“Oh, and by the Grace of Our Gods, may this Day live on in Auspicious Solemnity and Joy! Khalellan, Make this Man worthy!!!” The elderly priestess, whose voice Myrl was now willing to bet could cut glass in its high pitched, shrill, and grating tones, howled to those below from the top of the gallery that overlooked the Great Hall of the Temple of Rhoona. She had been invoking the names of every god in the Heavens, one by one, since the sun had begun to rise.
Each invocation was followed by the word “awn!” Usually sung by all those assembled, and its single syllable lovingly drawn out into anywhere up to twenty. In it’s shorter expressions, it sounded like “Ahhh-whhhen.”
When the crowd of holy people lacked mercy, it went on forever, and sounded like they were singing a love ballad composed of only one voiced word. “AAAAAHHHHHHHaaaaaaahhhhhhahahahwwwwwhhhennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnenenenenenenenenennnn!!!”
Now into the fourth hour, Myrl could no longer feel his legs from the knees down. And wished he couldn’t feel them from the knees up. Also, he wished he had won the argument to wear one of his better pairs of boots, versus the thin, silk slippers he wore now.
He had been kneeling, penitent, at the head of the Great Hall, holding his family’s sword, point down, tip wedged into a notch in the polished stone, supported in his left hand, and the Royal Scepter, an artifact of great mystery and myth to the people of his kingdom, in his right, laying the heavy thing across his chest to rest on his left collarbone.
Ashe had prepared Myrl as best he could for today, but the reality of kneeling on one’s knees for hours as elderly holy people shouted above you at the assembled royalty, merchants, craftspeople, and peasantry of the kingdom was a series of sensations Myrl thought would be best left to poorly carved statutory that one might have held some ineffable grudge against.
“LOW! AND HERE WE HAVE GATHERED BEFORE YOU, OH OUR GODS AND GODDESSES!! WE BESEECH YOU TO GUIDE THE FOOTSTEPS OF OUR SON IN THESE WICKED TIMES!!!” Now a chorus screeched in unison.
Myrl knew the Royal Scepter of the Kingdom of Rhiada had originally been the mace used by his fifth great grandfather to take the throne from his cousin Orniat the third, who some called “Mad King Orniat,” and at least one historian called “Orniat the Baby-Eater.” He could feel the hardened steel of the flanged head, now gilt and encrusted with rubies and sapphires, digging into his collarbone. The pommel of the monstrosity was also flanged, and the angle at which he held the thing caused it to dig somewhat into the bottom edge of his wrist.
If he wasn't mistaken, the handle looked hollow, and the pommel looked like it might be removable. Myrl told himself that he would look more closely at the thing when time allowed. Maybe after dinner.
“...HOW WE ALL PRAY THAT WE WILL BE WORTH OF YOUR PROTECTION! OH! HEAR OUR PLEAS, GREAT RHOONA!! MOTHER OF US ALL!! AND LAY LOW THOSE UNWORTHY OF YOUR BOUNTIFUL LOVE!!!” Myrl almost startled as this newest priest viciously invoked their goddess's peace upon them all, Awn.
The walk from the Temple to the Throne Room and Grand Receiving Hall of the Palace would signal the end of the public proceedings. At that point he would be seated upon the throne, and the High Priest would place the Crown upon his brow, and proclaim him the King of Rhiada and all of Its People.
There were, at least, three more Holy Beings names that needed to be invoked. At which point all of the acolytes of the Holy Temple would begin to recite Myrl’s lineage so far back in time to an era that Myrl was quite certain was more mythical than it had ever been in any way “real.”
From the changing of the shapes of the shadows on the polished stone of the floor around him, Myrl could tell another hour had passed since the last time he had checked. He waited. More elderly clerics shouted his name to their gods.
The running themes of the prayers, as far as he could tell, revolved around Myrl living a long time, and him not being an idiot. He thought one of the prayers that had been shouted to the Heavens an hour or so past, in the Old Temple Language, might have specifically wished that Myrl “..BE NOT A FOOL TO DELIVER THE KINGDOM AND ITS PEOPLE TO RUIN!!” which he was trying to not take personally.
Awn.
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As he let his mind wander, he had almost missed his cue to stand up, and bow to the Throne of Heaven before him, a resplendent sculpture of the Sun, in the image of a large, healthily proportioned woman whose hair reached out widely across the sky as the sun's rays, as she was depicted rising up from and over the ocean.
