Ascension

"By what right, Uncle, do you mean to decide over the guest list at my own coronation?"

"By right of Stewardship, as appointed by your father, I outrank you for four weeks yet," the small, gray man spat. "But you're wrong, I don't mean to veto your guest list. I'm only giving you advice, and I do *most emphatically* advise you against inviting King Leifgard and his men."

"Must I remind you that you outrank me in only matters of state, and not in matters affecting the House?" The young prince returned to the cushioned bench and impatiently tapped the stone floors. "I will be King in less than a month, and still you patronize me."

The Steward bowed slightly. "Even kings, or perhaps especially kings, should heed advice when offered honestly and with good intent, your Grace."

"Thanks for the advice, Uncle, but my decision stands fast. Now please go to the herald and have the invitations sent. I have other arrangements to make."

"As you wish, your Grace."

Coronation Day arrived. It was the height of summer, and a cold rain blew in on northerly winds.

Prince Balfour of Redthrush, displaced Duke of Lantstael, Steward of the Crown of Ardich , stood before the keep, stolid and unperturbed by the chilling breeze. His furs rippled in the wind, and his armor glistened. Rarely had he looked regal, and even now there was a hint of the absurd, as he stood a full head shorter than the knights two paces behind him.

Just below the great steps stood two groups, divided by a soldier-lined lane and a century of mutual dislike. To the left, the combined royals and nobility of Ardich and Lettish , under a high awning of tightly woven canvas, and warmed by five iron furnaces that had been pulled there by horses. To the right, the small group of dignitaries from Oerik . King Leifgard and his queen Fria stood to one side, two footsoldiers providing umbrellas, while the rest huddled together, hunched in the drizzle and silently resentful. Most of the dignitaries were nobility of low rank, with the exception of Prince Eired, ruler of the island of Lantstael after Balfour.

Along the road beyond the nobles, several thousand men, women, and children had gathered to see the Orphan Prince become King. Some fires were lit for warmth, and cauldrons of tea, broth, sweet beer, and spiced cider were set over the coals. Among the ordinary folks of Ardich, the atmosphere was festive despite the chill weather. Coronation Day was held on Rolnday, the traditional day of rest in Isolet, which meant that the fishermen were home and the farmers left their scythes and hoes in the shed. The fact that Kincaid the Younger was hours late to his own coronation mattered not at all, as long as there was music and children at play.

The Steward was worried. He broke his stoic trance and turned to his page, a boy not much younger than the missing prince, he reflected. "Run to the stables and fetch my horse. Take it to the landing just east of here, then return and tell me whether Prince Kincaid's longboat is anchored there."

Kevan fetched the horse and galloped down the lane, past soldiers and peasants, then turned left along the road to the shore, and finally slowed to a trot as he approached the narrow track that led to the beach where Prince Kincaid was supposed to have made landfall. The track was slick in the rain, and though the Steward's horse was a beautiful animal, Kevan was unused to him and felt unsteady in the saddle. Turning around the cliffside, he heard two men: Kincaid's familiar tenor, and a gravelly voice Kevan did not recognize. Unsure now, Kevan dismounted and approached the corner, and peered around it.

A strange ship of a build he'd never seen before was anchored in the bay. A dinghy was pulled up on the beach and tied. Two shadowy figures were seen in front of it. The robed and caped royal prince bowed long and low to a hooded creature. Additional crew were nowhere to be seen. When Kincaid rose, the creature backed away, and a gust of wind blew back the hood. It was a man, decrepit and very old. Kevan noticed that the prince held a large, awkward bundle in his arms.

Realizing he was not meant to have witnessed this scene, Kevan quietly crept back to the horse and mounted it. He then spurred the horse, causing a great ruckus, and called out the prince's name. A few moments later, he turned the corner and approached at speed, breathing heavily. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

"Your Grace! The Steward sends for you. He fears you fared ill!"

Prince Kincaid was tying a cord around the bundle. "Thank you, Kevan. I must wait here while the guests of honor disembark. You may return to the keep, but hurry not; there's no need to worry the old man, but also no reason for his horse to break a leg in this weather."

Kevan bowed, "Very good, your Grace!" As he turned his horse to return up the slippery path, he saw two additional boats had been lowered from the ship, carrying men and several horses.

*I wonder who the guests are. I'm sure old Balfour won't be happy about it, but there's nothing to be done about it now. Kincaid will be king within the hour!*

The Steward was relieved to see Kevan return so quickly. The clouds were parting, and the incessant drizzle started to subside. He hoped this might become a pleasant afternoon, after all.

"Kevan! What news have you?"

"Your Grace, the prince is anchored in the bay as you expected. But..." Kevan was unsure what was most prudent to reveal.

