Panthos

The smell was the worst of it.

The crypt was cold, the air thick with incense, but it couldn’t mask the scent entirely. Cold and sickly air mingling with the smell of too-sweet oil and spice, sweet yet musty. The embalmers had done their work, wrapped his father up in the colours of the crown, painted his face and set his jaw to look like something more than a limp corpse. It didn’t work, he still looked like a stranger.

Casimir had been coming here for three days. For three days he'd sauntered down the long, dark steps with his cat Quickpaw at his heels. He'd sat in silence, waiting, though he didn't know for what. His father, King Cato, had never been a patient man. He’d have told him to stop wallowing, to act, to stand up straight, to be a man.

Casimir stared at the body, trying to feel something. Anything.

He looked at his father’s hands, stiff and folded. He remembered those hands closing around his arm, picking him up by the scruff of his neck, dragging him away from a training yard after he'd gotten half his teeth knocked out. Cato had wanted a tough son, a boy with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. Casimir tried to remember the last time his father had looked at him with anything other than disappointment. Had he ever done him proud? It was too late to ask now.

Casimir sighed. The stone beneath him was cold, even through his clothes. He should leave. There were things to be done. The coronation. The lords, the court, the hundred thousand decisions waiting for him.

But he just sat there, unwilling and unable to move.

The door groaned open.

Dorian had waited long enough.

The boy had been down here for hours again, wrapped in silence, staring at a dead man who couldn’t say anything back. It was not fair to expect the young king to attend to his duties so soon, but it was necessary. The Kingdom could not wait for the new king, it would not wait, already he'd caught wind of low nobles considering their options now that a mere child was to be king.

Dorian stepped inside, heavy boots scuffing against stone. The place reeked of incense, thick and cloying. The embalmers had slathered Cato in all the perfumes and oils in the world, but they couldn’t change what he was. A dead king in a dying kingdom.

With one hand over his heart and the other over his stomach, Dorian made a shallow bow toward his former King. Friend, he added in the privacy of his mind, though Cato had not seemed much of a friend to anyone in the Vintra days of his life. Be at peace my King. My friend. I will keep my promise.

Dorian took a step back and slowly turned his head toward the boy sitting on one of the low, stone benches that circled the dead King's body.

Casimir didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there, small and quiet. That wasn’t good. The wolves were already sniffing at the gates, the lords sharpening their knives. A king who hesitated was a king who got cut to pieces.

Dorian stopped beside him. Looked at the body, then back at the boy.

"Casimir," Dorian said.

No answer. Not even a shy greeting or turning of the head when Dorian sat down next to the future king.

"Casimir, I'm sorry, but there is much work to do." Dorian said. "I wish you had more time, I really do. By Orsef, I wish I had more time..."

Dorian exhaled sharply. "Calanthe will want to begin the rites soon. They’ll bring him to the Hollow Court, as tradition demands. The people will expect to see you there."

Casimir swallowed, but still didn’t move. Dorian watched him, jaw tight. If the boy didn’t start acting like a king soon, someone else would do the acting for him.

And then the door opened again.

Soft steps. Measured. The scent of something floral, something sickly sweet blew into the cold, blackstone crypt.

The first of the carrion birds had come swooping in.

Sybille's black dress trailed behind her, dragging over the flagstones like scattered leaves in the wind. She was the very image of sombre elegance. A queen in all but title.

For now.

She had waited patiently and let Dorian push first. Let him be the hammer, so she could be the salve that eased the pain.

Casimir was still staring at the body. Small, fragile, folded in on himself. She had seen a grieving sons before, relished in their grief more than once. But this one? This one was special.

This one had a crown waiting for him.

"My king," she murmured. Soft, low, laced with just the right amount of sorrow. "I am sorry for your loss." She dropped into a polite courtesy and ignored the ache it caused in her ageing knees. It did not matter. They said beauty demanded pain, but Sybille Farrow had long since learned that power demanded pain and sacrifice also.

Dorian shifted beside Casimir, stiff as an iron bar. Sybille ignored him.

She took a step closer. Tilted her head, just slightly. "I know this is not what you wished for. No child should have to bear such a weight alone."

Casimir’s fidgeted with his fingers, picked at his nails, then looked up at her. Good.

Dorian grunted. "He’s not alone."

She continued to ignore the oaf. He had his uses, few though they were, and consoling grieving boys wasn't one of them.

Sybille folded her hands in front of her, dipping her head just enough to make it seem like reverence. "All the members of the regency council have arrived," she said. "The lords and ladies will wish to swear fealty. To know the will of their new king."

Casimir said nothing, but Sybille noticed he'd cocked his head slightly. At the very least he was listening. Sweet boy, sweet silly boy, always so obedient, aren't you? If he'd been a bit older, if he'd held a bit more sway in court then she might have considered sparing him. He would be easy to play, easy to manipulate and do her bidding. But no, she had other plans.

"Summon the council, my King." She said softly, placing a delicate hand upon the boy's shoulder. "You will need people you can trust."

The Chamber of State smelled old, stale and musty. Thalion Orlan slouched in his high-backed chair, boots propped on the edge of the long table, ignoring the faint creak of the oak under his weight. He scratched at his beard, streaked with gray, and his hard eyes flicked toward the empty throne at the head of the room.

Not much of a kingdom without a King...

Dust motes danced in the slanting light from the tall windows, and the banners of Mohsal hung limp, their silver sigils dulled by time and neglect. The silence gnawed at him. He’d ridden three days from the north to be here, and now they made him wait like a hound for scraps.

The door scraped open, and Olthas Raine slipped in. The Master of the Mint moved like a cat stalking a bird, his fine velvet tunic rustling faintly and he carried a leather pouch that clinked with coin—always coin with Olthas. Thalion dropped his boots to the floor with a thud and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"You’re early," Thalion said, voice low and rough as gravel.

Olthas shrugged, settling into a chair across from him. He opened a pouch on his belt, pulled a silver crown from it and deftly turned it over between his fingers. "You look sour, Orlan. The ride from the mountains too hard on you?"

Thalion grunted. "The ride’s nothing. It’s this festering pit of a capital that sours me. And that boy they’re calling king." He jerked his chin toward the throne. "This place is a wolves' den. He’ll be eaten before the year’s out."

Olthas chuckled, like coins rattling in a cup. "Now, now. You know as well as I that there are no wolves in these parts."

"Vipers then"

"We haven't got those either."

Thalion’s fist tightened on the table. "Don't play me for a fool. I see quite clearly, Lord Raine. You'd do well to remember that."

Olthas flicked a coin into the air, caught it, and grinned. "You worry too much. He’s young, that’s all. Nothing like his father. We haven't got wolves or snakes here, but we do have cats. Give them a pat and a treat, and they'll purr for you."

Thalion glared at him, but before he could answer, the chamber doors swung wide. Dorian Kessel strode in, his scarred face set like stone, with Sybille Farrow gliding at his heels, her black dress dragging over the floor. And there, between them, was Casimir—small, pale, and clutching that damned cat of his like a shield. His crown sat crooked on his head, why did he bother wearing it if it still had to be adjusted?

The boy’s eyes lit up when he saw Olthas. "Lord Raine!" he said, voice bright despite the shadows under his eyes. He hurried forward, Quickpaw jumped from his grasp with a startled meow and trotted after him while Olthas rose with a laugh, sweeping into an exaggerated bow.

"My king," Olthas greeted eagerly as the boy reached him. "You’ve grown since I last saw you! Another inch, I’d wager. Soon you’ll be taller than me."

Casimir grinned, a rare bout of warmth in the cold room. "Not yet. But Quickpaw missed you. She doesn’t like most people, you know."