The clanging bells slowed to a long, repeated knell tolled by the two deepest of them. As the sound diminished, one last figure emerged from the palace. A tall man in golden vestments, emblazoned with an ornate silver star on the front and back, his eyes scanning the crowd all around and above him; Achmed noted from the calm expression on his face that he had walked into his share of enormous gatherings.
The Patriarch, Constantin.
Alone among the clergy, the Patriarch’s head was bare. He, like all those of Cymrian blood who had lived an extraordinary length of time, was a study in contrasts, his white-blond hair and curling beard streaked with gray, his face lined, while his shoulders remained broad, unbowed. He raised his hand to the people, moving it slowly across the panorama, and as he did, they bowed in a great wave of respectful motion. His presence, more than the death and burial of the two monarchs, caused an aura of awe in the square; generally Patriarchs remained unseen by the populace, even the faithful who worshipped in their cathedrals.
The procession moved through the city square, the dissonant bells tolling a clashing knell the whole while. Achmed shifted his stance; the vibrations from the bell tower were making his teeth ache, and sending spasms rattling down his spine.
He felt the touch of a hand on his elbow; Ashe had made his way through the cluster of nobles and heads of state to stand beside him on the reviewing stand.
“Achmed; well met.”
The Bolg king nodded perfunctorily. “Where is Rhapsody?”
“Navarne,” the Lord Cymrian replied, leaning forward to catch a better sight of the procession as it mounted the steps to the platform in the Place of Weight. “Though she may have left to visit Elynsynos by now.”
The last knell of the brass bells sounded, then died slowly away, taking the noise of the crowd with it.
With great, grim care, the bearers of the catafalques mounted the steps that led up to the Scales, following the benison. The remainder of the clergy stayed below, ringing the great stand on which the holy relic stood. One of the priests who had led the procession was handed a pair of parchment scrolls and a quill; he unfurled the first one, the older of the two.
At the top of the steps, the benison was met by two pairs of sturdy soldiers bearing an elaborately carved box the size of a coffin hanging from two poles; they followed him to one side of the Scales, standing rigidly, their eyes on the sun.
Achmed’s eyes narrowed as the linen-wrapped body was lifted, under the direction of Nielash Mousa, and placed carefully into one of the great golden plates. He and Ashe watched closely as the benison himself reached into the ornate box and removed many small sacks of sand known as Fists, a measure of weight used commonly in Sorbold and among the merchants who did business there. He carefully placed each Fist onto to plate opposite the empress’s body, watching the balance closely.
Finally, after an agonizing amount of time, the Blesser of Sorbold signaled to the priest who held the scroll. The cleric hurried forward to hear what the benison conveyed to him; he scratched it onto the scroll with the quill, then stood erect and turned to the Patriarch.
“Her Serenity, the Dowager Empress, at birth twenty-three Fists, one Fingerweight. Upon her coronation, five hundred fifty-one Fists, one Fingerweight. Upon her marriage, six hundred sixty-six Fists, six Fingerweights. Upon the birth of her son, the Crown Prince Vyshla, seven hundred seventy-five Fists, two Fingerweights. Upon the occasion of her fiftieth jubilee, five hundred fourteen Fists, eight Fingerweights. Upon the occasion of her seventy fifth jubilee, three hundred sixty-six Fists, three Fingerweights.”
The priest studied the scroll for a moment, looking puzzled, then announced in a voice that quavered slightly, “At the Weighing following death, one hundred two Fists, three Fingerweights.”
A buzzing rumble passed through the crowd at the number. Ashe and Achmed exchanged a glance.
“That can’t possibly be right,” the Lord Cymrian murmured. “If that was correct, she—she would have not weighed much more than she did at birth; she’d have had the body mass of a three-year-old.”
“The Scales are obviously wrong,” Achmed said.
A stifled gasp rose from the ground below the reviewing stand; the Bolg king looked down to see the first few rows of Sorbold townspeople staring at him in a mix of muted horror and dismay. Ashe leaned forward slightly and spoke into his ear.
“Not a politic statement in these parts,” he said softly. “The Scales have long been trusted to be the unerring determinant in all grave matters. As you can see by the litany of her life, each Sorbold citizen is weighed at significant moments of passage—though only the royal family is weighed on these Scales.”
Achmed swallowed angrily but said nothing. He had seen the plates of the Scales a lifetime before, affixed to another balance, in Serendair, and so knew better than Ashe their history.
“Declare the death weight again,” said the benison.
“One hundred two Fists, three Fingerweights.”
The benison and the Patriarch exchanged a glance. Then Nielash Mousa turned and addressed the crowd.
“Throughout her life, Her Serenity lived and breathed for Sorbold; it is not unexpected that she breathed the last of her life essence into the very air,” he said in his gravelly voice. “She gave everything she had to her people and her nation; there is nothing left of her earthly body, but the lightness of it shows clearly that her spirit is free, in the warmth of the Afterlife.”
The crowd fell into skeptical silence.
The Blesser signaled to the soldiers, who removed the small linen-wrapped corpse from the plate and returned it to the catafalque on which it had rested, then replaced the pile of Fists in their coffer. The soldiers who had borne the pall of the prince came forth and lifted his body, obviously with greater strain than the ones who had carried the empress, and placed it on the Scale plate.
Again the Blesser of Sorbold began the ceremony of weighing, slowly balancing the Scales against the corpse with the bags of sand. The crowd began to grumble quietly as the minutes passed, but the benison continued the task meticulously, adding each small bag to the ever-growing pile with precision, followed by a check of the Scales’ balance. Finally he conveyed the result to the head priest, who turned to the Patriarch, and the crowd once more.
“His Highness, the Crown Prince Vyshla, at birth, twenty-eight Fists, eight Fingerweights,” he intoned. “Achieving the Age of Ripening at eleven summers; six hundred-ninety three Fists.” He coughed; then, in the absence of any other significant dates for the prince, read the death weight.
“At the Weighing following death, one thousand, three hundred fifty-six Fists, three Fingerweights.”
A subtle combination of sounds conveying both astonishment and amusement whispered over the crowd, which fell silent again.
Nielash Mousa cleared his throat. “In contrast to Her Serenity, who gave the entirety of her earthly essence in the service of her people, what a sadness it is that Crown Prince Vyshla was so well prepared to serve, and yet passed from this life, never having had the opportunity, before he had the chance to share his potential. His contribution to Sorbold surely would have been a weighty one.”
The Blesser of Sorbold stood for a moment, then, in the absence of something else complimentary to say, signaled to the soldiers, who removed the body from the plate and placed it back on its catafalque.
The benison signaled to the priests in the lead of the procession, who again formed their double line, and the benison, the head cleric, and the catafalques began the long march to Terreanfor.