Chapter Text
The imperial bell tolled.
Across the Untheileneise Court, courtiers and servants alike looked up from what they were doing. Couriers gathered their things, preparing to be sent out to convey whatever matter of import the bell signified. Those who were sharp counted the tolls and noted the rhythm, and their expressions became grim. The imperial bell tolled seldom, and only for a handful of reasons: an heir to the imperial throne had been born; the emperor was married; a member of the imperial family was dead. There was a different pattern for each ring, and those who recognised the pattern for a death reached for something black to take with them as they made their hurried way through the corridors.
The nobility gathered in the Untheileian in well-disciplined rows, exchanging quiet words with one another. Those who had not recognised the sound of the bells soon saw the black that the others were carrying. At the back of the hall, senior servants and administrators and a handful of couriers gathered.
The Lord Chancellor entered with his usual self-importance but, visible to those closest, trembling hands. The attention of the room was on him in a moment. He cleared his throat.
‘At some point this morning, the airship Wisdom of Choharo crashed in the fields of Thu-Cethor. His Imperial Serenity Varenechibal the Fourth, Prince Nemolis, and the Archdukes Nazhra and Ciris were all on board. There were no survivors.’
The hall was absolutely silent. For a moment, no one seemed to breathe.
Chavar went on, his voice heavy.
‘A message has been sent to Edonomee to the Archduke Maia Drazhar, and we anticipate his arrival. In the meantime, arrangements for the funeral are being made, and will be made public at the earliest convenience. We turn our thoughts, and restate our allegiance, to the Drazhada, as they deal with aftermath of this tragedy.’
That concluded the announcement, and as Chavar left the room the collected courtiers dissolved their neat rows into little huddles, speaking in low voices. Lord Pashavar caught Lantheval’s eye, and the two of them fell into step as they headed out of the Unthelieian.
‘Archduke Maia Drazhar?’ Pashavar said quietly as they gained distance from their fellow courtiers. ‘Uleris best hope that isn’t remembered.’
‘Mm. Then again, he could claim shock.’
An uncrowned emperor was still an emperor, from the very moment of the death of his father, and should be referred to as such. Pashavar knew that this was a trivial point in the circumstances, but the true weight of what had happened was still eluding him. He could not seem to parse it. Varenechibal’s death alone… Pashavar had never been friendly with the emperor (the former emperor, he reminded himself with an odd hollowness), and indeed was of the opinion that no member of the Corazhas should be on general principle, but they had worked in proximity of one another for more than thirty years. He had known the prince and the archdukes from young ages; attended the prince’s wedding; and now they were gone, dashed against the ground in some damnable field in the middle of nowhere.
Pashavar realised he was moving faster than entirely appropriate and forced himself to slow down. He glanced at Lantheval, who seemed to have been experiencing a similar train of thought. Neither of them felt any desire to voice it aloud, however; and so it was not a surprise when Lantheval’s next words were a slight change of subject.
‘So our new emperor will be rather novel,’ he said quietly. ‘Half-goblin, raised away from court, and nothing known about him for said court to gossip over.’
Pashavar snorted.
‘The court will gossip regardless,’ he said gruffly. ‘Varenechibal had more than a few nasty things to say about his youngest, true or not. He’ll have a fight on his hands when he gets here, if only for his reputation.’
~
The news turned the organised group into a shaken huddle, and Echelo Esaran allowed them a few minutes. Two of the maids were comforting another – the lover of one of Varenechibal’s edocharei, now a widow before marriage. But time would not wait for them, and she could not give them long. She gathered their attention again, doing her best to balance gentle with firm.
‘Mourning befits all of us,’ she said. ‘And we know that this news is overwhelming. But we are not the only people in grief, and House Drazhar will not finding us wanting in this time of loss. We are never without an emperor. The heir to Varenechibal will be on his way from Edonomee soon, and the Alcethmeret must be ready for him.’ She saw some of them straighten their backs and lift their chins, and nodded, adding, ‘This will of course include readying the servants’ quarters for new edocharei, and the nohecharei quarters likewise.’
She sorted the tasks and handed them out, holding onto her calmness and trying to pass it around. Only when everyone had dissipated did she make her way, business-like as though on some errand, up and into the servants’ corridors and then into her own quarters, locking the door behind her as the tears came.
~
As the news spilled out like water overflowing a glass, couriers travelling by airship and horse and foot, the Ethuveraz fell into mourning. Flags were flown lower; silences were observed; and the people dug for black clothes or ribbons or prepared to outface the disapproval of at least the older folks of their community.
And when the conversation had moved through the formulaic expressions of sorrow and concern, sometimes genuine, sometimes flat, the talk turned to the new emperor.
Maia Drazhar, fourth son of Varenechibal IV and Chenelo Drazharan.
Half-goblin.
They say he’s been locked away for years.
They say he’s mad.
They say he’s not really Varenechibal’s son.
They say, they say, they say…
And in an imperial airship above Thu-Evresar, a courier sat quietly with his satchel between his feet, listening to the whispered conversation between two of his fellows, and thinking.