Chapter 3

William stood among the gathered nobility in the Grand Hall of Starhaven, waiting for Serwyn’s coronation to begin. The cavernous hall had changed since William’s last visit, when he paid his final respects to Serwyn’s father. It was, if anything, more grandiose than it had been for Gavric’s lying in state, lavishly decorated for the occasion. Banners emblazoned with the royal crest hung from the vaulted ceiling, and braziers etched with intricate scrollwork stood at attention along the perimeter, bathing the coronation dais in a bright, warm light.

Normally, these halls would be arranged for the winter solstice, as people gathered to mark the middle of the long winter, halfway to the end of the Mawseason, when the great rent in the world released so much of its evil spawn, causing havoc up and down the coast of the three great continents; Sidor, Lynese and Thay. Which made it no surprise that Serwyn would have chose this for his coronation day. He couldn’t stand anyone, or anything, but himself being the center of attention. William wouldn’t have been surprised if he turned Blessing’s Day into Serwyn’s day.

The crowd of noblemen, court favorites, and lords and ladies mingled in the expanse in front of the dais, their low conversations melding into a single murmuring hum that echoed off the stone walls and high arched ceilings.

There were no commoners present at the coronation, judged as unfit to see the man who would guide their futures given the crown. William hadn’t been born when Gavric was crowned, but he knew the coronation always happened in the Grand Hall, under the watchful eye of the Acolytes, who trotted out every piece of the remaining magic they’d been able to put their hands on for the occasion.

Part of William wondered why this didn’t happen in front of the Grand Hall, where some commoners might get a chance to see it, although it was no surprise to him that Serwyn wouldn’t want that. While Serwyn thought everyone was beneath him, he definitely had a prejudice against the ‘mob’ as he and William’s father called the average citizen of Sidor.

For their part, the high-born that were allowed to attend were in high spirits. A new king meant new opportunities. Gavric had been a great king, at least in William’s eyes, but not all the lords felt the same way. William figured every ruler made their fair share of enemies, as was the inevitable result of politics, but Gavric had seemed to go out of his way to make them. Or maybe the assembled throng was excited because Serwyn was so young. Gavric had been on the throne a long time and had cemented his authority early in his reign. Perhaps they felt Serwyn would be more malleable to their machinations or, at the very least, their bribes.

William scoffed at that idea. If they thought that was the case, they were mistaken. Not because Serwyn wasn’t for sale, but because he was already bought. William’s father already had his claws sunk deep into his nephew, and William doubted any of the barons or even the other dukes would have enough strength to pull those talons free. And it would only get worse the more time Edmund spent with Serwyn.

William was pulled out of his thoughts when the constant murmur began to die off. It didn’t happen all at once. Even the rich and powerful had a pecking order, and some members were further to the sides of the grand hall, with less visibility to see what was happening than those along the aisle or up front. William, at least, didn’t have to worry about that. As a member of the royal family, he was up on the lowest level of the dais, on the far-right side, standing next to his uncle Aldric.

From his vantage point, he had a clear view as the crowd turned to look toward the entrance of the Grand Hall as Serwyn made his way through the towering stone archway, his pace measured and deliberate, shoulders pulled back in practiced regality. His blond hair was perfectly coiffed, and the ermine mantle of state rested across his shoulders, the pure white fur standing out starkly against his black tunic. Behind him marched a procession of guards and advisors, the sound of their metal armor and boots absorbed by the miraculous mystical flooring of the Grand Hall.

William watched as Serwyn ascended the dais. He was a little impressed that his cousin, whom William knew to be a coward deep in his heart, showed no trace of nervousness. His blue eyes were cold as they swept over the family. Even William had to admit he fit the kingly mold, at least outwardly.

As he took his place in front of the throne, the seemingly ancient Elder of Sidor, draped in the grey robes of his order, shuffled slowly from his position on the left side of the dais, with the crown of Sidor cradled reverently in his hands. Stopping in front of Serwyn, he lifted the crown high into the air as Serwyn knelt.

“I beseech the wisdom of the Ancients. Test your servant, Serwyn Whitton. Judge his soul and anoint him rightful ruler of Sidor,” he said in a reedy voice, lowering the glittering crown onto Serwyn’s golden head.

As he took a shuffling step back, just to the edge of the dais, the elder stretched out his hand, taking a knotted, wooden staff from an aide in the same grey cloak of the Acolytes, who rushed forward to hand it to him before disappearing again back behind the dais. The staff was covered in arcane symbols and glowed a deep blue. Lifting the staff high in the air, the elder brought it down, gently tapping the crown where it rested on Serwyn’s bowed head.

A visible ripple of energy passed through Serwyn as the staff made contact, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a falling pebble, before spreading out across the entirety of the Grand Hall. As if in response, the white floors glowed a brilliant light, forcing everyone present to squint momentarily as the light flared, and then passed.

William watched, awestruck. It was the first real magic he had ever witnessed. The power of the Ancients, channeled through the Elder, validating Serwyn’s right to rule. A king ordained and blessed with the mystical forces of old. It was a powerful ritual.

The Elder stepped back and proclaimed, “The Ancients proclaim you His Majesty King Serwyn Whitton, twenty-first of his line, Ruler of Shadowhold, Kingsheart, River Mark, Iron Keep and The Icelands, chosen of the Acolytes and defender of the Ancients, and true-born king of Sidor, it’s land’s and people! Glory to the Crown.”

The gathered assembly bowed their heads and repeated the words.

“Glory to the Crown,” William said, the words bitter on his tongue.

Serwyn lifted himself up, his back straight and chin held high, trying to keep his face stoic. William knew him well enough to see the expression under that stoic facade. He was loving the adulation.

“My loyal subjects,” Serwyn began, his voice laden with practiced gravitas. “Together, we embark on a new era for the realm of Sidor. My father’s war with Lynese will be brought to a swift and glorious end under my leadership. Even now, our armies prepare to leave their winter encampments to teach them once and for all the cost of meddling in Sidorian affairs.”

The crowd erupted into raucous cheers and applause as his cousin paused for dramatic effect.

“But victory abroad is not enough,” Serwyn continued. “Prosperity must also reign within our borders. We will usher in a new golden age for Sidor. Sidor will become the envy of nations, a beacon of culture, learning, and advancement that all will look upon with awe.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Serwyn allowed himself a small smile. He had them hooked, and he knew it.

“I pledge to you that under my reign, our kingdom shall rise to heights never before seen. We shall not merely be a powerful nation; we shall be an empire, a beacon of light in a world of darkness, bringing justice and prosperity.”

“But this prosperity will not come easily. Sacrifices must be made. As your king, I will require your loyalty and support,” his tone hardening ever so slightly. “Those who seek to undermine the Crown will suffer the consequences.”

“Wise governance requires order,” Serwyn went on. “Dissent will not be tolerated. The laws of Sidor have served us well for generations. Under my rule, they will be upheld without compromise. Justice will be swift, and those found guilty will face the King’s judgment.”

A slight unease rippled through the assembly. Justice under Gavric had been stern but fair. Serwyn’s words hinted at a more draconian brand of rule.

Sensing the shift in mood, Serwyn adopted a more conciliatory tone, “In return, I promise prosperity only ever dreamt of. The rivers will teem with trade, united under the banner of Sidor. On the heels of our victory in Lynese, we will stand ready to claim our rightful place in this world. Our future shines bright with promise and glory!”

He lifted his hands skyward, eyes blazing with zealous fervor. Caught up in the moment, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, the hesitation of a moment ago forgotten.