The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (12 page)

“Kneel, Prince
Arantur, last of the Andurian line,” spoke Archmage Maran.

Aran sank down
upon one knee. Staring ahead at the thrones, he felt his nasal helm
being unfastened and removed by gentle hands, and the mail coif
unlaced and pushed back off his head and the folds of mail arranged
on the back of his neck. Swiftly his gauntlets, black cloak and
arming cap were removed, and his blond plaited hair was exposed and
straightened.

“People of the
Province of Andur,” Archmage Maran straightened, “We present to you
your Prince and heir to this throne. Do you accept him?”

“Aye,” they
shouted their acceptance.

“Is there any
in this gathering who gainsays the right of this man to ascend the
Andurian throne?” Maran asked.

As one they
stared at Aran kneeling before the thrones and their gaze was
captured by the brilliantly flaring magepower of the High King’s
Sword. There was utter silence for no one could dispute the reality
and evidence displayed by the magewrought weapon and the face of
Warleader Andur so clearly stamped on the features of his young
descendant.

“The Goddess
herself has chosen this man, Arantur of Leigh to be your King,”
Delana stated clearly. “Is there any here who rejects the choice of
the Goddess?”

Again there
was absolute and utter silence from the entire gathering.

“Then let him
be crowned in the way of the Andurian line before him,” Delana
replied after a significant pause. She turned and picked up a
circlet of living oak leaves from where it sat on the seat of the
left hand throne. Slowly she bent and placed the oak circlet on
Aran’s blond head.

“The oak is
the symbol of the Andurian line,” she said clearly and firmly, her
voice carrying to the furthest extent of the throne room. “Its
roots encompass the earth of the province, its trunk and crown, are
the strength and security under which the people of the province
will flourish and grow.” She reached down and picked up a tiny
flask which had been placed at the base of the throne. Gently she
unstoppered it, and poured a small drop of a heavy almost syrupy
goldenly red liquid onto the top of Aran’s head.

“This is mixed
sap from the heartwood of the oak and bloodwood. This sap anoints
our King and marks him as a true servant of the Goddess.”

The Priestess
recorked the flask and moved away, and Maran stepped forward. In
the Archmage’s hands was a circlet made of darkened silver wrought
in the manner of oak leaves and embedded within the leaves were
deep blue faceted sapphires.

“Since the
living oak leaves will one day pass and die, we then crown Arantur,
last of the Andurian line with this eternal metal crown. This is to
show that the Andurian line is eternal and will not fade with the
seasons or die away.”

Maran bent
over and placed the second, larger and heavier circlet onto Aran’s
head.

“Stand now
Arantur High King of the Province of Andur, and enthroned
representative of the renewed Andurian line, and ascend your
throne!” he exclaimed.

Aran stood,
and waited, whilst the great Andurian seal ring was placed upon his
right index finger, and the heavy dark blue velvet cloak was placed
about his shoulders and fastened. He felt the gentle clasp of
Maran’s hand on his shoulder, and then with resolve building, he
ascended the dais, and then turned and sat down on the left hand
throne, the King’s throne.

Maran and
Delana moved to stand in front of the dais, and then turned and
faced him. As one they went down upon their knee and bowed. This
was evidently a signal to the rest of the gathering, for every last
man and woman in the throne room knelt down and bowed before
him.

“Hail
Riothamus!” the plainsmen were standing and shouting, “Hail High
King!”

Most of the
people present did not know the meaning of the word, but the
message was clear, and soon they were too standing and shouting,
“Hail Riothamus, Hail High King Arantur!”

Aran sat back
in a daze and let it all wash over him. He was now the King. There
was no more soul searching. No going back. He now had a duty of
care to all the people here and elsewhere in the province. He let
them shout until at last they fell silent. Finally he nodded to
Maran to continue the ceremony.

The Archmage
stood and signalled to the mages. Immediately one of the Earthmages
stepped from their ranks, and brought to Maran a deep-sided wooden
bowl made of a dark-reddish timber. Maran walked to the dais and
bowing, handed Aran the bowl. Then turning around he called out,
“Please come forward all those who are representatives of their
towns and cities.”