"Yes?"

"He will be coming shortly, and is accompanied by his guests of honor."

"Guests of honor?" The Steward had thought the Lettish royals would ride with the newly crowned king, and be seated at his right hand, as traditionally suitable for the guests of honor. If Kincaid was feeling especially rebellious, he might give the despicable Oerik royalty the honor, or even Prince Eired, if Kincaid was being spiteful. But all the controversial guests were already in place, and had been for several hours.

"Who are they?", he demanded.

"I don't know, your Grace, but they came in a remarkable ship. Twice as tall as our longboats and knaars, sitting higher in the water even than a cog, and with a smooth hull unlike anything I've ever seen!"

"A caravel? Here?"

"You've seen it before?"

"No," the old man shook his head. "Never seen, but I've heard of them. A new type of ship from the Weald. Tremendously sea-worthy, but I haven't heard of any even coming as far as Ennobel." He wondered what strange and powerful allies Kincaid had made, and feared what they might bring to small island nation... and what they might expect in return.

"Kevan?"

"Yes, your Grace?"

"I pray the gods are merciful today."

"Yes, your Grace."

"Crown Prince Kincaid the Younger of Ardich, son of King Kincaid the Resilient, heir to the Somerset Throne and the Iron Crown, Marquis of Gotrik and Goetebro, and the last in the Isolet Kings line that is traced back to the kings Joergen, Jarlandr, and Reinar of legend, who inherit from kings Sigurd and Rolandr, who were gods."

The voice of the herald echoed over the hubbub of the crowd, which fell silent. King Leifgard murmured to his wife, "Jarlandr's lineage, my arse. Go far enough back and we're *all* cousins."

Queen Fria quietly replied with a smirk, "Can't blame the poor orphan for clinging to his roots, now can we?"

The sun broke through the clouds. The only discernible sound were the approaching horses.

The herald called, "Hail!"

"HAIL!"

The calls continued until the procession reached the steps before the keep, at which point the procession dismounted and stood still.

Fria whispered, "By the gods, they're priests of the Church! Do you think young Kincaid is going to renounce the gods in favor of the Redeemer? I bet Balfour thinks he's lost his mind!"

Leifgard replied, "Maybe we all have..."

The herald brought his horn to his lips and blew a long note, then paused. Every soldier along the lane brought their horns to their lips and blew as one, long, and loud. During the signal, the Crown Prince climbed the steps, slowly and deliberately. When silence returned, the massive oaken doors to the keep swung open, and the priests of Rolandr and Sigurd, of Torbring and Frida, of Snurri and Loerik, of Audrbald and Ferdr, and the four priestesses of the Seasons stepped out into the light.

The priest of Audrbald, in his traditional raiment of felted iron, held an albatross nest. Nestled within, the iron crown. It had not been perched on the head of a regent for exactly 15 years. It shone dully in the sun. The priest of Frida, a gaunt old man dressed in a simple linen gown, but with an elderberry headdress, gently raised the crown from its nest, and handed it to the priest of Sigurd. Sigurd wore a suit of ancient bronze armor, half of it with a patina so dark as to appear black, and the other half polished to a mirror shine. He stood tall, and walked toward the crown prince, then halted as the prince raised his hand and recited the traditional phrase of coronation.

"I see you, Sigurd. I see you, Rolandr, and Torbring, and Frida, and Snurri, and Loerik, and Audrbald, and Ferdr, and Fruiting, and Summer, and Falling, and Winter. I see you all, and the crown you bring me. The iron crown of my father, and my father's father, and my forefathers before him. I shall accept this crown."

The priest of Sigurd stepped towards Prince Kincaid, but he raised his hand again. The priest faltered and stopped, then took a step backwards.

"I also see Moshiach Shaddai, the Redeemer who ended the tyranny of the Wizard-Kings, and brought freedom to the people of Ardich, the people of Isolet, and all the peoples of Erwt."

The priest shouted, "The Redeemer was a Wizard! A man, not a god, whatever powers he may have had."

"Silence!"

"We will not be rebuked! When men die, their power dies with them. The gods live on!"

"That's *enough*! This is not the time or place for a debate on theology! Now crown me as tradition demands!"

The priest of Sigurd stood still, and straightened his shoulders. "I will not crown you king if you worship the man who murdered the last of the Isolet Kings who held true power." He raised the crown towards Kincaid.

"Then I shall crown myself!" The prince tore the crown from Sigurds gauntleted grasp, turned to face the crowd, and placed it on his head.

The crowd was silent at first. Then, realizing they should probably say something, a cheer rang out, and quickly spread through the masses: "Long Live King Kincaid!"

