The Treasures of Carmelidrium by N. R. Williams & N. R. Williams

Author:N. R. Williams & N. R. Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: N. R. Williams
Published: 2021-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

MISSIE SAT NEXT TO the prince at Ragnol’s funeral the next morning. They left the Cathedral together, and she joined the king in the open carriage. The early morning mist rose along the river that skirted the main highway through Terrel opposite the Cathedral. Old Cottonwoods lined the river banks. The limbs, heavy with leaves, sagged over the road and shaded the cobblestone and left the air thick with moisture.

Tap, tap, pause, tap‒tap.

The drummers led the funeral procession.

Missie felt weak. Lord and Lady Wayte, Ragnol’s parents, sat across from her with Byrel, Ragnol’s son, between them. Lady Wayte wept and leaned on her husband who held her in silence. Byrel, too young to understand, stood on the seat cushion and waved at the soldiers. Missie guessed he might be around four.

“Can I ride the pony?” Byrel called to one man.

“Sit boy!” Lord Wayte said.

Missie cringed at the severity in his voice.

Soldiers led the way. Their spears lowered, the flag of Gil-Lael at the end of each weapon hovered just above the ground. Prince Healden followed on his stallion, dressed in a royal blue tunic with a burgundy sash over one shoulder. The black coach that carried Ragnol’s body followed. He was set on a plank and carried on the top of the coach. But the damage done to Ragnol by the ravens was so great not even a single hair could be seen beneath all the flowers and the flag of Gil-Lael that covered him.

Tap, tap, pause, tap‒tap.

Healden had forbidden Missie access to Ragnol’s body. Nor would he speak of it beyond his whispered, “terrible.” The procession turned west out of the drive of the Cathedral, across the highway from Terrel. The Gil-Laelian people lined both sides of the road and the mist engulfed their lower limbs to create the illusion of disembodied figures.

“Grand-mère, ghost,” Byrel said, and moved to cuddle against Lady Wayte. Her howls intensified and the child took her hand and peered up at the old woman.

“Grand-mère, don’t be afraid.”

The crowd wailed and tossed flowers as the funeral procession passed. The flowers’ pungent aroma mixed with damp earth and the unwashed bodies of the townsfolk filled the air. Missie covered her mouth with a hand to stop her gag reflex while tears of grief trickled from her eyes.

Tap, tap, pause, tap‒tap.

Behind their coach the nobility of Terrel rode on horses or followed in carriages. The creak of wheels and clomp of hooves muted the sounds of weeping. Last came the military officers and then the common soldiers.

West along the road past Château de Talaith they came to a mammoth arch, made of brick, and decorated with the sculpture of a lion, falcon, and eagle. Beneath the figures on a granite stone was engraved the words, ‘Here Lies the Brave and Royal House of Gil-Lael.’ A wrought iron gate blocked the entry and two soldiers stepped forward to open them. The procession entered the cemetery of the King’s of Gil-Lael.

The mausoleums lined up along multiple avenues and dated back a thousand years.

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