The Book of the Blessed

No war was in Enkial’s day,

and when he was old and full of years,

Assanad called up the great barge,

Ereshaan, on which they had sailed

across the sea, and they returned to the Outer Isles.

But not to her father’s home.

They say there she and he still reign,

In gold and wine and glory.”

Ohean was idly strumming his harp and yawning a bit.

“It was a beautiful tale,” Imogen said, yawning and stretching before the fire, “though there was much about gods and goddesses and long gone people I did not entirely understand, but the way you sang it made it not matter the same time it made me more curious.”

But even as the last strum of Ohean’s harp sounded, the horns grew louder, more frantic. The four of them rose and left the great room, coming down the steps to see the party riding toward them. Imogen had expected a stag draped over a horse or trussed behind two poles, but across two horses was a man on a litter and Anson was covered in blood as were Cedd and others. Their faces were pale, and Imogen shrieked and ran out to them, seeing the King on the bier.

“Father! Father!”

Cedd caught her a little roughly, and Anson pulled her back from Anthal.

“Imm, Imm, calm down!”

“He began coughing blood,” Anson explained. “We thought he would choke but then…. I did something. And he’s still alive.”

“Did something?” Ohean began.

But Imogen was weeping, and Ohean, heedless of the blood on her and on the King’s chest, wrapped his arms abour the princess and whispered strange words, whereby she fell into a half swoon, and he said, “Princes, take her to rest. If you can see to her, then I will see to the King.”

Wolf had assisted Myrne in setting up a low fire in this warm weather as well as a brazier of frankincense, and as Anson entered the room where his father lay, nodding to Cedd who was leaving, the seneschal Draper, was lowering King Anthal into bed, and Anson genuflected.

“Father,” he murmured.

“My son,” Anthal spoke, nearly at the end of his strength, “Come sit beside me.”

“Majesty,” Draper began, “Shall we leave?”

“None of you shall leave,” Anthal rasped, shaking his head.

He raised his old hand to touch Anson’s cheek and said, “Do you wonder why I did not choose you as King?”

“Cedd is the oldest,” Anson said. “He was the son of your first queen. His mother was of the House of Hale. You would have needed a very good reason to turn from him to me.”

“And yet I have—” Anthal ran out of breath, and he coughed. But the small cough turned into a great cough, and then he caught at his throat, and they all stood over him looking concerned until he could speak again.

“And yet,” he began again, “I have left you to oversee the courts, to govern in my stead, knowing that…” he took a great, painful breath, “knowing that you are preferred by the people and knowing that… you are preferred by me….”

“Father,” Anson said, placing his hand firmly over the old king’s, “I do not need you to explain to me that everything is not about preference. Preference has nothing to do with it.”

“But it does,” Anthal said, “for I do prefer you, and your blood is of the Holy Isle. Your lineage links you to the ancient House of Chyr, the line of Osse. You…” Anthal sought to push himself up, and when this did not work, his steward and Wolf propped him up.

“You are not king for one simple reason. It is because your mother,” the old King turned to Ohean, “your cousin, made me promise not to declare Anson king. Essily made me declare that I would do nothing to the succession, for she had foreseen I must not. She was, you know, a woman of great power, and she said that your inheritance would be in the south, at the city of Ondres, the Green Castle.”

“The seat of the ancient Kings,” Anson said.

“Aye,” Anthal nodded his head, wearily. “But she said I must not make you my heir, that your title must be Prince of Ondres and so….” He weezed, “… in the presence of all these… I do declare you.”

He rested his hand on Anson’s head and, at last, said, “Anson Aethelyn, son of Anthal, Anthalson, your true name… Prince of the ancient seat of Ondres, Lord of the Green Desmaine, I do name thee.”

And then the King sat up straighter and said in as firm a voice as he could manage:

“Wilt though solemnly promise and swear to govern thy people according to their respective laws and customs? Wilt thou to the best of thy power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all thy judgments?”

