The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 29

Aaand we have a new King.

We were waiting for the twilight to end and the day to begin.
As yet, the gates to the citadel were closed, and the city beyond seemed to be holding its breath. Although I knew that a large crowd must be waiting outside – there had been people lining the street even when I had arrived with Lord Saphadûl and the other participants in the procession some hours previously, in the middle of the night – it was deadly silent. The important people further back in the procession were all safe and snug inside the palace with the King, of course, but those of us who had to pass through the gate first stood shivering in the morning air. I had put on my warm work clothing underneath my mourning robe, which was of thick wool itself, but already, all the warmth had been leeched out of my body. I would have liked to wrap my arms around myself, but I did not dare to set down the bundle of juniper branches in their starched linen wrappings lest they slipped out of the cloth and stung me, nor the sealed amphora filled with carbolic salt lest it topple over and disturb the silence. I was supposed to carry these, one in each arm, as insignia of my profession; the master of ceremonies had thought long and hard on the symbolism. So I was just shifting from foot to foot, since I did not want to break the silence by stamping, either, and felt generally miserable. The guards who would have to lead the procession and clear the way in case any onlookers got too far into the road, the heads of their spears hidden among the evergreen branches that had been tied to the staffs, huddled together; their woollen cloaks did not seem to be enough to ward off the bitter cold, either.

Next to me, the old King's valet, who would lead the horses that pulled the hearse, tried to stifle a yawn, but it proved more powerful than the straining muscles of his jaw. He was wearing a heavy grey cloak over his livery, but he was nonetheless standing between the horses for warmth. I would have liked to join him, but I was worried that I'd accidentally touch one of the horses with my juniper, and that the horse would rear or bolt and disrupt the whole line-up. They were anxious enough as it was. So I stayed where I was and just exchanged sympathetic glances with the valet. Then I glanced up at the hearse behind the horses. Tar-Ancalimon had been laid out there on a bed of more juniper upon white sheets that covered some hidden structure, and since he was already wrapped and couldn't be dressed in finery anymore, a great ceremonial cloak had been spread over him. That cloak was so heavily embroidered with silver thread that it didn't fall like a cloak should, and instead domed over the dead body like a very flat tent. The silver death-mask suited it very nicely, I felt, and since they had wreathed the head in ivy and yew and yet more juniper, you could not see that the rest of the it was wrapped and sealed and hairless. He no longer looked like a real person, but he looked certainly very beautiful, like an actor in the mask of a Vala. The master of ceremonies had initially been very unhappy that the King's body was already embalmed and therefore no longer visible, but I thought that he had found a very good way of nonetheless presenting it in a manner befitting a king.

Finally, the dawn-drum rolled, announcing that the day was officially beginning, and two torch-bearing guards threw back the bolts and opened the gate. They walked ahead, followed by nine guards marching triple-file at a solemn pace. The valet made the horses pull, and the hearse began to rumble after them. I drew my shoulders up. Amraphel had said that however much the new King wished to embarrass me in front of the city, I nonetheless did not have to embarrass myself, and as usual, she had a point. So I told myself that I could be happy and honoured to be part of the procession, and that I would play my part with as much dignity as I could muster. I took a deep breath, and braced my highly symbolic burdens, and stepped through the gate after the hearse had passed through. Behind me, I could hear the unfolding of the heavy tapestry as the household servants stretched it out once through the gate. The drum continued to roll mournfully all the time.

The small crowd that had already lined the streets in the night had grown into a massive crowd, all warmly wrapped in cloaks and furs and blankets, staring eagerly at the parade that unfolded before their eyes. I could see some of them holding the primers that had been sold in the past week, outlining the different parts of the procession and their significance, and they were pointing us out to their less well-informed neighbours. I imagined them whispering "Who is that? Who is he? What is he doing there? Why does he look like that?" and felt my face grow warm in spite of the icy air.
I could see precious little of the procession myself, of course, except for the back of the hearse and the ears of the horses and the spears of the guards that marched ahead, but I knew from the rehearsals what was going on behind me. The tapestries with Tar-Ancalimon's life story on them were being carried after me. The household servants chosen for the job wore, like the valet, grey cloaks and ivy wreaths on their heads. After them there was another troup of palace guards, who were followed by the guild-masters, cloaked in mourning greys but wearing the colours of their guilds underneath, carrying the tools that marked their trades. The spokesmen of the different merchants' and farmers' and citizens' societies and factions came behind, as did the venerable teachers of the various academies, and there were also some Elvish embassadors and delegations from the colonies, their exotic dress again hidden under grey cloth. They were followed by two carriages laden with tribute that was, as yet, hidden under heavy blankets. Behind the carriages marched drummers and musicians who were singing dirges; I could not understand the words, but the notes were drifting sadly down to the beginning of the procession.

