, but Kathir’s accusing words drilled into him. Maybe the Vardmiters didn’t deserve what happened. But, still...they’d left! Despite his tangled emotions, he smiled. “Look, maybe ye’re right, and we can make amends with them someday. But not right now; there’s still too much resentment.”
Kathir nodded and let the issue drop.
Several mourners stepped into the main walkway and started dropping flower petals near the doors. A ceremonial circle had been etched into the floor using brightly colored chalk. There was a carved statue of the king in the center of the circle.
The statue showed a robed Hergung sitting on an ornate bronze throne, happy and smiling, looking up into the heavens. The likeness was incredible.
Skemtun marveled at how quickly the statue had been carved. Or perhaps it had been created years before in anticipation of this day. Kathir reached out to touch it, and Skemtun slapped his hand away with a grimace. “Nobody touches the statue until the end!” he scolded softly.
Clad in white, ten sharply dressed attendants gathered near the doors. They wore pointed hats secured to their heads with silver thread. A bell sounded from far away, and the attendants scurried off, disappearing into an upper chamber. In the
Kathir whispered into Skemtun’s ear. “Who will lead the procession? You or Bolrakei?”
“We’re both allowed to walk up front with our clan flags. The other clans chose people to represent them, but they’ve got to walk in the back, because they don’t have official clan leaders right now. Now that Hergung has died, things will change. After the funeral is over, a new king will be chosen, and the other clans will elect new leaders, too.”
For once, the dwarves’ circular logic made sense to him. Then a thought came to him. “Didn’t Hergung have a son? Whatever happened to him?”
Skemtun nodded. “He’s too young to take the throne. The boy’s barely fifty years of age—he’s naught but a baby in dwarf years. If he’d been older, he would’ve been considered for the position. But the clans can’t wait another fifty years to elect a king. The clans will nominate a new king from the highest ranking members in the clans. Only dwarves from the best families will be considered.”
“The highest-ranking dwarves? So is Bolrakei going to be nominated?”
Skemtun didn’t want to admit it, but he knew it was true. “Yes… she is high born. Her blood is pure. So she’s a top candidate. She wants to be queen.”
“What about the Vardmiters? Are they invited to the funeral?”
“No,” Skemtun said, his voice irritated. “Why do ye have to bring them into this, especially today? They aren’t welcome at Mount Velik anymore.”
But Kathir wouldn’t let the issue go. “But why? Wasn’t Hergung their king, too?”
Skemtun looked pained. “Look, I don’t want to talk about them right now. After everything that’s happened, they shouldn’t come here, especially not now, while everyone’s upset.”
“What happens if a few of them show up?”
Now Skemtun looked smug. “Ha! They already did. The Vardmiters sent two raggedy emissaries here yesterday. The guards recognized them right away—with all their freckles and red hair. They arrived on a donkey, holding a silly gift and some paper flowers. The guards set them straight pretty quickly. They were given a sound drubbing and thrown out.”
Kathir raised an eyebrow at him. “You beat them, simply because they showed up and tried to pay their respects? You punished them because of that?”
Another silence followed this, but Skemtun was anxious and he broke it. “Well—of course it sounds bad when ye put it that way.”
Kathir spoke. “It sounds bad whichever way you put it. You’ve all acted terribly in this case. The Vardmiters have a right to be here—Hergung was their leader, too. Everyone deserves a second chance...I should know.”
Skemtun didn’t expect to feel guilty, but Kathir’s accusing words drilled into him. Maybe the Vardmiters didn’t deserve what happened. But, still...they’d left! Despite his tangled emotions, he smiled. “Look, maybe ye’re right, and we can make amends with them someday. But not right now; there’s still too much resentment.”
Kathir nodded and let the issue drop.
Several mourners stepped into the main walkway and started dropping flower petals near the doors. A ceremonial circle had been etched into the floor using brightly colored chalk. There was a carved statue of the king in the center of the circle.
The statue showed a robed Hergung sitting on an ornate bronze throne, happy and smiling, looking up into the heavens. The likeness was incredible.
Skemtun marveled at how quickly the statue had been carved. Or perhaps it had been created years before in anticipation of this day. Kathir reached out to touch it, and Skemtun slapped his hand away with a grimace. “Nobody touches the statue until the end!” he scolded softly.
Clad in white, ten sharply dressed attendants gathered near the doors. They wore pointed hats secured to their heads with silver thread. A bell sounded from far away, and the attendants scurried off, disappearing into an upper chamber. In the
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