Meanwhile, the priest of the Redeemer who had led the procession climbed up the steps towards the newly crowned King. He carried a bundle in his arms, unwrapping it on the way and discarding the soft cloth on the steps. The priests of the old gods returned into the keep, unwilling to see what would follow. When he arrived at the top, he stood still, and waited. The crowd noticed and gradually fell silent, awaiting his words. He was carrying a strange device.

"In the name of the Redeemer, and in the name of His sacrifice, I present to you this crown. It represents all that you hold true and dear, and so it shall strengthen your reign of Ardich. The binding of this crown to the iron crown of Ardich represents the commitment of the Church to the crown, and the bond you now owe the Church. The Church shall support you in your claims, your rule of law, and your succession, and likewise shall you support the Church in our claims, our rule of law, and our succession."

The priest raised the crown into the shining sun, and it was seen to be a tall crown, of walrus tusks, blue as the deepest sea, mounted on a band of runed silver, with onyx stones. He lowered it over the iron crown atop King Kincaid's head, and there came a thunderous cracking noise. Stepping away, the high priest bowed deeply, and said, "Long live the King!"

The crowd rang out: *LONG LIVE THE KING*

Much later, after the parade, and the endless dinner, and the feast, the night-time supper, the ball, and the dawn-feast, when all the royalty, nobility, clerics, and wealthy merchants had retired to their quarters in the castle keep and outbuildings, and the army of servants and cleaners were busy clearing the mess they had left behind, only then did King Leifgard and his queen get the chance to properly react to what had taken place on the steps before the keep.

"What on Erwt is the boy thinking?" he asked his wife, as he closed the door to their sleeping chambers, having dismissed the footmen and maidservants, and seen to the guards in the sitting room outside. Fria was undressing, throwing sweaty garments in a heap by the masonry heater.

"He's probably thinking that he wants to avenge his father, recapture Lantstael, Innergaard, Yttergaard, and the rest of that chain, and probably take the Hautskaer chain, as well. To chase us out of our palace to live in our summer castle just as we did to him with Innergaard."

"And you think the Church is going to help him?"

"You know the Lettish have been getting cozy with the Church. They have a cathedral on Let, and have been building a bigger one on one of the rocky outcroppings just east of Let, I've heard."

"Perhaps getting the Church behind him will enable him to convince the Lettish to join his cause. That's an angle I had not considered. But to so anger the gods!? He practically spit in Rolandr's face! Not to mention Sigurd's, having to witness the shameful display. I would not be surprised if his spears all fall to rust and his ships rot in the water."

"Maybe you're right. Perhaps the gods will sunder his sword and bring a plague on his people. I don't understand the gods, but I do understand people, and *King* Kincaid is not to be trifled with. We underestimated the orphan prince, my dear. Let us not underestimate the orphan king."

"Let's go to sleep and pray this was just a dream brought about by that pheasant *tartare*."

"Yes, let's."

They blew out the candles and closed the copper doors over the heater, which had been casting a gentle orange glow from the embers within. Still, something kept Leifgard awake, and it wasn't the pheasant.

"Where'd he get the crown?"

"What?"

"The crown. Where'd he get it?"

"The Redeemers brought it."

"Did they? There's nothing 'redeemerish' about it. The walrus tusks are local. So is the silver and onyx. I didn't get a very good look at the runes, since we were seated about as far away from Kincaid as he could manage without breaking *every* social rule, and he avoided us during the dances. The design was very similar to the crowns that's depicted in the old illustrations of Jarlandr, or maybe Reinar. Don't you think?"

"It shone blue."

"It was painted blue."

"No, the tusks weren't painted. When you looked at them straight on, they looked ivory, but they were blue along the edges. Except when he turned, they were still blue along the edges, so it's not like they were painted, but like they were shining."

"So, what about it? What's the difference?"

"I heard an old seer talking about lost crafts, and one craft she was talking about was the ability to polish ivory with a rough cloth, or baleen, or something anyway, until it shone blue. But the actual technique has been forgotten, nobody knows what kind of polishing cloth you need."

"That's probably just hogwash."

"No, she showed me. She had some small baubles: a knife handle, a part of a pendant, and an earring, and they shone exactly like that crown." She fell silent for a while. Leifgard was engrossed in thought.

"Maybe it's some fancy material from Ennobel, and not tusks at all?" he suggested.

"No, I remember now, what she said: the seer said it was a very old technique, and that it had come from Hautskaer, and been kept secret, but that the technique was lost when the Redeemer came to Isolet."

"Are you sure?"

"We have been staring at the original crown of the Isolet Kings, and we didn't even know it!"