I couldn't have besought the wretched ice gods of Rodakrov for a better funeral day. The wind was behaving as best as it knew how, biting only here and again. The sun was cloaked with thick, serried clouds, occluding the glare of the sun from bouncing off the ice encroaching over the banks of snow.
Best of all, the ice season began at nightfall.
"Preparations are complete, my lord."
Vitale approached me with his hands clasped behind his back like the temperate person that he was trained to be. It vexed me.
I sighed and looked to the massive pyre. My father's body no longer looked like the mangled, pitiful pile of blue flesh that it was only hours ago. His limbs were forcibly manipulated into submission by the men of his guard. Such was one of the integral duties for Krovic royal guardsmen - bodies in clement weather went into rigor two or three hours after death and became flaccid again when the decomposition began. In a realm of ice, however, decomposition was not a given, because in the realm of ice, the laws of man were not followed. It was necessary to maneuver the limbs as soon as possible - if not, they would not listen.
And who wanted to see a corpse clutching its throat in terror? Beside me, that is.
But even if it would gratify my younger self to see my father in such a writhing and permanent state, he was still a Kazbirati. He was a man that, even in death, was to be treated with respect by the throngs of people awaiting their chance to send him off with a proper Krovic funeral. He was the man that delivered those very same people from the ice season, healthy and strong, year after year. If any one of them had a single utterance of disapproval regarding the mad king who cared so vehemently for them, I would've cut out their tongues and forced it down their thankless throats.
"Sire?"
"His sword is at his hip?" I asked, in no mood for his gentle, cautious prodding.
"In its sheath."
He was a quick read, my priest - he always was. It irritated me, but it would've irritated me more if he wasn't.
"And what of his spear?"
"Sharpened, sire," Vitale answered succinctly. "Placed to his right."
A necessity for Krovs - how could one ever be taken seriously by the gods if they were not prepared to fight their way to the afterlife?
"I expect," I continued. "You had no trouble slaying Akim."
In his silence, I turned to him, only to be met by an unamused scowl.
"Akim?"
"Yes," I agreed. "The tiger."
"I know who Akim is," he parried with a hiss. "But you can't honestly expect me to slay a tiger, my prince. I'm a priest, not a hunter."
"I beg to differ." I set my gaze upon the priest - the one which he dared not challenge. "I have no use for a priest, Vitale. My father may have feigned faith in the god of the summer lands, but I am not so senseless. I know that your god has no place among the snow."
I watched his lips bow downward, his brow creasing. I gladly supplemented his silence.
"Thus, Vitale, holy council is not a necessity for a sovereign of frost. It is certainly not something I would desire after. But the ability for the men under me to slay a simple cat? A bit more obligatory, I'd wager."
"Simple cat, my arse," Vitale muttered as he turned away from me in defeat, beginning back towards Castle Mechi.
I held back my chuckle - it would've been a wildly improper display at such a somber occasion. If I chose, now, to release the excitement bubbling rapidly in my lungs, the throngs of my people huddled before the funeral platform would question my sanity. The nobility, seated atop the stage, would look upon my actions and question the nature of my father's premature passing. Neither of those outcomes were acceptable.
Their opinions of me would not nullify my rightful inheritance to the Krovic throne. It would not stop the iron crown from sitting heavily upon my skill. But I would not be seen as the mad son of the mad king. I would not allow that blighted legacy to be passed down to me, unbidden and unjustified - not over a moment of rhapsodic weakness.
No. No longer would I allow anything to come to pass without my permission. Not opinions, not conjecture, not doubts.
I was now the king of Rodakrov, after all.