Ricktor was the last of the Conor to arrive. He timorously climbed the stair to the Upper Table, then slowly hobbled to the chair at Talah’s right. Once seated, he began to clear his throat, a process which took the longer part of a minute. Ricktor always said anything worth doing was worth doing well. “Ach—em! Let the dom weep, for Eornost is no longer with us. Let us wear white to guide him to rest. Let the axes fall silent. Leave the harvest for another day. Let us all feel our sorrow. Let the dom weep! Weep, but we shall not cut our hair!”

Talah’s old teacher withdrew a thick piece of paper and pulled a small heating pot towards himself.

“For life goes on. Tomorrow we will need fuel for our fires. Tomorrow we will need food for our children. Tomorrow. Today we need but one thing. A leader. Let us elect her. Talah shall be queen. I sign it so.”

He poured a deep red wax from the pot onto the top left corner of the paper. He removed his signet ring, and pressed its mark, a roughly carved image of a rearing bear, into the cooling wax. He passed the paper to his right. The second of Eornost’s Conor, a middle aged woman named Bina took it. She poured on a deep green wax and affixed it with her own seal, an antelope set within a winged crown. She passed it on, and around the table it went, accumulating a wide variety of colours and sigils as the Conor gave Ricktor their support. When it finally reached Talah, only four spaces, grouped in the center, remained. A new ruler could take any colour and any sigil to be their own. Customarily, they were decided on during the ceremony, but Talah had already chosen hers. She grabbed one of the pots and poured enough wax on the paper to fill its center. Then she took up her chosen sigil and stamped down fiercely, spattering hot wax across the rest of the parchment.

“Blue,” Ricktor nodded approvingly, as though she had asked a particularly astute question.

“The hydra,” Bina added, “The choice of one who will not be defeated.”

Ricktor raised his voice, which caused him to break into a coughing fit. Talah ground her teeth. Get on with it.

“Ach-em! As I was saying: Raise the flag of the Blue Hydra. Talahdom is born.”

A great clatter and cheer rose up from the Lower Table, as several hundred of Talah’s people declared their support. Talah had never imagined cheering could feel so hollow. Didn’t they see that they cheered for the death of their king? Didn’t they care that her father had died? Her father! She wanted to scream at them. She began to rise, but something tugged at her arm, pulling her back into her seat. It was Ricktor. He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Wait. Let them have this moment.”

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Talah didn’t understand, but Ricktor had served four generations of monarchs, so she waited. As the clapping began to die down, Ricktor nodded to her. Talah rose and quieted the rest of her people with an outstretched hand, palm down.

“I received this morning a notice of my surrender. I need only sign it. I would do so now.”

The silence became poisonous. Talah found her face contorting into a feral grin. Despite her promise to her father, this is what she had wanted. The reproachful glares from those in white funeral wear warmed her more than all their cheering. Her path was the wrong one and they knew it. She gestured to Ricktor. He reached under the High Table and withdrew a platter covered by a squat golden cloche. Ricktor lifted the cloche with a flourish. Beneath it was a tall stack of papers. Talah had thought the theatrics unnecessary, but Ricktor had insisted.

My turn. North of her sat an enormous fireplace, lit to throw back the chill of the spring morning. Talah walked over, hands clasped in front of her to hide their shaking. She had left a stick poking out of the fire earlier this morning. It was now half consumed by the flames, but the end closest to her was still unharmed. Perfect. Talah grabbed the brand and walked back to the High Table. Behind her, the people of the Lower Table began to murmur.

Talah hoped her father could see her now, and could hear her thoughts. I promised, Father, I know, but King Otto must be stopped! This agony, this emptiness in my heart, it is his creation. He will destroy us, in spirit as well as flesh. Someone needs to make a stand. Talah breathed the embers back to life, igniting them. Father forgive me. She began to sign the surrender.

The top page caught fire. Flames licked at Talah’s hands. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop from whimpering and signed the second page where it was revealed, and the third after that. She and Ricktor had decided that she would only sign three pages, but it wasn’t enough. She ignored his stare and continued to write. Her eyes began to water as she signed the fifth page, by the tenth page her hand had turned red, by the twentieth she wanted to scream, by the last page she felt nothing at all. She wondered if her hand would every feel anything again. It had become horribly mottled and blistered, and the fingers moved stiffly. It would be fair if she lost her hand, she decided. It should not be so easy to break a vow. She wanted to weep then, to curl up and disappear. Let others deal with the world. Talah stood despite her wishes. She couldn’t take the coward’s path, no matter how much she might desire it. She found herself lifting the platter with its flaming stack, and walking to the stairs above the Lower Table.

“I have signed their treaty, as I said I would do. Unfortunately, my pen had not yet cooled. Do your own embers likewise continue to glow? Will you allow my voice to stoke your passion? Will the fire in your hearts feed on their demands of surrender? Will you go to war with me?”

Talah shouted the last sentence. One hundred voices roared their approval in return. A woman stood and raised her mug to Talah. Others followed suit, grabbing mugs and leaping to their feet, until the whole room was standing and shouting her name.

Talah raised her flaming platter high. This time the cheering warmed her. Her face turned red from the heat, yet her tears flowed freely and did not dry. She cried for her father, and cried as his people burned.