A score of
people moved out of the crowd and lined up single file in front of
the throne.

One by one
each man or woman came up to where he sat, and bowed deeply to
Aran, before pouring into the bowl from small containers they
carried, soil from each area of the province. As soon as the soil
was poured, Aran took their hands in his and with a smile or a few
carefully chosen words of thanks, accepted their oath of fealty.
The last two to come to the dais was Archmage Maran with soil from
Glaive, and Captain Taran with soil from Andur’s Keep. Both
portions of soil were poured into the now full bowl and Aran
wordlessly accepted their oaths.

The Archmage
turned and walked down the two or three steps to the bottom of the
dais, before addressing the gathering yet again.

“High King
Arantur will now blend the soils together. This is to signify that
by his hand he will make the province one under his care and
strength.”

Aran took the
bowl, and placed it in his lap. Using both hands, he carefully
mixed the soil, making absolutely certain that none fell from the
lip of the bowl. When he had finished he nodded to Maran that all
was ready for the last part of the ceremony.

Maran faced
the gathering yet again, “Do we have a representative from the
plainspeople with their gift of the tree.”

There was a
movement at the back of the throne room, and a single tattooed
warrior walked up. His heavily muscled and tanned arms gently
cradled a young oak sapling protectively swathed in folds of damp
leather. The warrior, who Aran recognised as Bini Stardreamer,
handed the Priestess the young tree, then walked up and knelt
before Aran, his hand shading his eyes in the peculiar way of the
plainsmen.

“Lord
Riothamus…the plainspeople have fulfilled this ancient rite. The
Oak has been delivered to the high place,” he intoned.

Aran smiled at
the young warrior, “Go Bini, warrior of the Plainspeople. Your
people have met their obligation to me.”

The young
plainswarrior stood and stepped back from the dais, then turned to
rejoin the ranks of plainsmen at the back of the throne room.

Maran nodded
firstly to Aran, and then to the Priestess. At last he spoke, “The
final part of the ceremony must now be completed. The Oak must be
planted within the confines of the Keep. Please rise and follow
down to the King’s Garden.”

Aran stood and
handed the bloodwood bowl to Archmage Maran. He walked down from
the dais and waited until Maran and Delana drew in behind him, and
then watched as the mages, the Councillors and those he marked as
his friends and companions gathered in behind the Archmage and the
Priestess. When all seemed ready, he nodded and led the crowd down
the length of the throne room and out the door.

It took quite
a time for the throne room to empty fully, and even longer for the
great throng of people to make their way down through the many
corridors and stairs of the internal Keep to the yard below. Aran
waited with the others at the entrance to the ancient and disused
section of the Keep and with a word from Maran, walked to the
courtyard indicated by the Archmage.

Aran soon
discovered that the King’s Garden was the largest courtyard of the
four in the old section of the Keep. Backing onto the West Tower,
Aran remembered that the courtyard had been overgrown and ruinous,
but what he was now seeing had been completely transformed almost
overnight into a flowering paradise.

“Do you like
it, my lord King?” Maran stepped forward, his faced wreathed in
smiles.

“Aye, indeed I
do.” Aran was amazed at the flowering profusion of roses, bulbs and
perennials. Even the sadly neglected trees and shrubs had been
watered, pruned and were flowering masterpieces.

“However did
you do it?” he asked.

Maran smiled
gently, “My lord King, it is amazing the transformation one small
courtyard garden can take when it is lovingly tended by six
Earthmages.”

“In one day!”
Aran was staggered.

“They worked
throughout the night and morning,” the Archmage explained. “Are you
pleased by their efforts, my King?”

Aran could
only nod.

“Where is the
Oak to go?” he asked finally.

Maran
indicated the centre of the garden. “There is a plot prepared for
it. There are stepping stones to it so as not to damage the other
plants.”

Aran glanced
at the wooden bowl Maran had been carrying, and the Oak sapling
held by the Priestess Delana.

