The day of the funeral was blanketed with thick, dark clouds, blotting out every ray of sun. A fine spring rain fell on Torran, but that did not deter the people from thronging the streets. They stood in massive, silent rows, holding umbrellas and cloaks over their heads, watching with water-stained eyes as the procession—which, just hours before had promised hope and celebration—moved somberly along.

Rhoden walked behind the wagon carrying the casket of his father. Flowers that had been arranged for the wedding now adorned the polished wood and wilted beneath the rain. He kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead, not daring to dwell on any one face. He was certain the emotion he felt would not be contained if he stopped to see another’s grief.

He had barely slept the night before, and could not stand the sight that had greeted him soon after he had awakened: his father’s body, washed and dressed and laid out on a table in one of the state rooms. The servants had withdrawn to allow Rhoden time to grieve. He had not known what to do or what to say.

Garazor’s face was stern, even in death. Rhoden had stared at it, hoping desperately that he would open his eyes again, smile once more. He had so many questions that would now never be answered. He remembered the teachings of the Ennist priests, pieces of sermons he had heard over the years. He knew his father was bound for the Eternal Halls, to rest peacefully in Ithelinum with God and his angels and there to reunite with his long-dead wife and children. But that knowledge gave Rhoden little comfort now. His father was gone, and had left Rhoden to struggle by himself. There would be no rest for him.

Behind the grand wagon that carried the body of the king was another wagon, equally grand, which held the body of High Priest Tallis, who had perished first in the battle against the Seranach. A long procession of priests in white robes followed, murmuring prayers and songs. Several other wagons, smaller and less-adorned, came in the rear, carrying the bodies of men and guards who had died fighting the beast. Their families shuffled behind, weeping silently in the cold, indifferent air.

Although Rhoden did not meet the eyes of the people, he felt their gaze like a freezing chill. The same fears and accusations that had gripped the lords of the Council the night before were surely in their minds, and Rhoden did not blame them. What other logical explanation was there? A terrifying beast from legend appears and could only have been connected to the mysterious prince with skin like coal. And now, with the king dead and Prince Cael’s fate uncertain, they were left in the hands of the man they feared most of all.

Rhoden kept his shoulders squared and his head high. Strength, he told himself with every step. Show them strength. Any sign of weakness will only feed their doubts.

At the bottom of the town, the procession split—the king and the High Priest turned and went back through the streets toward the Citadel; the other dead continued out of the town, toward the common burial grounds. Large groups of people followed each, paying their respects the only way they knew how.

Once at the Citadel, Rhoden sat with the rest and watched as the two bodies were brought forward and listened as the newly-appointed High Priest Orrus spoke about life and death and change and loss. The garlands and ribbons of the day before had been replaced hastily with black banners. The broken stained glass window through which the beast had escaped leered like an open mouth behind the two coffins, sinister and dark.

High Priest Orrus, a tall man with features flat and sharp, like they had been carved from stone, then announced to the mourning crowd that after the appropriate time, Prince Rhoden was to take his father’s place on the throne. He had been found clean before God by the Ennist priests and was supported by the lords of the Council. Hidden in the flowering words and somber tone, Rhoden heard an unspoken message echo throughout the vast cathedral, carried on the faces of the people who filled the hall: We do not want you here.

Rhoden suffered in silence through the ceremony, then through the internment of High Priest Tallis’ body. He was the first to lead the body of his father back out into the rain and through the streets until they reached the palace. There, in the royal mausoleum, in a tomb that lay only a few feet away from Queen Thenara’s, a squadron of the King’s Guard lowered King Garazor to his final resting place. High Priest Orrus spoke a few solemn scriptures over the tomb, and then the stone slab was laid on top and the masons moved forward to seal it. With every scrape of their small knives, Rhoden felt as though they buried his heart along with the body of his father.

The ceremony complete, the lords of the Council and their families moved past him, murmuring sympathies as they left. Rhoden saw Mira nearby, looking at the tomb with bloodshot eyes. Her little sister clung to her skirts and said not a word, her round face white and sad. When she noticed that he stared, Mira took her sister’s hand in her own and left immediately.

All of the lords and servants and priests had departed, but Rhoden remained at the tombs, left with only the guards and the sound of rain for company. The mausoleum was dedicated to the many kings and queens who had come before, and housed their countless remains. In the centuries Aleria had stood, the white-stoned building had been added upon, room upon room, branch upon branch, so that now it was the size of several houses and extended even underground. Tombs, both lavish and plain, were around every corner, on every wall.

Rhoden stood and heard the rain through the open windows and looked at the tombs of his parents. To the left, his mother. To the right, his father. There was additional space to the side, for another tomb to stand, someday. And, hidden in a corner of the room, built into the wall, were four small plaques. Rhoden had read them many times. Three princes and a princess. The children who never had been. Here they all were, his entire family, save one. Turning to dust under the cold stone.

