Mindless

Chapter 2 Haëgre

In the four round corners of the kingdom there stood four scaffolds. And from each scaffold there hung a bell, deep and thunderous, which, when rung, would alert the people to a pronouncement from the castle. In the early morning hours, when only the bakers, the farmers, and the innkeepers are awake, these bells ring.

Slowly and bleary-eyed, the denizens rouse from their beds, put on their coats, and come to the scaffolds. They're too tired to wonder why they're here. They grouse quietly to their friends about being awoken. When the influx of spectators slow, the criers speak:

"The council asks that people remain calm." They pause, hoping this sets in. "In the late hours of this most recent night, the king was found murdered in his bed."

"No!" a lone voice cries. It rings out in the still air. The only sound.

Then a woman wails and begins to sob. There is a clamor of voices yelling: how? murdered? what will we do now? and many other such sayings of their startled fear.

Haëgre himself is lost in a realm beyond worlds. The pronouncement crawls over him from the top of his head to his feet, where it stays and itches. He has to walk. The kingdom isn't new to mourning, but the king has always lasted to lead them through. In that moment Haëgre feels as if there's no one left to keep them safe.

They must keep moving.

He finds his voice, and his words cut through the noise of the crowd, silencing them: "Who'll lead us now?"

The people wait for an answer.

The crier clears his throat. Instead of answering them directly, he continues reading from the page in his hands. "In light of this grievous tragedy, the queen and the council would reassure the people that all is still in hand. The council will soon appoint someone fitting to rule in the king's stead, and the perpetrators will be apprehended. More to come." With that, the crier comes down from the scaffold and to the notice board. He begins to nail up the page he had read from.

There is an unease from the crowd.

"Is that it, then?" Nahran calls.

Another voice repeats his question, asking as if the cobbler had never spoken. More voices want to know how the perpetrators will be apprehended. Still more want to know what more's to come. The crier answers none of these. When the notice is hung, he turns and returns to the castle. The audience calls their questions after him, no longer expecting an answer—perhaps they never truly expected one—but desperately they still ask, pleading for some direction in the loss of their king.

Haëgre stays quiet in the crowd. He knows the crier—knows that if he had any more information, he would share it. And yet... he cannot bring himself to leave the crowd. To leave the moment. To return home and hang the black curtains.

They will have already buried the king. Haëgre closes his eyes and turns his face to the sun. Many of the immigrés have done the same. They will have buried the king. Haëgre knows what the origines believe, but in such a way, the king's soul would be trapped, unable to return to the stars.

Gaihra had married a holy man of the origines in the West. She would ask her husband where the king was buried and she would pass that information to the immigrés of her village, who would set the burial to rights. In most ways, the immigrés only practiced quietly. This is not their land, and so they leave the origines to their devices. The light which gives life need not be recognized in life. They would continue on. They would bring day and lessen night. But in death—in death—they must return to the light. They would find where the king was buried. He would be burned, and the remainder they would rebury.