“The king,” announced the lead King’s Squire, and everyone stepped back, bowing, murmuring greetings.

“Good morning,” Kieri said. He could think of nothing else to say. Apparently that was enough, because the doors to the dining hall opened and he led the way in. A man in the green castle livery bowed him to a seat at one end of a table large enough, he thought, to hold fencing matches on … far too large for breakfast … and by the time everyone was seated, it was only half full, if that.

Breakfast, in Lyonya, meant hot breads, butter and honey, soft cheeses, fruit. None of the porridge he was used to, no meats, no eggs. He made no requests, wanting to know first what was expected. The talk at table was general, casual—nobles asked after each other’s children, or discussed the likelihood of a good crop of wheat this year. Nothing of substance, and nothing addressed specifically to him. When he felt almost full, another tray came in, this one holding rolls of flaky pastry tied with thin green ribbons. One was placed before him, and then before each of the others. Silence fell. Kieri regarded the pastry roll; the others looked at theirs, and then at him.

He picked it up, unwrapped the ribbon, and took a cautious bite. Pastry crumbs scattered, as the others did the same. One of the nobles—Sier Belvarin, he thought he recalled—turned to him.

“Sir King, we really should begin planning your coronation.”

So … the pastry rolls were a signal that business could be discussed? That the king could be addressed? He nodded at Belvarin.

“You know that I am not familiar with all your customs and traditions—what do you suggest?”

Glances passed back and forth across the table. “Well …” Belvarin seemed reluctant to go on. Kieri waited. “The period of deep mourning for the late king has passed, but by custom—”

“Not that it matters,” another noble spoke up. “Your coronation must supersede—”

“We must respect—” another began.

“Excuse me,” Kieri said. Silence fell; they all looked at him. He felt a moment’s amusement. The former king had been sick a long time and perhaps had never been a commanding presence. He would have to be careful not to startle these men with his parade-ground voice too often. “If there is a traditional period of mourning for the death of your king, or ceremonies to be performed, that must be respected.”

The impatient one opened his mouth and shut it again. Sier Belvarin looked relieved. “It would be—it would be appreciated, Sir King, if it suits you …”

“How long is the official mourning?” If they would not follow hints, he would ask directly.

“Four hands of days in deep mourning, during which no official business can be done except for emergencies. Sending the paladin to search for the heir was deemed an emergency.”

“And then?”

“Four more hands of days preparing for the transfer of kingship, but that does not start until the king is chosen. As you are here now, that period can begin. With the ceremony usually performed on the fifth or tenth day after that.”