Anson blinked up at his father, and Anthal smiled down at him, looking a little sly and saying, “In ancient times it was the father who bestowed the oath, and no priest or bishop. Now… Child… answer.”

Then said Anson to the King, “All this, I solemnly promise so to do.”

And then the King was seized by coughing, and his hand dropped from Anson’s head.

“Your Grace!” Ash began, and Cedd was coming back into the room as Imogen followed.

“Father!” Anson began, and his sister and brother did the same.

King Anthal, stopped coughing, took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and then, those same eyes opening a little, his mouth opening a little as well while the eyes dimmed, the King of Westrial breathed his last.

It was a moment before Imogen perceived what had happened, and sank to her knees in sobs, Draper closed the eyes of the King with two fingers and murmured, “The King is dead.”

Then turning to Cedd he declared, “Long live the King.”

Ohean had taken the Princess to the first spare room he saw, and lain her down under a light coverlet. Anson would bring her out of her trance gently, but when the full force of things hit her, then there would be such mourning as would break his heart and make him remember his own mourning. All through the house there was shouting and movement and Ohean was glad to be up in this room away from it. He went to look out of the window where the sun was setting, and moved to the hearth to prepare a small fire. They would not be leaving here tonight. Ohean sat down beside Princess Imogen’s bed, and stretched his legs. He surprised himself by beginning to fall asleep.

He heard feet though, and looked to the entance of the door to see Anson, his tunic rumpled, his faee weary, hair sticking up.

He did not speak for a long time, and when he did he said,

“I actually thought maybe you could save him… as if…”

“That is not how it works,” Ash said gently.

“I know,” Anson nodded. “But if only it did… He was gone so quickly, Ash.”

“What did you do today?” Ohean said.

“What?”

“You said when he began to cough up blood… you did something.”

“I put my arms about him,” Anson said, “And willed him to live. I… he was gone. But I called him back. For just a moment.”

“I knew there was power in you,” Ohean said more to himself than Anson.

Ohean did not rise to go to Anson, but let him stand, and the tall man said, “My father is dead. The King of Westrial is dead.”

“The King of Westrial lives,” Ohean reminded Anson, “sitting in a room down the hall, and then preparing to ride back to the city that will mourn your father, and celebrate Cedd.”

“King Caedmon the Second,” Anson marveled. “What can it mean?”

Ohean was not sure if Anson meant this in a political sense, or a more spiritual one. The wizard said, simply:

“Nothing good.”

As the firelight shone on the image of Addiwak, they watched Imogen sleeping.

“I am afraid to leave her,” Anson whispered.

“She woke, she wept,” Ohean said. “I remember when my grandfather died. I did not want to be alone. I was nearly destroyed, more than I thought. But there came a time when I needed to rest. When those around me did as well.”

“I know so little of you.”

“I was raised by my mother and then by Nimerly your aunt,” Ohean said, “but when I grew near to manhood I went to live with my grandfather, Idris’s grandfather, the King of Rheged.”

“I guess that makes you are a prince?”

“The son of one,” Ohean shrugged, “though not the legitimate one.”

“Like me.”

“Unlike you,’ Ohean said, “for what I know is that your mother Essily was the wife of your father for a time. She did that on purpose. My mother married no man. She did that on purpose too.”

“Did you mind it?”

“I never have,” Ohean shook his head.

“You are the kind of man who does not feel the need to tell a great deal,” Anson observed.

“If you understood how often visions overtook me,” Ohean said, “if you knew how much of what I see should not be seen or shared, then you would understand.”

Anson said nothing, only looked at him, and Ohean said, “Today, when you spoke before going on the hunt, about bringing back the stag horns, I saw you, I saw you crowned with horns like the kings of old, like the Horned God of ancient times, and when the horns blew and Imogen said the stag had been killed then I knew it meant the King, for the King and the Stag are one.”

“Then are you saying I am the King?”

“No,’ Ohean said. “Not today. Cedd is King, and what he will do to you if you remain in Kingsboro beyond your father’s funeral, I cannot say. We have not talked of it, but I will not remain in Westrial, and there is no reason for you to do so. I think you should come with me.”