Behind the musicians, Lord Saphadûl was leading the veteran foot soldiers of the last campaign in Middle-earth, dressed as a soldier himself. I had seen him earlier, and he had looked entirely unfamiliar and certainly very heroic in chainmail and armour. The foot soldiers were followed by the archers, and behind them rode the cavalry. The nobility were trailing them, likewise on horseback. Their mourning cloaks were lined with grey fur so I expected they would be rather more warm than I, and they had been permitted to wear gloves, too. They had artificial lilies in their mourning wreaths – there were no real lilies to be had at this time of the year, of course - but wore no jewellery. Lord Atanacalmo and Lady Calamíriel and their families were coming last among the nobles, who were followed by the master of ceremonies and a carriage which hid more treasure, among it the crown and sceptre of Yôzayân. Behind it rode Princess Vanimeldë with her mother. On foot came the Keeper of the Palace's Heart, carrying a lantern that had been lit with a flame from the Heart of the House of the King. And then, in a silver-plated chariot drawn by white horses, came the new King himself, as yet crownless and wrapped in mourning greys, with a hood hiding his head. At the very end of the procession, the remaining household guards were marching to ensure the safety of the King, although I doubted that the awe-struck citizens would have presumed to attack him. Besides, the streets were lined with ordinary city guards, who let nobody step in the way of the procession, anyway. I knew that some dozen day-talers had been hired to shovel away the horse-shit as soon as the procession was out of sight, so that the streets would be clean again when we returned, altogether less grimly, as the new King's coronation parade; but as yet, they were kept out of sight.

In this manner, we proceeded – very slowly – towards the Holy Mountain. I was glad to be moving, although I would have preferred to walk a lot faster to get warm again. Still, at least the wait was over. If not for the sad occasion, it could have been a beautiful day: The frosty sky was blue and clear, and once the winter sun had fully risen, it shone brightly, painting the snow-cap on the Minultârik golden and warming our backs. In the city itself, people were watching from every bit of available space. I had heard that people with property along the route had been selling access to their windows or balconies or rooftops for hefty prices, and seeing the crowds, I could well believe it. Even once we had left the city behind, the crowds were jostling for a view on either side of the road. The less well-dressed among them had climbed into the barren trees. I felt very exposed, walking by myself rather than in a protective throng and watched by what must be thousands of pairs of eyes. I told myself that with all the more interesting people behind me, I would barely be noticed or, at any rate, quickly forgotten. Many people were bowing their heads and touching their hands to their brows as the hearse went past them, so they might not even see me. I tried to keep my back straight and my eyes firmly ahead and ignore the watchful crowd, even though I was tempted to look down instead. I certainly did not try to spot any familiar faces in the crowd, although I knew that Master Târik, Mîkul and Kârathôn, my parents-in-law, much of my household, and other people of my acquaintance must be among the masses. Dignity, I told myself. If I had to show my bruised face in front of the whole citizenry, I should at least bear it with dignity. But that didn't come naturally to me, and I had to ceaselessly remind myself not to let my shoulders curl into their more familiar hunch, and not to look at my feet as they carried me slowly but steadily ahead. At least I would be able to stand at the entrance to the Noirinan, with no crowds behind me, for the coronation ceremony. That was some solace.

