The Coronation of King Mykel Endarr II

(The following document was copied from the Royal Library of Evendarr April 603 E.R.)

by Artemesia Longtooth Staff Reporter, Evendarr Times

Editor's Note: This treatise was written by Apprentice of 2nd-class, Artemesia Longtooth, a native of Kyzl in Dar-Khabad who served at the "Times" for more than a year.  Apparently, she became overwhelmed by the magnitude of the occasion and disappeared several days after His Majesty's Coronation, having been seen last in the company of several of her Half-Orc compatriots while calling herself by her Dar-Khabadian name:  "Riazil". Investigation has revealed that she willingly returned to her homeland, and the Nobility does not suspect foul play at this time. The account that she left behind is of sufficient interest that it is set out for our readers' enjoyment. This is her tale…

The Coronation of King Mykel Endarr II of Evendarr

Its is the 19^th of June, YR 596 ER - All of the crowds are now gathered, almost half a million strong, in a Kingdom whose total population of Civilized Folk is estimated at but three times that number.  I can only speculate that either the villages, countryside’s and byways of every province within the Kingdom of Evendarr are deserted, or that this Coronation has drawn thousands upon thousands of witnesses from lands far beyond the borders of Evendarr. 

My most educated guess is that the truth lies somewhere in between. 

For most Evendarrians this is also a celebration of the return of the Throne to the House of Endarr.  However favorably disposed one might have been toward his late Majesty, King Joseph Saxony, there is a near-universal feeling that a state of "normalcy" has returned with an Endarr sitting upon the throne, as though matters are now where they always ought to have been.

For those visitors from outside the Kingdom of Evendarr, there seems to be more of a sense of wonder - that a King who had once reigned here in the Realm's far past had returned to reclaim that which had been cruelly stripped away.

Behind all the opinions, all of the discussion - on the docks, in the taverns and even to the halls of the mighty - there hovers an aura that is at once both romantic and tragic.  That Mykel Endarr II should have had his beloved Queen and his young Heir taken from him by a Saxony whose descendant strove in the face of discredit to rescue them - and later the King himself - is the height of cosmic irony, the stuff of Bardic legend.  We can only wonder what thoughts must pass through His Majesty's mind when he walks the halls of Castle Evendarr and sees their likenesses upon the walls, his Queen a beloved memory and the baby he held in his arms now pictured as a man grown and passed into history.  The longer-lived among us may find little that is noteworthy about this, but I do - and the King, like my people, does not count his span in decades, but in centuries instead.

On the morrow, the ancient Crown of Evendarr, rumored to be a Dragon-gift which has found its way once more to its rightful place, will grace the brow of an Endarr before all of his vassals.  The Royal Succession Ceremony, begun in blood and conflict upon the greensward of Saxony Keep, comes to its ordained conclusion upon the Presentation Portico of Castle Evendarr, even as the rumblings of conflict within and without our fair Kingdom murmur ever ominously, like a conversation just beyond one's grasp. 

The masses of folk of every race and station, whether from lands near or far, keep their speech lowered as though the City were standing vigil on this Eve of Midsummer's Day. It is as though one voice too loud, one jostle too hearty, or one footstep put wrong will set a chain of events into motion that will spin out of anyone's ability to control.  The threat lives in imagination only, but everyone seems to share the same imagery.

All in is preparedness.  There is nothing left but to await the dawn. 

Its is the 20^th of June, YR 596 ER - Even before the first rays of the Sun clear the horizon, a single clarion sounds the Royal Reveille from the topmost tower of Castle Evendarr, echoing down the hills and across the river.  Venus the Morning Star hovers in the eastern sky, outshining nearby Mercury and ruddy Mars, the Warrior Planet so favored by my people.  It is said that the astrologers have chosen this Midsummer's Day as auspicious.  I can only trust that they know their craft.

