The Book of the Broken

Daumany

Sitting cross legged in the serenity of the temple, Rufus might have been mistaken for a monk in his black robe, burning incense before the black stone image of Yawata, and yet the sword in the laquered scabbard that lay across his knees told another story, as did the fact that Yawata, with the baskets of grain offerings before him, was not merely god of grain and protector of farmers, but protector of the whole people, and therefore the god of warriors. The only sound in that quiet sanctuary was the murmur of his prayers as the heavy stone beads, hooked together on their bronze chain, moved through his fingers.

It was only because Rufus was a warrior with ears that might have heard one of the enchanted people, that he turned when another tall man, one who actually was a monk, stood behind him. This one was in similar black robe, and as Rufus rose, this one nodded.

Rufus made obeisance to the image of Yawata, as did his brother, and then the two men left the sanctuary. They were both tall and pale, Rufus balding, Odo, elfin faced with short brown hair. Only their shorter brother, who was waiting outside the temple in full armor, could be considered handsome.

“I’m sorry, Rufus. It’s happening any moment.”

Rufus placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder and said, “It shouldn’t even mean anything to me, really.”

The three brothers left the house of worship that was actually a chapel on the palace grounds, and crossed over the intricate garden, the garden that reminded Rufus of peace, and the solitude he’d once had, the peace and solitude that were Odo’s inheritance. But Rufus was Yawata’s own, a warrior, and as he went up the shallow steps and entered into the dark corridor’s of the king’s house, he put these thoughts from his head.

The man in the bed by the censer burning heavy incense seemed ancient, but a careful eye would have noted this was sickness. The three brothers were not the only ones in the room, merely the last. Four other men, hale and hearty, three still in the black or red or blue laquer of warrior’s garb, helmets in their hands, sat grim before the bed. The sickly man turned and looked at the young men entering the room, or the younger men it would have been better to call them. At once, Rufus fell on his knees before his father, and Odo winced for the pain of such a fall, though Rufus’s face showed nothing. Above the bed was an intricately worked bronze sun, the symbol of Holy Okiname, God of this house, and beside it stood a monk in a white belted robe like Odo’s.

“Choose,” he said, simply, “and do not leave your land in disarray.”

William, son of Richard, son of Richard, scion of Roland the Dayne who had been the first king of Daumany, turned and stretched out his hand to Rufus.

As the hand lay on his brother’s head, Odo gave a shout of triumph, and then covered his mouth, ashamed. But he had heard something similar from his younger brother, and about the room there were some hisses of discontent.

“So it is done,” the white robed monk called so all could hear, and Odo echoed, “So it is done.”

Rufus, sensing a sudden heaviness of his father’s hand, looked up, and as the hand slid from his head, he caught it.

“Oh, dear,” said one of the women by the bed. Then she murmured, “It is done.”

She took King William’s hand and placed it on the bed. She took the other one and crossed it over that hand as Rufus looked on in disbelief, and the white robed monk closed the King’s eyes, and shut his slightly open mouth.

“The King is dead,” Odo intoned. “Long live the King.”