By the time we actually reached the Mountain, the sun was high in the sky - as high as it would get in winter - although the air was still cold – so cold, in fact, that the unchanging temperatures of the Noirinan, so frosty in summer, felt quite mild in comparison. The procession stopped and lined up in their assigned places around the scaffold that had been especially erected for the coronation ceremony. The drums rolled grimly. Into the tomb went the servants bearing the tapestries, to hang them up in the vault that had been prepared for the King. Into the tomb went I to wait next to the sarcophagus and to gaze, with mixed feelings, at my artfully rendered face on the wall. Nobody would ever want to depict my life in a tapestry, I remembered saying to Kârathôn, and yet there I was, twice, woven into the life of Tar-Ancalimon. How strange. There were plenty of other scenes in the tapestry, of course – there was Tar-Ancalimon as an infant in the arms of his royal parents, dead for over a century; here he was as a studious child, reciting lore to an impressed-looking teacher (who were the boy, I wondered, and who the teacher who had posed for the painter?); here he was as a daring rider and military commander; there he stood with the young Queen and a small, beautiful child who was surely meant to be the Crown Prince, except that Tar-Ancalimon himself had been the Crown Prince in those days, of course; there he sat enthroned, with the silver circlet and golden sceptre; here he embraced the soon-to-be King, who was presenting him with bright treasure; here he was writing laws or some other important document; here he was arranging the rationing of grain as dark lines of rain made the harvest rot in the fields behind him. The King dispensing mercy on the pleading criminal, and the King being embalmed by the evidently reformed criminal, were only two elements of the large tapestry that made up Tar-Ancalimon's life, but it still felt like an uncomfortably prominent place for me to me. I could only hope that my execution would not form part of the next King's tapestry, since it was commonly said that both good and bad things tended to come in threes. Fortunately, I did not have to dwell on that thought for long at this time, since now the King himself – the old King, that is – was finally carried in by the household guards who had marched first in the procession. They lowered him into the waiting sarcophagus on the immaculate sheet that had been spread on the stretcher; I sprinkled the salts from my amphora on him; we spoke a prayer as the heavy granite lid was pushed shut. And that was the final step of Tar-Ancalimon's journey upon this earth (or so I thought at the time, at least). Again, I was weeping, and I was relieved to see that some of the servants and guards were also teary-eyed as we bowed our heads in reverence before returning to the outside world.

There, from the safety of the stone arch into the Noirinan, I saw the new King for the first time on that day. While we had been inside the tomb, he had divested himself of his mourning robes, and was now clothed in pure white. The robe itself was simply cut, but he wore a collar of silver of some foreign design that reached all the way down his chest, with jewels of many colours in it. From my vantage point I could discern three bright spots hanging from the lowest row of the collar – pieces of Valinórean amber, undoubtedly. I suspected that one of them was the one that Quentangolë and the old King had mentioned, with a bee preserved in the amber, and another was the one that Lord Eärendur had given to me. I wondered where the third came from, whether it had been in the treasury all the while, or whether it had been bought for the occasion, or whether it had been confiscated from some other unfortunate fellow. The precious pendant certainly looked rather more impressive on the King's chest than on mine, but nonetheless I wished I could have kept it. The King had jewellery enough, after all. There was plenty of silver braided into his hair and silver vambraces on his wrists and silver rings on his fingers and silver and gems on his belt, and finally, the servants – now in their regular livery, without their grey cloaks and mourning sashes – carried the stiff silver-embroidered cloak that had previously covered the old King's body and draped it over the new King's shoulders.

It was so heavy that he could not even move in it. But Lord Saphadûl and three officers had been appointed to carrying the train behind him, and with their assistance, he climbed the carpeted wooden stairs to the highest tier of the scaffold, so that the people further in the back would still be able to catch some glimpse of the new King as he came into his power. At a respectful distance, Princess Vanilotë – I suppose I should think of her as the Queen now – and Princess Vanimeldë, similarly robed in white with silver embroidery and silver jewellery, though not quite as splendid as the King's, followed. Then came Lord Atanacalmo, carrying the blue and silver velvet pillow with the royal coronet on it, and the old Queen carrying the sceptre, and Lady Calamíriel with the lantern with the Heart's flame in it. Quentangolë walked behind, dressed in inky black and carrying an ancient-looking book, together with the master of ceremonies (who was none other than Lord Marapoldo of Hyarnastorni, husband to Lady Calamíriel), also in black. On the lower tier of the scaffold, the royal council – nobles and guild-masters alike – stood in the bright liveries of their houses or trades, and besides them stood the governors of Pelargir and Umbar and Tharbad, wearing the foreign costumes of their principalities (although as governors, they were of course men of Yôzayân themselves), and the Elven embassadors from both East and West. They made a colourful spectacle beneath the silver, white and black that governed the King's platform. On the lowest tier of the scaffold stood the covered carts, brought up with the help of a ramp and a complicated-looking pulley. The whole construction was surrounded by guards, some with spears and some with trumpets, and by the choir, although they were no longer singing. The horses had been tethered in pavillons well behind the scaffold, and were surrounded by the military folk, in case anyone was tempted to steal them while most people were distracted by the ceremony.

