Trials of the Hierophant: Vol. II of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy by Ethan Risso Page A

girl’s hand and guiding it between his legs.
    There was a knock at the door followed by Tristram’s voice, “My lord?”
    Madoc sighed. “What is it?”
    “You asked me to notify you when the nobility gathers for the tourney. Senators Grigor Boraste and Culhwch Valifor have arrived.”
    “Yes, yes.” Madoc frowned. “Give me a moment.”
    He gripped the sides of the basin as he reclined, letting out a loud grunt. The servant girl quickly snatched her hand from the water and left with the tray.
    “Must you amuse yourself so?” Tristram asked. “You are to meet prospective wives today. You should stay your seed to remain virile for them.”
    “I have no issue with my virility.” Madoc stood from the bath, his manhood still erect, and snapped his fingers.
    Two servants entered the room carrying his dressing robe.
    Madoc stepped from the basin and held his arms out to allow them to put it on. “Are they already seated?” he asked as one of the servants fastened the robe.
    “Not at the moment, my lord. They await you.”
    “Let us not keep them waiting then.”
    The servants dressed Madoc in the finest madder-dyed robes of wool with fur trim. As was tradition, atop the robes, he was suited with chest armor, crafted long ago for the first coronation of Annwyd’s king. The armor was solid silver with fiery gold embellishments. Across the armor, he wore a silken sash, draped over his shoulder and tied at his waist. Finally, the servants pinned his long wool cape, which was a similar red to the corsac fox embroidered on it in a thick gold thread. The lining of the cape was the softest of gold silks.
    Madoc struggled to walk, unaccustomed to the weight of the lavish clothing.
    “Do not worry, my lord,” Tristram said, shooing the servants from the room. “The robes are only for the coronation. You may dress however you wish after this day.”
    Nobles waiting to garner the new king’s favor filled the great hall of Castle Rotham. Many of the sycophants presented Madoc with gifts, while others merely pledged their loyalty to the crown. The hall was decorated magnificently. It was the commoners whose approval he sought with his frugality, not the nobles.
    Servants worked throughout the week to brocade three tapestries to hang in the hall with the king’s new sigil on them. The largest of the three hung above the roaring fire. Beneath the tapestry, woven pine boughs decorated the top of the mantle. Bright red berries of yew still clung to small branches tucked into the pine. Hellebore, a ruler of the winter gardens at the castle whose blossoms flourished even in the coldest weather, came in many colors. For the coronation, however, only the dusty yellow blossoms accompanied small white heather flowers among the dark green of the pine and yew.
    The actual fire was a distinctively Annwydian custom. Blackthorn wood, imported from Ordanis, burned cleanly with little smoke and plenty of heat. Almost half of the Malik province was devoted to groves of blackthorn. Every part of the tree was used. The berries, which grew like clusters of pale jewels on the branches, were made into sour jams and infused into vinegars, wines, and sweetened with honey for liqueurs. Even the sap was not wasted, rendered into an ink for manuscripts.
    The day dragged on with monotonous formality. Madoc was forced to sit on the throne for hours while all the nobles of Annwyd pledged fealty. Last in the long line were the senators.
    “Senator Grigor Boraste,” Tristram announced.
    “Your Majesty.” Grigor Boraste bowed. “The House of the Tower pledges its allegiance and total fealty to the crown of Annwyd and House Denorheim.”
    “Your oath to the crown is heard and appreciated.” Madoc nodded slightly. “For your continued support, I afford you the care of the Garanth province, a seat previously held by Vaughn Garanth, before all the nobles of Annwyd.”
    “Your generosity is most appreciated, Your Majesty.” Grigor stepped back into