“Can I have
help in doing this…or do I have to do it myself,” he asked in some
consternation.

Maran smiled
gently, “You may nominate someone to help you plant it my king,” he
replied.

Aran searched
out Alissa’s face in the crowd of people and gestured for her to
come over.

“King
Arantur?” she said bowing. “How may I serve you?”

Aran smiled
wryly, and taking the Oak from the Priestess, handed the sapling to
Alissa. “Lady Alissa, I need assistance in planting this tree,” he
asked.

Alissa smiled
at that for the words were so formal.

“I know that
you are the finest gardener in the Keep,” Aran added, “Will you
help me?”

Alissa gazed
up at her king and murmured for his ears alone, “Of course,
Aran.”

Aran took the
bowl of soil from Maran, and with Alissa and the Priestess, stepped
carefully through the garden to the large central prepared
plot.

“Take off the
living crown my lord,” said Delana, “Put it at the very bottom of
the prepared hole.”

Aran removed
the green oak leaf circlet and bending down, carefully put it at
the base of the hole.

“Now the Oak
must be removed from its protective cladding.”

Alissa
carefully unwrapped the leather from the fragile roots.

Aran handed
the bowl to the Priestess and taking the sapling from Alissa, bent
down and placed the tree carefully in the hole, standing it in the
middle of the oak circlet.

Delana bent
down also and handed Aran the earth filled bloodwood bowl.
Carefully he took the bowl, and poured out the mixed soil around
the base of the sapling to completely fill the hole. He took a
moment to firm it into place, and then straightened. Aran then
dusted off his hands and gave Alissa a relieved smile, the ceremony
was almost complete. The Priestess walked back through the garden
and took from one of the Earthmages a large heavy silver urn.

“The Oak has
been planted within the oak circlet and its roots are now receiving
the nourishment from the mixed soils of the province,” she intoned.
“It now remains only for the new King Arantur to give life to the
tree, in the form of this water made sacred through many days of
prayer and vigil to the Goddess.” The small Priestess lifted the
urn and made her way slowly back through the garden to where Aran
and Alissa waited amidst the flowers. “Take it lord King,” she
said, “Gently pour the water on and around the Oak sapling.”

Aran took the
urn and bending, poured the sacred water onto the sapling and soil.
He waited until the water was completely absorbed, then
straightened again, and handed the urn back to the Priestess.

Delana bowed
and accepted it, “My lord King you may go now. I will wait and pray
over the tree. For this is the time when the Goddess is given her
due and it must be a silent, solitary time. I will also pray for
the tree and its acceptance of the place and mixed soils.
Relocation could imperil the Oak but do not worry, I will look
after it as if it were a child of my body.”

Aran nodded
and indicated to Alissa that they should leave the Priestess to her
meditations. Carefully they made their way back through the garden.
Passing the last of the flowers and shrubs of the King’s Garden,
Aran caught Alissa’s eye and they exchanged a wry smile. Finally
Aran knew that he had made the first faltering steps upon his right
and proper lifepath.

*

“Sire, the
plainsmen are here to see you.”

Aran looked up
from the sheath of papers spread about him on the high table, to
see several warriors of the plains enter the great hall. All were
dressed ready for riding. They walked up and swiftly bowed,
“Riothamus…our presence is no longer required here. We ride
directly for the plains.”

Aran nodded,
“Have you heard any news from your SpiritDreamer?”

Bini
Stardreamer shook his head, “No lord Riothamus, there has been no
sign, no word…” he looked up at his King. “We wish you well in your
battles against the Thakur. I personally would not hesitate to ride
at your side, but I must obey the laws of my people.”

Aran smiled,
“I understand, Bini. However join us as soon as you are able.”

The warrior
bowed with his hand shading his eyes, “Aye Riothamus. The chiefs
will heed your call and when we are given leave the plainspeople
will ride to war.”

“Then we look
forward to your people joining ours,” Aran replied quietly.

The plainsman
looked up and his face crumpled into a smile, “Riothamus, may your
horse never stumble, may the skies favour your journey, may the
grass be forever bountiful under your feet.”