A feeling of immense loneliness swept over him. With all of the emotion from the past days, it was hardly surprising, but the loneliness crushed him in its intensity. It did not matter what Horst had told him the night before. Standing here, surrounded by a family he either had barely known or, because of the cruel fingers of fate had never met, he felt totally, utterly, completely alone.

Cael is not gone, came a small voice in his head, but that was little consolation to his grief. In the midst of everything—the Council meeting, the wake, the funeral—Rhoden had not yet taken the time to see his brother. He did not know if what little strength he had scraped together would survive the encounter. Cael was the strongest person he knew, aside from their uncle. He needed to remember his brother’s strength and use it. He could not bear to see him brought so low. It was as though his brother had already died. Perhaps Rhoden’s mind would change in a day or two, and he would see that Cael was not as injured as he believed, but for now, he mourned for Cael as he mourned his parents and unknown siblings.

After some time, echoing footsteps approached. Rhoden composed himself quickly, dampening his emotions. He looked and found to his surprise that Croftin Meran was walking down the corridor at a casual pace, pausing here and there to read a marker on a tomb. Although he did not want to speak to anyone, Rhoden knew he could no longer afford himself that luxury. He motioned for Croftin to come closer.

“Forgive me,” said Croftin, bowing low. His dark curling hair fell in front of his face. “I did not want to disturb you in your grief, your Highness.”

“You do not disturb me,” said Rhoden. In truth, he was grateful for the distraction.

Croftin drew closer, his handsome face somber. “I’m sure you’ll agree that grief is a beautiful and terrible sword, double-edged. We mourn for those who are lost, and yet if we let it, it can consume everything.”

“Well-spoken,” Rhoden said. Then, turning from the tombs, he asked. “What can I do for you, Lord Meran?”

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Croftin spread his hands. “I’m not here to ask a favor,” he said, giving a kind smile. “I come on behalf of one whom I love and who cares for you deeply. Issa is concerned for you. In truth, we both are.”

Rhoden did not know what to say to this, and so said nothing. Croftin shuffled his feet.

“I know Issa was raised here at the palace, and that you once had a connection. She would like to rekindle that friendship, if it is agreeable to you. We’ve both suffered loss recently—or, in Issa’s case, she is preparing for it—and we feel we could offer some comfort.”

“I’d no idea Lord Roth’s condition was so grave,” Rhoden said, feeling a rush of sympathy for Issa. “I knew he had not attended the wedding, but as I am so rarely here in Aleria, I did not know the extent.”

“Indeed, it is terrible,” said Croftin solemnly. “We expect he has months, perhaps less.”

“I shall pray for him,” Rhoden murmured. “What, if I may ask, was your loss?”

“My mother, some months ago.”

“My condolences.”

Croftin bowed his head. “It was a difficult loss, to be sure,” he said. “My father and I took it equally hard. Though he decided to travel the world rather than take his responsibilities in hand.” A tone of disdain entered the young man’s voice. Then, his face softened. “Forgive me, you do not need to know all of my griefs. You also lost your mother, did you not?”

Rhoden looked briefly at Queen Thenara’s grave. “Yes,” he said. “But I was very young. I have very few memories of her.”

“You must cherish them,” said Croftin. He looked at the graves, laying side by side. “King Garazor was a mighty man,” he said. “He will be missed, by you most especially, I wager.”

“I barely knew him,” Rhoden said, his eyes once again landing on his father’s name, chiseled into the marble. “We had a…complicated relationship.”

“Sometimes those losses are the ones most keenly felt,” said Croftin, his voice growing softer and deeper. “For not only do we mourn their absence, but also what could have been, and wasn’t.”

“Yes,” Rhoden whispered, realizing it was true.

For a long moment, they stood side by side, gazing at the tombs. Rhoden thought how strange it was to stand next to the young man—about whom he knew so little and who had claimed Issa as his own—but to feel no jealousy or malice. Perhaps it was because his own emotions had become a muddle mess, rather like wet paper mashed into a pulp, but Rhoden was comforted by Croftin’s words. He seemed honest and sincere, and such men were difficult to find.

“In truth,” he said, breaking the silence, “I would welcome a friendship. I have very little of that, now. It seems everyone I once held dear has vanished.” He gave a half-smile, as though this were a joke.

Croftin, however, did not return the smile. Looking gravely at Rhoden, he clasped his arm. “Then let this be a new beginning, and begin again to fill that void,” he said. “Issa and I stand at your command, Prince Rhoden. We will be remaining in the palace until your crowning, and perhaps after. If ever you need any thing, you will let us know?”