Having met then passed the “Ability to Stand, and then Bow” test, Myrl now slowly strode down the center of the Great Temple, a path being cleared for him by both clerics and the Palace Guard in their finest attire, and shiniest armor.
His head swam a little. He was incredibly thirsty, and wanted something to drink. He could feel the blessedly lightweight cloak of office he was wearing flair out behind him as he stepped toward the front doors of the Temple. The voices of two hundred younger clergy members followed Myrl as he slowly strode toward the palace, singing the praises of Myrl’s most ancient, and even possibly real, forbearers.
Stepping out into the noonday sunlight, Myrl could feel the silent regard of what he guessed was more than half of the citizens of Ghlow. Within two steps from the doors of the Temple, their cheers as they chanted his name washed over Myrl, and almost made him trip with the pounding shouted force of their regard.
He stopped. Standing in the open doors.
Their chanting increased.
Myrl spread his arms, holding aloft the sword and scepter.
And the roar of the City almost crusted him in its volume.
He took a step. And they roared again.
Another step, and another roar.
Soon he was striding with a purpose across the central square that separated the front of the Temple from the front gates of the palace.
Myrl thought his ears might start to bleed if he didn’t get into the palace soon.
A wide shadow passed over him, offering him a brief respite from the merciless gaze of Rhoona above when he strode through the gates.
The crowd redoubled their efforts to destroy the city with the combined vibration of their chanting of his name, and the name of his family.
Once on the palace grounds, the walk suddenly felt lonely. He could still hear the chanting of his people. Still feel the combined force of their redoubling vibrations at his back. But, now… he walked alone across the cobbled courtyard that led up to his palace. Guards, which had been prevalent outside of the palace on his path here, were now scarce. Several at the front gates which he had passed, and now only a few followed along behind him, most standing sentinel in positions to guard the sanctity of the grounds and his person.
It made him feel singular in a world of pluralities. It was distinctly… lonely. Over the roar, he could hear his every footstep.
The High Priest stood at the doors to the Throne Room. A man in his fifties, short, with the heavy build of someone who had been an athlete in his youth, a wrestler or a boxer, something with brawn and heavy limbs, and was now slowly losing the battle against time, and possibly pastries, with long graying hair receding from a high, broad forehead, and more roundness of features than the sharp corners he may have had as a younger, more vigorous man. His robes were well cut, expensive cloth of blue, and green, with white and thread of gold embroidery twining around his neck, the bottoms of his pant legs, and the cuffs of his sleeves.
Once inside the Throne Room, he noticed the priest pulled the hood back from his head, and let it drop about his shoulders, revealing a small circlet of gold laurel leaves, and some kind of antler twisted and twined together resting above his ears and ending at his temples.
He noticed now, too, the room was filled along its length with representatives of the most powerful landholding families of Rhiada. All dressed in their finest. Some even wore crowns that would dwarf his own.
Maybe they thought to offer Myrl some slight or offense on his first day as the crowned monarch, just to see what he would do. How he would react. It didn't really matter to him, his crown was the only one in the Kingdom of Rhiada that mattered.
Lord Ashe would advise him to have them stripped of their “crowns,” and publicly punished for their effrontery. Myrl could think of that right now.
He turned, and bowed to the assembled Nobility, noting Duchess Yggrel and her son standing just to the left of the edge of the dais on which the throne sat. She looked… not happy. Nervous.
Scared.
He placed the sword of his family in the scabbard that was a part of the left arm of the Sun Throne. Then he set the Scepter in its holder on the right arm of the throne. Slowly he sat, as he had been instructed by Ashe these last three nights.
The High Priest, Arne Raoh, bowed before him, then knelt, and removed Myrl’s slippers. A curly-headed child stepped up beside Raoh, and offered him the Crown of State on a pillow.
Raoh took a ring from its setting in the center of the crown where it sat on the pillow, and placed the thick, multicolored gold ring, colors swirled like the pattern of clouds in the sky, upon Myrl’s right ring finger of his right hand.
He intoned a prayer in the Old Temple Language, and when he finished the assembled crowd all cried “AWN!”
Raoh then took the crown itself from the pillow, and turned with it.
A single voice shouted from somewhere amongst the assembled royals, “NO!”