Lyam pulled his arm from Brucal’s grasp, fixing his gaze upon the old warrior “You bore witness, Brucal,” he whispered back. “You heard my father acknowledge Martin as my brother, legitimizing him. He is the oldest conDoin male. Rodric’s proclamation of succession is invalid. It presumed I was the oldest!”
Brucal spoke quietly, but his words were ungentle. “You have a war to end, Lyam. Then, if you should accomplish that small feat, you have to take your father and Rodric back to Rillanon, to bury them in the tomb of your ancestors. From the day Rodric is interred, there will be twelve days of mourning, then on noon of the thirteenth, all the claimants for the crown will present themselves before the priests of Ishap, and the entire, bloody damn Congress of Lords. Between now and then you’ll have plenty of time to decide what to do. But for now, you needs must be Heir. There is no other way.
“Have you forgotten Bas-Tyra? Should you dither, he’ll be in Rillanon with his army a month before you. Then you’ll have bitter civil war, boy. As soon as you agree to keep your mouth shut, I’m ordering my own trusted troops to Krondor, under royal seal, to arrest Black Guy. They’ll toss Bas-Tyra into the dungeon before his own men can stop them— there’ll be enough loyal Krondorians around to ensure that. You can have him held until you reach Krondor, then cart him off to Rillanon for the coronation, either your own or Martin’s. But you must act, or by the gods, we’ll have Guy’s lackeys brewing civil war within a day of your naming Martin the true Heir. Do you understand?”
Lyam nodded silently. With a sigh he said, “But will Guy’s men let him be taken?”
“Even the captain of his own guard will not stand against a royal warrant, especially countersigned by the representatives of the Congress of Lords I shall guarantee signatures on the warrant,” he said, clenching his gloved fist before his face.
Lyam was quiet for some time, then said, “You are right. I have no wish to visit trouble upon the Kingdom. I will do as you say.”
The two men returned to the King’s side and waited. Nearly another two hours passed before the priest listened at the King’s chest and said, “The King is dead.”
Brucal and Lyam joined the priest in a silent prayer for Rodric. Then the Duke of Yabon took a ring from Rodric’s hand and turned to Lyam.
“Come, it is time.”
He held aside the tent flap, and Lyam looked out. The sun had set, and the night sky glittered with stars. Fires had been lit and torches brought, so that now the multitude appeared to be an ocean of firelight. Not one man in twenty had left, though they were all tired and hungry after the victory.
Brucal and Lyam appeared before the tent, and the old Duke said, “The King is dead.” His face was stony, but his eyes were red-rimmed. Lyam looked pale but stood erect, his head high.
Brucal held something above his head. A glint of deep red fire reflected off the small object as it caught the torchlight. The nobles who stood close nodded in understanding, for it was the royal signet, worn by all the conDoin kings since Delong the Great had crossed the water from Rillanon to plant the banner of the Kingdom of the Isles upon the mainland shore.
Brucal took Lyam’s hand and placed the ring upon his finger. Lyam studied the old and worn ring, with its device cut into the ruby, still undimmed by age. As he raised his eyes to behold the crowd, a noble stepped forward. It was the Duke of Rodez, and he knelt before Lyam. “Your Highness,” he said. One by one the others before the tent, nobles of both East and West, knelt in homage, and like a wave rippling, all those assembled knelt, until Lyam alone was standing.
Lyam looked at those before him, overcome with emotion and unable to speak. He placed his hand upon Brucal’s shoulder and motioned for them all to stand.
Suddenly the multitude was upon its feet, and the cheer went up, “Hail, Lyam! Long live the Heir!” The soldiers of the Kingdom roared their approval, doubly so, for many knew that hours ago the threat of civil war had hung over their heads. Men of both East and West embraced and celebrated, for a terrible future had been avoided.
Lyam raised his hands, and soon all were silent. His voice rang out over their heads, and all could hear him say, “Let no man rejoice this night. Let the drums be muffled and the trumpets blown low, for tonight we mourn a King.”
Brucal pointed at the map. “The salient is surrounded, and each attempt to break through to the main body has been turned back. We have isolated nearly four thousand of their soldiers there.” It was late night. Rodric had been buried with what honor could be afforded in the camp.