As the King came into view, a great cheer rose from the gathered crowd. People were clapping their hands and hollering their approval, a strange sound after the mournful silence and solemn dirges of the past days, and stranger yet to me, who had already spent years trying to dodge the enmity of this man and had no reason whatsoever to cheer his ascension to full power. I tried to look at him as somebody who'd had no such dealings with him. One had to admit that he looked very kingly. Most commoners had not seen the old King in years, and even then, he had been frail and bent over, a picture of ill health and approaching death. In contrast, the people now saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, shining white and silver underneath the pale winter sun. His eyes, far from being clouded with age, were dark and piercing. He was not frowning today, so the bitter lines I had previously seen on his face were barely visible. (In truth, his face had been made smooth with the same paste that some elderly folk used to hide the wrinkles in their skin, and silver make-up had been applied to his eyelids and cheekbones to make them stand out more strikingly.) I suppose people who didn't know him as I did might be well-pleased, seeing somebody who looked powerful and trustworthy, full of youth and vigour, somebody who would take care of the state's business and be visible and attractive to the public eye. Now, the corners of his mouth rose a little – I assume he enjoyed the noisy approval of the onlookers, as well he might – and I could almost have believed him capable of benevolence. The two princesses, mother and daughter, stepped up behind him, and the cheer grew louder yet until Lord Marapoldo stepped to the edge of the platform, holding up his hands.

Quentangolë held his book open for Lord Marapoldo, who began to speak. He had a powerful voice, but nonetheless I doubted that most the crowd could hear him; there were simply too many people, and I could see them stretch out all the way along the road. The words carried over to me well enough – I had a splendid view of the proceedings, too – although I could not understand them, since they were in Eldarin. From the preparations, I knew that it was an ancient prayer for the passage of power from one King to his heir, and I also knew that it had been printed in the primer so that the people who had bought one could explain it to the people around them, or speak along if they wished. The closing words asked for blessings for the new King's reign, peace and prosperity for the realm and wisdom and good judgement for the ruler himself, and I had made certain to memorise the alien words so I could mouth them along. After all, these were all things that we direly needed.

After the prayer, the trumpets were sounded again for the first time since the old King had died before Lord Marapoldo addressed the crowd. "People of the Yôzayân, your King – Eru rest him – has passed away, but he has not left you leaderless. He has appointed Alcarmaitë, his only son and child, to be his heir. Alcarmaitë is in his two hundred and fiftieth year and well suited to be King: healthy and strong in body and mind, wise in judgement, powerful in his wrath, great in mercy, victorious in battle..." A long list of accomplishments followed. I had reason to doubt one or two of them, but it obviously was not my place to comment on them. Or so I thought, when I heard Lord Marapoldo proclaim, "Behold! Here is Crown Prince Alcarmaitë, son of Ancalimon of the line of Tar-Minyatur, son of Eärendil. He is ready to take the sceptre and become your King. If there be any among you who know of a reason that he is unsuitable for the office, let them speak now, or hold their peace ever after!" He held out his hands in an exaggerated gesture of invitation.

The word unsuitable struck me like lightning. I cannot describe it in any other way. In spite of the frozen day, heat was surging through my veins, and my face was burning. I could barely breathe. Highly unsuitable, I thought. Extremely unsuitable. Outrageously unsuitable. I stared up at the King, who was no longer smiling. He was not looking at me, or at anyone else. He had lowered his proud head, ostensibly to show his acceptance of whatever grievance his subjects might raise, although I knew from experience that bowing one's head was also a good way of hiding the expression on one's face, lest anyone see doubt or fear. He stood perfectly still, waiting. In contrast, there was quite a bit of shifting on the councillors' platform, and I found that several faces had turned ostensibly towards the entrance of the Noirinan, as if expecting Tar-Ancalimon to protest from the grave, but conveniently also me, specifically. There could be no doubt about it. They were actively meeting my eyes, and instead of being able to lower mine and escape the intense inquiry in their looks, I felt compelled to stare back. I noticed that Lord Atanacalmo, up on the King's platform, was also looking at me, his expressive eyebrows raised, as if curious to see what I would do. Closer to me, the palace servants and guards who had helped to bury the old King were shifting and whispering, and I could feel their eyes on my face. The silence lengthened, and I did not break it.