“Thank you,” said Rhoden, the words sticking in his throat. The kindness Croftin shared, though entirely unlooked for, came surging through his soul like warm sunshine.

“I hear you are often in the library,” said Croftin, releasing Rhoden’s arm. “I trust I’ll see you there tomorrow? After lunchtime?”

“I look forward to it,” said Rhoden. And, despite his exhaustion and grief, he smiled.

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Rhoden left the mausoleum shortly thereafter, gathering a host of King’s Guards and servants around him as he went. The brief ray of sun that had shone on him through his conversation with Croftin warmed him and he felt as though some part of the burden of grief had lifted. His body, though, told a different story. He was so tired that his legs threatened to buckle beneath him, and his knees trembled. Despite it being only late afternoon, he gave orders to the steward to have the cook bring his meal to his chambers, there to retire after this endless day. He had no desire to speak with anyone else, unless absolutely necessary.

He had entered the main hall of the palace and was about to climb to his rooms when someone hailed him. Brother Lamb stood at the foot of the grand staircase, tall and friendly-faced. He bowed when Rhoden approached.

“I did not know whether you would come this way or not,” he said, smiling. “I am glad you did so that I could speak with you. Though we have interacted many times, we have not yet had the pleasure of introductions. I am Brother Erron Lamb.”

Sighing inwardly, Rhoden murmured a greeting. There would be no escaping this conversation.

“I know you must be exhausted from the day’s events, your Highness, so I will be brief,” Brother Lamb said, his face growing grim. “But I felt it urgent to tell you immediately.”

“Tell me what?” Rhoden asked, curiosity and trepidation roused within him. His exhaustion was promptly forgotten.

“A little privacy, perhaps?” Brother Lamb said, and together the two of them drew apart from Rhoden’s flock of guards and servants. Once some distance away, the priest spoke, keeping his voice low.

“I realize this is very soon after such a terrible loss,” he said. “And I have no desire to disturb the grief you must be feeling, but I decided you would want to know. It concerns your father, Prince Rhoden.”

“What about him?” Rhoden asked, his heartbeat quickening.

“Some time ago, you came to Lord Hestran requesting Dorican’s Chronicles of him,” said Brother Lamb.

Rhoden felt his throat constrict. “I remember.”

“King Garazor, when he learned of what had happened, took the matter into his own hands. He went to my superior, High Priest Tallis, and demanded an exception be made in your case. He argued quite fiercely,” Brother Lamb said, and a twinkle was in his eye. “Even threatened to stop royal funding to the Church.”

“I see,” said Rhoden softly.

“Old Tallis was afraid of him, of course, but I saw his threats for what they truly were. King Garazor would never have gone through with them. He was just showing his love for his son. Those statues regarding the information in the Chronicles were outdated—I knew that even as I pronounced the judgment, but I followed them regardless, to my shame. I am sorry for the way you were treated that day.”

Rhoden nodded, unable to speak.

“Lord Hestran received the brunt of your father’s anger,” Brother Lamb went on. “He was forced to pay reparations to the crown, a rather large sum, if I am to understand correctly. And your father ordered him to hand the Chronicles over to the Church. To me.”

Rhoden’s heart thundered in his chest. It was little wonder, then, why Hestran had been so openly hostile towards him last night. But instead of feeling victorious, Rhoden had a sense of dread creep up his back as he looked on the young priest’s solemn face.

“I was to give the books to you on the night of the wedding,” said Brother Lamb sadly. “Last night, or this morning at the very latest. But after everything—” He broke off, sighing, and met Rhoden’s eyes. “I am afraid, your Highness, that I have nothing to give you. Lord Hestran returned to me this morning and demanded the Chronicles be returned to him. They were only to be given on temporary loan, and unfortunately the amount of time that was to have been was never specified in writing. I could not refuse him.” He bowed his head. “I am deeply sorry, my Lord. I know how much you wanted them.”

Rhoden told him in soft words that he understood and that the priest was not to blame for Lord Hestran’s decisions. Brother Lamb once again bowed, telling Rhoden that he remained at his disposal, and that the Ennist Church stood to support him wholeheartedly.

Rhoden entered his chambers with a feeling of immense relief. His food waited for him, and after Carlton had dressed him for the night, he dismissed every servant and sat in silence and solitude next to the fire to eat his meal. He contemplated what Brother Lamb and Croftin Meran had said to him, what everything meant. His tired mind could come to no absolute conclusions, but he was certain both men were earnest and to be trusted. He would need to speak with them again, and soon, to build relationships with them. But that could wait for another day.

Yawning, he entered his bedchamber and was about to cast off his robe when a voice issued from the darkness.

“Hello, Prince Rhoden.”