“May Our Lord and Lady crown you with the crown of glory,” his aunt intoned, “may They anoint you with the oil of Their favor.”

Theophanu and Ekkehard draped a cloak trimmed with ermine over his shoulders. The dragon of Saony, the eagle of Fesse, and the lion of Avaria graced its expanse, embroidered in gold thread. This cloak had been worn by the first Henry and put aside into storage by Arnulf when he took Varre’s royal family into his own house. It still reeked of cloves, having been stored with great care for all these years. Henry’s royal cloak had vanished in the south.

“The borders of this cloak trailing on the ground shall remind you that you are to be zealous in the faith and to keep peace. Let it remind you of the royal lineage out of which you spring.”

She gave into his hands Henry’s battered and scarred scepter. “Receive this staff of virtue. May you rule wisely and well. Crown him, God, with justice, glory, honor, and strong deeds.”

As a wind sweeps across a forest as with a voice, a murmur greeted this pronouncement. Out of the assembly, all the way back by the doors, a man’s voice rose.

“May the King live forever!”

A shiver of foreboding made tears rise in Sanglant’s eyes, but the crowd had already raised its voice to acclaim him, and those in the square and streets beyond shouted and sang as well, heard as a distant echo.

Right behind him someone coughed.

Ekkehard muttered, “My feet hurt. I’ve been standing for hours.”

Psalms must be sung. Each biscop and prince and noble must come before him to kiss his ring and make known that they, each one, accepted his authority to rule. So it would go in every important town his progress stopped at as they rode west into Varre. So it would go for the rest of his life. Time, at least, was neither male or female. He did not desire death. He could wait, truly, for a good long time before he must embrace it, as every mortal creature must. But he hoped that Time would not abandon him. Yet if it was the Lord and Lady’s will that each soul spin out a certain length of thread upon Earth, had his mother’s curse then shielded him from Their touch? Surely not. His mother was not as powerful as God’s will, even if she did not believe in Them.

That thought struck him all at once as he spoke words and greeted and nodded and looked each person in the eye to mark the honesty of their gaze. What did his mother believe in? How did the Ashioi explain the existence of the world? What did they worship?

Surely Liath knew.

“Your Majesty.” Waltharia knelt before him, her expression solemn. She nodded to show her approval. The gesture reminded him uncannily of her father, who had a habit of nodding in just such a way, with a slight twist to the chin.