I suppose I could have spoken out then and changed the course of history. Maybe I should have. I could have announced that Crown Prince Alcarmaitë son of Ancalimon of the line of Tar-Minyatur had broken my nose and spilled my blood in the hallowed Night of Passing with the hallowed sceptre. That last past was probably the relevant bit – I did not delude myself that anybody would be particularly bothered about my blood, spilled unrighteously or not. The King's problem was that he had spilled it at that particular time, and that he hadn't simply used some ordinary staff or his plain fists, which I could see were clenched tight. He was still not looking in my direction, but I had no doubt that his thoughts were certainly fixed on me. I could feel them bearing down on me, a mighty pressure intent to make me crumble. I bit down hard on my lower lip to distract myself.
Lord Marapoldo repeated his question, loud and clear. Some of the councillors were now widening their eyes in encouragement, and someone even made an impatient gesture with his hands as if to say Go ahead, why won't you? Speak!

Yes, perhaps I should have spoken. I think if I'd known who exactly would profit from it then I might have done it, handshake or no. If I had known that Lord Atanacalmo would take the sceptre, I might have thrown in my lot with him – I did not trust him, but I couldn't deny that he'd done me a couple of good turns, which was more than could be said for the proper heir to the throne. If anyone had approached me beforehand and asked me to open my mouth and cause an uproar, I might have done it. There was no guarantee that the King would feel bound by our brief agreement in the storage room. Hadn't he forced me to give up my best piece of jewellery pretty much immediately afterwards?
Yes, if somebody had made me a better offer, I might have taken it. But nobody had. And Amraphel had pointed out that even if the council decided to veto the Crown Prince's ascension based on my complaint, he would still be alive, and still be powerful, and still be my mortal enemy. Unless whoever replaced him put a lot of effort into my protection – and why should they, once I had served my purpose? - he would make sure that I regretted speaking out for every second of the doubtlessly brief but agonising rest of my life. Besides, I had given him my hand. I did feel bound by that, even if the King probably didn't.

For the third and last time, Lord Marapoldo's voice rang out: "If there be any among you who know of a reason that Alcarmaitë is unsuitable for the office, let them speak now, or hold their peace ever after!"
My breath was coming fast, so fast that my lungs could barely use the air before it went out again, and I was tasting blood from my lip. I clenched my eyes shut so I no longer had to see the councillors stare at me, but before I did, I caught Lord Eärendur's gaze, sorrowful and kind, and I could see that he gave just the tiniest shake of his head. That was all the reassurance I got before I refused to look further at all these people, who seemed to expect that I took the whole task of toppling the King's designated heir onto my narrow, oft-beaten shoulders. My uncertainty was beginning to turn into annoyance. I was relieved that Lord Eärendur, at the very least, agreed that I should not take the risk.
I forced my breath into a steadier pattern with great effort and kept my eyes shut until at last Lord Marapoldo spoke out again: "Then, people of Yôzayân, I present you with your King, the fifteenth of his house: Alcarmaitë son of Ancalimon, son of Atanamir the Great, son of Ciryatan, son of Minastir, son of Isilmo brother of Telperien, daughter of Súrion, son of Anárion, son of Ancalimë, daughter of Aldarion, son of Meneldur, son of Elendil, son of Amandil, son of Vardamir Nólimon, son of Elros Tar-Minyatur, son of Eärendil himself; and he shall take onto himself the name of --"

"Tar-Telemmaitë," announced the King, raising his silver-braced and silver-ringed hands. On the lowest platform, the servants pulled the sheets off the carts, and the amassed tribute on them shone bright under the winter sun: jewelled chalices and goblets and plates, chandeliers and sculptures, chests of coins, coronets and collars, Elven lanterns and all sorts of beautifully crafted, sparkling things the purpose of which I did not even know. There were carpets as well and rolls of silk and brocade, but most impressive was the sheer amount of glittering silver. He had to pay precious silver for his birthright, I remembered Lady Vanimë saying, although this precious silver had been newly brought from the colonies and could not be the same silver that had bought the former Crown Prince this moment. Nonetheless, I felt a wave of pity for him– not that he needed it now. The crowd gasped at all the splendour on display, while Lord Marapoldo solemnly repeated, "-- Tar-Telemmaitë, the Silver-handed!" The trumpets sounded in triumph, and a mighty cheer arose, and for a while, nothing else happened upon the scaffold because nobody would have heard a word, even in Lord Marapoldo's mighty voice, anyway.

