A Crown of Secrets and Lies

The day of my grandfather’s funeral is a somber though subdued affair. Few people have been invited to the proceedings, but my heavy heart lifts a little when I see Charaide amongst the gathered. We haven’t seen each other since our ill-fated trip to the forest, and I miss him.
I follow my parents and Laochard, signaling the line of succession. Somehow, this seems a moronic idea, showcasing exactly who is next in line as if we’re literally telling the rebels how to pick us off one by one. But when I raised my concerns, they fell on deaf ears. This is how we’ve always done it, after all. Even though nothing else about this funeral mirrors those of the past.
As I pass a row of onlookers, a figure in a dark cloak catches my eye. There’s something off about the person’s stature. Their body leans to the left side as if their legs were different heights, but I assume it’s either poor posture or uneven terrain. Their face is obscured by their hood and the way they’ve bowed their head. Unlike everyone else around them, they do not look up to see the procession.
Are they overly pious or hiding something? My pulse quickens, and I swallow the lump of fear that forms. Surely the rebels wouldn’t show up here. After all, the king was a pure-blooded fae and well loved by his people. Still, after the whispers I overheard in the woods and the conversation with my uncle, I don’t know that I can put anything past our enemies.
My calf tenses, reminding me of the blade I have hidden in my boot. It wouldn’t be much against an army, but as I stare around the room, I don’t see others who match this person in stance or appearance. Perhaps the individual is working alone. I bite back a snort. Not very wise. A flick of Laochard’s wrist would bring the royal guard down before he or she could so much as unsheathe their sword—assuming I didn’t get to them first.
I take a deep breath. My imagination is running away with me again. I continue down the aisle, and the person in question doesn’t move. If they were going to attack, surely they would have done so by now. Shaking my head, I push such foolish notions from my mind. My brother and uncle vetted every guest here. It’s unlikely a rebel would have gotten past them.
When we reach the front of the chapel, I avert my eyes from the open casket. Lifeless bodies fill me with unease. People never quite look the same in death, as if the whole of their person was made up of their soul and the empty body left behind is simply a vessel they inhabited for a time.
My mother drops into a reverent bow in front of the casket, and I imitate her, grateful to have a reason to stare at the floor. We move to the side, though I keep my head lowered, hopeful I look like a grieving granddaughter or at least respectful and not like someone unsettled by the dead. If any rebel spies are among us, I cannot risk displaying weakness.
Seats are set out for us behind the casket and facing the mourners. On the one hand, I prefer to keep an eye out for enemies. I would rather fight head-on than be stabbed in the back. But it’s uncomfortable to have so many eyes staring at me. I pick a spot on the stone wall at the back of the room where a torch is lit, watching the fire lick the air and the smoke billow to the tall ceiling.
Uncle Brutach stands over the coffin. “Today, we lay to rest King Ríchíos, a kind and benevolent king.” He raises his eyes and looks over the congregation. “Our realm is the lesser for his loss. For the last century, we have had perfect peace in our kingdom, and it was achieved and maintained by his guiding hand.” Folding his arms on the podium, he gazes at my grandfather. “But I fear it dies with him.”
Whispered voices fill the room as the meaning behind his words sinks in. I allow myself a glance at the gathered faeries to see their reaction. Most appear grim, with their lips pressed into thin lines. Others nod as if they were expecting this, while still others lean toward their neighbors, their eyes filled with fear and their iridescent wings trembling.
My gaze wanders, seeking the stranger in the dark cloak. He or she is still standing with head bowed, the cloak obscuring their face. I can’t detect a reaction at this distance, though I’m starting to suspect they’ve fallen asleep. It’s the only explanation for how still and silent they appear.
“There are those who would rather tear our kingdom apart than see a half-breed on the throne.” My uncle sighs, and his pain reverberates off his body. “As we bury my father, I beseech the rebels to bury their old grudges and prejudices with him.” He leans forward, giving more passion to his speech. “Consider how great our realm will be when we are able to let go of preconceived notions about what makes a ruler and embrace the future my sister, the queen, and her children will provide.”
A small amount of grumbling follows, but no one objects outright. Clearly, my uncle has chosen his crowd of mourners wisely. There are no true dissenters here. Though initially, I wasn’t sure how I would feel about people accepting my family begrudgingly, I suppose this is better than having them actively wishing us dead.
With a decisive nod, my uncle straightens as if he believes he has said his piece. He gestures to my brother. “And now, Prince Laochard will lead us in the prayer for the dead.”
The rest of the funeral continues without incident. When it is time to process to the catacombs where my grandfather will be laid to rest, the tension in my shoulders dissipates. If the coronation also moves forward without incident, perhaps we can maintain my grandfather’s hard-won peace after all.
As I pass the cloaked figure again, they move, faster than any creature I’ve ever seen, and lunge toward me. The silver knife they’ve pulled from beneath the folds of their cloak aims for my throat. I gasp, stumbling back into Laochard. His arms are around me in an instant, and he pulls me from harm’s way but not before the tip of the knife pricks my skin.
A cry escapes my lips, and in the blink of an eye, two royal guards have my would-be assassin cornered, or so it seems. His hood slips just the slightest bit, and his teeth flash in a most grotesque smile. He lifts his hand, and a blinding spray of light erupts into the air, causing everyone in the hall to cover their faces against the sudden brightness. When it stops, the hooded figure is gone.
“Search the castle!” Laochard orders the two guards. “There’s no way any of the rebels would be stupid enough to attack us alone.”
My heart is in my throat as I struggle to process what just happened. One of the rebels was here. Laochard grabs my hand and tries to lead me out of the room, but I’m frozen to the spot. He wraps an arm around me and half carries me out of the chapel and into the catacombs, where the rest of our family is waiting.
“Laochard, Astreilles, what took you so long?” Mother’s eyes are filled with concern.
“It appears a rebel assassin has penetrated our defenses,” Laochard says, and I’m grateful that I’m not forced to speak.
I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if Laochard hadn’t been there. The strike had been so fast I almost doubted it happened. No one I’d ever seen could move like that. It was as if he had been made for it—made for killing. But for my brother’s quick actions, my body would be the next laid to rest in this tomb.
“Astreilles was nicked with the knife but is otherwise unharmed.”
His words remind me of the pinprick of the knife against my throat, and my hand rises of its own accord. When I pull it away, it is covered in blood.
“Here.” My mother unwraps a shawl from her shoulders and presses it against my wound. “This will staunch the bleeding.”
“Thank you,” I croak, shifting away from her, desperate to get some distance, as I’m on the verge of falling apart. But as I move, the world begins to spin before my eyes.
“I’ve got her.” Father wraps his arms around me and gently sets me down on the cold stone floor, whispering to me in the strange language of his people. Though he’s tried to teach it to me in the past, nothing has ever stuck. But it’s comforting all the same, and I lean into his embrace.
Laochard and Brutach have a brief exchange, but I don’t quite catch all that’s said. Now that the danger has passed, Brutach suggests we continue on with the funeral as planned. Father helps me to my feet, and he and Mother each take one of my hands.
We pray over my grandfather as his coffin is settled into its final resting place. I try to concentrate on the prayer, but my mind keeps drifting back to the moment the assassin moved, to the quickness and surety of his attack, as if he knew the perfect moment to strike. As if he could tell the minute I let my guard down.
No one speaks as we ascend the stairs into the castle. Part of me wonders if this will cause further restrictions on my mother’s coronation. It’s already been difficult for me, basically being under house arrest since the revelations I overheard in the woods. I can’t imagine being further confined. My heart longs to walk through the forest with Charaide again and enjoy the freedoms that I did while my grandfather was alive.

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