“This is the only home I have ever known.”

“It is not,” Ohean said. “You are Ayl, but half of your blood is Royan, and even your Ayl blood has Royan in it. You have the whole of Ondres, and people loyal to you there, and if you do not think Ondres far enough, well then, there are other homes, and you may want to find them if you wish to keep your life.”

“We heard what he said to Morgellyn, but Cedd is my brother. Do you think Cedd would plan treachery against me?”

Ohean shook his head.

“I do not know what he would do.”

“I do not know either,” Anson said.

They stopped talking at the approach of feet, and Anson turned to see Myrne coming toward them. She curtseyed and said, “My sorrows, Prince.”

Then, affectionately, she kissed Anson’s cheek.

“Prince Anson, I came not only to offer condolences, but to say a thing that is on my heart, toward you.”

He nodded and said, “Speak, Lady.”

And so she did.

“Once my father told me a tale of a sword called Gram. He said it was the very sword of Sevard, of the House of the Valkyras from which our ancestors, and the ancestors of the kings of Hale were descended.”

“All know of this,” Anson said.

Myrne nodded, but continued.

“It is said that Wode the Allfather, him who we no longer worship, thrust the sword into the main beam of the great hall Voldehal, and said only his true son could pull it out. Valkyra pulled it out and passed it to his heirs.”

“But the sword passed out of history,” Ohean said.

When Anson and Myrne looked at him, he said, “But it is mine to know all lore.”

“Yes,” Myrne said, “of course. But it did not pass out of memory. The wise of the Ayl knew where it was, and it is said to be in Ardan. That is what we murmur up north, in our halls away from the traitor Edmund where the old ways still hold sway. My father told me it was there, and that a true king would take it.”

“Me?” Anson said.

“Perhaps,” Myrne said. “But I do not wish to be a prophetess or a kingmaker. It is only, I was going north, back home, and shall continue to do so. But now I see I came here for a reason, and I see something in you, something more than a man who must flee his brother.”

Anson looked to Ohean and Ohean said, “Do you wish to be a king?”

Anson did not answer, and Myrne curtseyed again and left the room.

“Ohean?”

“Yes.”

“If you can wait just a moment, will you do a thing for me?”

“Of course,” Ohean said.

A moment later, Anson returned to the room with a bowl of hot water, towels over his shoulder, soap and a razor.

Ohean nodded, and as Anson prepared the things and took off his shirt. Ohean planted a chair before the bureau.

They did not speak for a long time, and the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire, a log falling, the snipping of sheers, sighing, the breathing of Imogen.

When as much hair as could be snipped was gone, Ohean messaged the stubbly bronze hair in soap and water, and then taking the razor, and whispering words over it, he began deftly to shave the hair that was left.

“How dead it looks,” Anson said, viewing the curls of his bronze hair on the floor. “So dull.”

“Duck your head,” Ohean told him.

He rinsed Anson’s head, and then, taking a small torch, ran fire over it, murmuring words.

“How does it feel.”

Anson squinted in the mirror and ran a hand over his head.

“It feels bald.”

Ohean stifled a chuckle, murmured, “Stand up,” and began to put things away. Anson left with the basin and then came back a few minutes later for the towels and razors.

Ohean sat Anson down, and the Prince winced while he wiped his head in alcohol, and then sighed while he messaged it in oil.

“My heart is so sore,” Anson said, at last. “How often I was away from him, or on the border with the troops, fighting Daumans, and in these last two days I felt like his son and not a bastard. More than a soldier. My heart is so sore.”

And then Anson said, “Forgive me, please. Forgive me for what I am going to say. It sounds so foul.”

“Speak freely,” Ohean said.

“Can we please,” Anson whispered, “please, please can we fuck? I… want to feel something that isn’t sorrow. I want to… Please, can we fuck?”

Anson was too ashamed to look at him, and only looked across the room.

“I am no White Monk, Prince,” Ohean said, simply. “You do not have to be ashamed of anything. Get up. Come to bed.”