Then Tar-Telemmaitë, smiling, raised his hands again, and by and by, the jubilant crowd fell silent to listen. But it was not the King who spoke; it was instead the old Queen who stepped forward, holding up the sceptre with both hands. My healing face chose that moment to itch inexpliably, and I was very much tempted to scratch or at least touch my cheek. I tried to push the annoying feeling aside and fixed my attention on the scene ahead.
"The ancient sceptre of Númenórë," the Queen intoned, "passed by my husband, Tar-Ancalimon, to my son, Tar-Telemmaitë, I lay into his capable hands to govern the fortune of the realm." With these words and with great formality she turned towards her son, who had likewise turned to face her. He lifted his hands to take the sceptre, bowing his head for a moment; then his mother's hands sank, and she dropped into a low curtsey before returning to the back of the platform.
Lord Atanacalmo gave her the velvet pillow he had been holding, and took from it the slender coronet with the single large diamond in its middle. Stepping forward, he held it aloft, and his voice rang out: "The silver fillet of Tar-Elestirnë, gifted to her by Tar-Aldarion our forebear, I pass from my brother, Tar-Ancalimon, to his son, Tar-Telemmaitë, to crown him as our King." Again, the King bowed his head, briefly, and Lord Atanacalmo set the fillet upon his brow (not quite without difficulty because of the silver and gems already in the King's hair). Then he sank onto one knee, remained there fore a moment, and then returned to his place at the back. The old Queen gave him back the pillow, and the two exchanged some whispered comments, or so I assumed because their lips were moving, though of course nothing was to be heard.

Now Lady Calamíriel came to the front of the stage, raising the lantern. In the brilliance of the mid-day sun, the little flame inside the lamp was barely visible and certainly not very bright, but nonetheless the audience listened in awed silence as Lady Calamíriel announced, "The sacred flame of the Heart of the House of Elros, lit from the same fire that warmed our forebear in Middle-earth, having nurtured the reign of my brother, Tar-Ancalimon, shall now nurture the reign of his son, Tar-Telemmaitë." She lifted the lantern up higher, and her nephew bowed to the dancing flame before taking the lantern into his free hand. Lady Calamíriel curtseyed formally before retiring to her brother and her sister-in-law.
Then Lord Marapoldo returned to the front of the platform. "People of Yôzayân, behold your King! He is your country! He is your law! Pay him tribute, and swear him fealty!" Again the trumpets sounded. Lord Marapoldo went down onto his knees, and Queen Vanilótë and Princess Vanimeldë and the old Queen and Lady Calamíriel and Lord Atanacalmo and Quentangolë the scribe all were down on their knees; on their knees were Lord Saphadûl and the other officers in their polished armour; on their knees were the heads of the noble houses and the guild-masters of the royal council and the governors of the colonies; on their knees were the soldiers and the servants and the musicians and the onlookers, all the way back along the street, as far as the eye could see. I imagined all the many, many people we had passed, back unto the city walls, kneeling down. Lord Marapoldo led the people in the oath of fealty, and a great murmur arose as many onlookers spoke along. I moved my lips but did not speak. I could not bring myself to say the words out loud. Not that it mattered, of course. By this moment we were all bound in fealty to Tar-Telemmaitë, whether we swore it or not. Even those who were not attending the ceremony, in the snow-swept mountains of Forrostar or the leafless forests of Hyarrostar, in busy Rómenna or blessed Andúnië, owed him allegiance; even in the distant colonies, all people were bound to his command; even children as yet unborn (or, for that matter, unconceived) would, as soon as they entered the world, be bound by the same oath. I was kneeling, too, of course. The only people still on their feet were the King himself, and the Elven emissaries, who had their own kings and did not bend the knee to ours.

