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bay into a canter toward the familiarity of the castle. Perhaps I could stay with Rustin a few days, during the rituals. But I also had need to guard Mother’s body, lest ... I knew not what.
    Ahead were the iron-belted doors of the keep. I veered to the Tradesmen’s Cut, to save time. Rust galloped behind. “Rodrigo!”
    “King?” I repeated.
    “Well, not yet.” His face was set. “Not crowned.”
    “Will I be?” I clutched the pommel as if to keep from falling.
    “Am I a Ritemaster?” Then Rustin’s eyes softened. “Now, your troubles begin.”
    “Aye,” I said. Then, under my breath, “King.” I felt a chill, and there was no wind.

Chapter 3
    M Y BORROWED MOUNT WAS WHEEZING by the time we took sight of the outer wall, and it was all I could do not to leap from the saddle and lead him on foot. I missed Ebon, left in our haste at the keep. To my right, Rustin paced his gelding. The captain of Llewelyn’s guard led the way. The rest of the troop straggled behind.
    The winding hill of Stryx was not made for processionals.
    As we neared, I studied the outer wall. Within, drums pounded a solemn beat. Trumpeters manned the ramparts, resplendent in the formal livery Mother had designed for state occasion, and which had so impressed Hriskil of the Norland that he’d had it copied in his own colors.
    At the conclusion of each dirge the trumpets fell silent. For minutes, there could be heard only the thump of the kettle and the roll of the toms, until the trumpeters began again. Lanford, officer of the gate, who’d chased me in play through the orchard when I was but a sprig, commanded the hornsmen standing atop the wall.
    As the horns fell silent once more I made for the low daily door, dreading that it would not open, that I’d have to dismount and knock, a supplicant in my own house.
    No movement.
    Rustin took a deep breath. “Make way for Rodri—”
    Not the daily door, but the high portal of state swung wide in all its splendor, the bolt-studded iron straps creaking shrill.
    I caught my breath. At the head of a gathering in the courtyard stood Uncle Mar, Duke of Stryx, in full dress and cloak, attended by the stout Lady of Soushire, Lord Groenfil, and their retinues. They’d journeyed here for a council meet that Mother would never hold. Now they’d stay for a funeral.
    We passed through the portal, and I realized for the first time how thick was our outer wall at its base. I muttered to Rustin, “Were they waiting for us all the while?”
    “No, you blockhead, the guards alerted them when we neared. We’ve been visible for ten furlongs.” Rust snorted. “Do you know nothing of ceremonies?”
    Mother had enjoyed the planning of them, but she brushed aside my idle curiosity and sent me out to play. No, I knew not what I should. I had better learn, for Uncle Mar’s arrangements had the desired effect, and my knees trembled against my stallion’s flanks.
    A groom darted forward, cupped his bridle. I waited, unsure whether I was expected to dismount.
    “Rodrigo of Caledon.” Uncle Mar stepped forward, his cloak flowing. A tall man, broad-chested, with a neatly cropped gray-streaked beard, he dominated the courtyard. “I bear tidings of sorrow. Thy mother the Queen has passed from life. All here, nobles and men, mourn with thee.” His hand closed around the hem of his cloak, and he gave it a wrench. The material tore and hung loose.
    A moment passed. Lady Soushire shifted in vexation before I realized they awaited a reply. I glanced at Rustin, but found no aid. “Thank you.” It seemed inadequate for the occasion. “I—We thank thee, my lord, and all those who grieve with us.” I tugged furiously at my jerkin, but it wouldn’t rip. Blushing, I gave it up. “We will don mourning clothes in our chamber. Elena Queen was a good lady, and true. She will be missed.”
    “Aye, that and more.” In three measured strides Margenthar was at my side, extending his hand. “I’ll escort you.”
    I