Free Lyrec by Gregory Frost Page A

The echoes of the chanted dirge seemed to close in on him from the sides, to wrap around his head. He squeezed his eyes to put everything out of focus. The dirge roared in his ears. He arrived at the catafalque.
    He saw the rings on the left hand of the body, the hand folded across the right hand beneath the hilt. His eyes kept wanting to move against his will, to look at the face. They flicked that way, they saw, and could not look away.
    He found himself drawn along the side of the funeral stand until he stood beside the his father’s head. “Your father is dead, boy.” The meaning stabbed home at last. The hard shield he’d maintained crumpled. His face screwed up to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, rolling down his cheeks. He did not wipe them away.
    He forgot that Cheybal stood across from him. The sleeping face of his father filled his vision and his mind. There seemed to be a cruel twist to his father’s mouth, and he reached out to smooth the lips. They were hard, like lips of an ice sculpture. His hand twitched back, and he sobbed once. Finally, he wiped at his eyes.
    “Father is dead,” he whispered. His throat ached as he swallowed.
    “You’re the king now, Tynec,” Cheybal said. “There’s much we have to do, you and I.” He regretted saying it instantly. How much weight could the boy withstand?
    Tynec made no reply.
    Cheybal thought of himself, moments before, wanting Dekür to awaken and sit up. He waited with eternal patience and said no more.
    The dirge ended and began again.
    Cheybal found Tynec staring at him. “There s a lot to be done,” the boy answered, seeming to echo him. “We’d better go.”
    Silently, Cheybal led the way.
    At the door, they were met by the Hespet Slyur. The priest momentarily blocked the doorway, while catching his breath. He looked past them even as he greeted them, to the red-draped block and its lifeless burden. He allowed the man and boy to pass him, mumbled some respectfully sympathetic utterance, and then closed the door behind him.
    Gathering his robe in his one hand, he hurried across the room.
    The hilt of Dekür’s sword threw off scintillas of light as Slyur neared the foot of the catafalque. Dekür’s hands were cupped together beneath it. The stone face of death made Slyur’s jaw bulge. His teeth ground together. He’d known this man.
    The sword hilt unnerved him. Why hadn’t someone removed it? How could they leave it there like that? Disgusting thoughtlessness, letting the boy see his father that way. An awful thing.
    Slyur spread his arms wide. He began to whisper a death oblation that Mordus would accept the spirit of the king and lead it across the crimson bridge to eternal Mordun. He paused and noticed that the dirge outside had stopped.
    The candles flickered and for an instant the torches died. A shadow swept over the king. Slyur, thinking Cheybal had returned, glanced back at the door. No one was there; the door remained closed.
    When he faced the body again, the head had turned to face him. Its milky eyes were open. They pierced him with their glazed stare. Slyur cried out. He stumbled back, his arm across his face to block off those eyes. He tripped over his own feet and sprawled on the cold stones.
    He scrabbled on the cold slick floor to the wall, then dragged himself up. His cheek scraped against it. He uttered little whines, and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Dekür upright, coming for him.
    Eyes closed, the body of the king lay solemn in death. Slyur pressed his arm against his pounding heart. Cold sweat trickled like worms beneath his clothes.
    He suddenly vaulted, frog-like, for the door. There he glanced back one final time to be sure that the body had not moved.
    “See for yourself.” The words of Chagri whirled around him, dry leaves rustling on a wintry breeze.  
    Slyur opened the door and hurried out in search of a messenger.

Chapter 6.

    In the tavern yard the only sound was the jingling of bridles