After the oath, the trumpets were sounded again, and the drums were beaten, no longer in a grim, mournful roll but in a bright, vivacious rhythm. People returned to their feet, clapping along with the drums or cheering in joy, and then the choir began to sing a triumphant tune, barely audible over the exultations. The carts were hoisted down from their platform. I worried that one of them might keel over, raining silver treasure on the guards and musicians and servants, but fortunately, none of them did. With the carts out of the way, the council and embassadors evacuated their platform; and then, the master of ceremonies and the royal family also returned down to ground level. Only the King and his train-bearers remained up on the scaffold while the rest of us began to shuffle back into marching order. Servants brought the proud banners of the nobility that had so far been hidden in the pavillion. I looked up the high platform as I tried to get to the back of the line and out of the way of the preparations, and saw that Tar-Telemmaitë had his head slightly tilted back and his eyes closed, drinking in the accolades of his subjects. His right arm cradled the sceptre, his left hand held up the lamp, and the silver of his jewellery and cloak and the diadem were sparkling bright. The crowds, on the whole, must have liked what they were seeing, for the jubilation did not stop for quite a while, even when the trumpets and the drums had fallen silent – even when the King had basked enough, when he turned and gave a sign to his cloak-bearers and they made their cautious, cumbersome way down the make-shift steps, they were still cheering.

Having reached solid ground, and hidden from the gaping crowd by the backs of the guards and veterans and musicians, the King was eager to hand the lamp back to the Keeper of the Heart and to shrug off the silver cloak. He actually let out a small groan of relief and rolled his shoulders, and I couldn't stop myself from staring in surprise at so ordinary a gesture from someone I struggled to see as a human being (both because he loomed in my nightmares as – I cannot deny it - a sort of monster, and because of his lofty lineage).
Of course, he caught me at it, and his face closed up at once. He snapped, "What are you looking at?!"
I bowed my head. Instinct demanded that I hastily say "Nothing", but I realised just in time that this was a dangerous thing to say, since I had obviously been looking at him and he might feel that I meant to say he was nothing. So I said the second best thing that came to mind, which was, "You look magnificent, your Majesty."

It was certainly true; and it also seemed to be the right thing to say, because he made "A-ha" in a pleased-sounding way, and continued without interrogating me further. His chariot had been brought to the foot of the platform, and the horses must be very well-trained indeed because their ears twitched at the noise and the crowds, but they did not shy. Two large sacks of silver coins had been placed inside the chariot: the first shiny new Crowns – half-Crowns would have been bad luck, of course – minted with the likeness of the new King, which he would dispense along the road. That would undoubtedly raise his popularity among the poorer of his subjects, considering that an apprentice would have had to work at least three weeks for a full Crown, if their master's workshop was doing well and their master was inclined to share. As for the day-talers in the crowd, they'd would be extremely lucky to make the equivalent of a Crown in two months of hard work. Even I, with my steady income, wasn't entirely certain that I would be above scrambling for a Crown that somebody tossed my way, though I assumed I'd be able to restrain myself if too many people were watching.

Be that as it may, the King stepped into his silver-plated and silver-laden chariot, and the guards made the crowd clear the way and stand to the side of the road again, and the return parade began. I was at the very end of it, just before the final troup of guards and behind the hearse that no longer had to carry a body, and had therefore been stuffed with the discarded grey cloaks of the courtiers and councillors. I felt like a stray dog or a street urchin running after a merchant's cart, hoping to be taken into service - or like a disorderly drunk rounded up at the fair and brought into custody by the guards that were coming after me. It was harder now to walk with my back straight and my eyes ahead, especially since, after the King's chariot and the treasure-carts and the cavalry officers and the nobility with their horses had gone through, the street was naturally littered with horse droppings once more. Further ahead, people were shouting "Long live the King!" at the top of their voices, and throwing rose petals cut from white and pink fabric – there were no real roses to be had at this time of year, except for a bouquet I had seen at the palace which had apparently been brought by the Eldarin embassador of Tol Eressëa. In return for being showered in praise and fabric petals, the King was throwing silver, and I hoped that nobody would get hurt in the resulting scuffles.

Here, at my end of the procession, the rose petals had been trampled into the road and shat upon by horses, and since I was not at liberty to pick my way around the steaming heaps of horse dung, I couldn't avoid brushing them with my robes or even stepping into some of them. Some of the onlookers, no longer awed into silence but rather exhilarated by the grand show and (perhaps) the free money they'd received, laughed, and one of them shouted "Right on target!"
I tried to pretend that I didn't care. I tried to take my mind from the long, embarrassing march home by picturing, somewhat vengefully, how much trouble it would cost the guild-masters and guards and servants to sort out their cloaks from the messy pile on the erstwhile hearse. I thought about the silver coins, and how they would have been minted with the wrong profile if I hadn't held my tongue. I thought about the ancient flame in the Keeper's lamp, and wondered whether it could really still be the same fire that had warmed Tar-Minyatur all those long centuries ago in Middle-earth. It seemed unlikely that the same fire had been kept going endlessly for more than two thousand years. Not impossible, I suppose, as long as you kept feeding it on time, but surely some Keeper of the Heart had, at some point, fallen asleep on duty and hastily rekindled the Heart of the King's House using ordinary flint and steel like every common housewife whose cooking fire had gone out by morning. Surely that must have happened at least once. Considering the staggering number of mistakes I had made in my still relatively young life, it was unimaginable that not a single mistake should have happened in what must have been thirty generations of Keepers. It must simply be that nobody wanted to admit it. At any rate, that was how I felt when I just barely managed to evade another heap of horse shit.

After the succesful parade, the other attendants had been invited to a great banquet at the palace, but I had explicitly been told not to attend. I understood the insult for what it was. In truth, it was a relief to be sent home instead of having to endure the rest of the day among unsufferably superior councillors and gruff soldiers and the rest of the court. As for the King, the less time I spent in his presence, the better. Besides, a feast was being prepared at my own home. In celebration of the ascension, all citizens had been given free rations for three days according to their status. From my friends in my old neighbourhood, I knew that they had received oats, dried beans, onions and offal. As a house-owner of middling rank, I had been given millet, root vegetables, onions, and shank meat with the bones. Together with the wine from Andúnië that I had been gifted by Lord Eärendur, this would allow us to have some very nice braised beef this evening, and a decent stew in the coming days. Accordingly, I didn't mind that I was not permitted at the proper banquet. What I did mind was that I had to go home before the cheerful crowds had dispersed. Even though most people were doubtlessly cold and growing hungry, even though the sun was beginning to set and the air was getting colder yet, there were plenty of small groups still standing around and discussing the spectacle they'd witnessed when I had gotten rid of the symbolic amphora and my bundle of juniper and left the citadel behind.

Sure enough, several recognised me. Some simply pointed while talking to their peers, while others paused in their conversation to call out to me:
"Hey, aren't you the King's embalmer?"
With a sigh, I said, "I am indeed."
"Shouldn't you be at the banquet with all the nobs?"
I tried to make light of the question and forced a smile onto my lips. "Why would they need an embalmer at the banquet?"
They laughed at that and let me go, until the next cheerfully chattering group stopped me.
"You're the King's embalmer, aren't you?"
"I am."
"I thought I recognised you! Hey, what happened to your face?"
I couldn't help pursing my lips in annoyance at their brash curiosity. "I had an accident," I said, nodded to them, and went on my way.

I had already reached the large square when a group of respectable-looking merchants and their wives stopped me.
"Here, he will know," one of the women said to another, and turning to me: "You're the King's embalmer, right?"
"Yes, madam."
"How was he?"
Surprised, I tilted my head. "Who, madam?"
"The old King, of course!"
"He was very gracious, madam. Gracious and wise." My throat constricted, and I hoped I would not have to speak with them for so long that I'd burst into tears again.
"Hmm," said one of the men, sounding doubtful, "I never saw much of him."
The younger woman reasoned, "He was very old in the end, of course." As an afterthought, she added, "Eru rest him." It sounded dutiful rather than heartfelt. I assumed that they saw little reason to mourn the old man overmuch.
"Well, the new King certainly is very gracious as well!" the third woman in the group declared, looking at me for confirmation.
I barely managed to keep my face blank. "I think it is a bit too early to tell," I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
"Oh!" one of the men laughed. "The voice of reason!" The others joined in his amusement.
I forced myself to smile and to bow politely, and then I simply turned around and left them standing. I wanted nothing more than to get home. I needed my dinner, I needed a good long soak in my lovely hot bath, and I needed rest. A nation-wide holiday week had been declared so that all but servants and paupers would be able to celebrate the new King at leisure, which meant that I would not have to work during the next days. But right now, I felt that a whole year of holidays would not be enough time to come to terms with the events of the past weeks, nor to figure out how to move on.