Most of the night was moonless, but light from the City was joined by thousands of campfires until the entire Plain of Evendarr as far as the eye could see, cast a glow that dimmed the heavens.  All through the dark hours one could hear a soft rumble of voices punctuated by the occasional cry of a baby or the scattered whickers and whinnies of animals.  I doubt that anyone slept save the very old and the very young.  I know that I did not.

As the day brightens, the noise begins to increase, seeming to raise a level at each hour called out by the Criers.  Then at the 6th Hour, the promise of activity becomes an abrupt reality with the arrival of several companies of Royal Soldiers, to clear the Royal Way of all trespassers and establish order quickly and firmly.  Their faces seem young, fresh and fierce, their arms and armor glowing in the morning sunlight.  They belong to an ancient tradition that knows its duty well and will brook no interference.  I, too, am warrior-trained as well as skilled in the art of recording, and I feel a kinship with them.

I have spent the night in the campgrounds across the Velowyn River from the City proper.  Now a large staging area has been cleared at the river's edge.  The temporary residents who spent the night there are grumbling in protest as they are evicted, soldiers urging them out of the way with shouts, curses and the occasional crack of a whip.  This has more of an air of Ceremony than military exercise; each side knows what is about to happen, but honor must be served.

From across the lesser bridges, seemingly out of nowhere, come the ranks of participants who could not be accommodated in the great Plaza beyond the Queen Lorelei Bridge.  Here gather the companies of soldiers, marines and sailors of the Royal Army and Navy, cavalry and infantry straining to sort themselves amidst the bawling of orders from sergeants and junior officers.  A horse stumbles and throws a shoe; a cry goes out for a blacksmith as the hapless lieutenant receives a public reprimand from her commander.  A wagon is quickly brought forward and a burly Dwarf sets his forge to work with hot coals taken from a dozen cook-fires.  Several Healers busy themselves with the stricken animal.

I cross the Bridge, one of the last to get through before it is closed in anticipation of the Procession.  Ahead of me the Royal Way glistens in the morning light as hundreds of servants and sculls finish their task of washing the great avenue from one end to the other until it seems to glow with an Eldritch light.  At the opposite end from where I stand, even at this distance I can see the great Pavilion built especially for the event, ringed by dozens of flags snapping in the morning breeze, the tiers of seating ranged to either side and below, on the Third Terrace.  Someone behind me jokes that the Royal Wizards have Summoned Air Elementals to keep the dust and insects away.

There is not a cloud in the sky.

They have worked throughout the night.  Garlands of fresh flowers adorn every column and statue, festooning the trees.  Every building is draped in bunting of Royal Purple, the black-and-silver of the arms of King Mykel Endarr II, the colors of all the vassals and of all the embassies and legations who have come to see the return of Endarr to the Throne of Evendarr. 

Here in the Royal Plaza, just inside the city, even greater crowds are gathering as the Procession begins to take shape.  Suddenly there is a chorus of screams and a general movement off to my right.  People are running about, horses are rearing as their riders fight to gain control; there are curses and shouts in a dozen languages.  I turn just in time to see the Ambassador of my homeland leading her retinue into position.  She and her two chief Ministers have drawn back the curtains on their palanquins, which are perched atop three Dar-Khabadian war elephants.  She is shouting for her spell-casters.  A flurry of Magic bursts from a dozen hands, and the horses and people fall Silent as order is quickly restored.  The elephants are unperturbed; they are accustomed to mayhem.  I feel a surge of pride and longing.

I make my way to a balcony overlooking the Royal Way just before the Fourth Terrace.  I have paid dearly to hire this vantage spot.  My people are not long-lived, and I do not expect to see such a spectacle again.  I am accounted a tall and healthy young female among Half-Orcs, and I use my stature and an occasional growl to claim my space.  Every rooftop, window, balcony, tree and wall is covered with spectators, and I sigh with relief that these Dwarven-crafted buildings are more than capable of withstanding the weight of thousands.  Below me are ranks of infantry holding back the crowds on the street, mounted cavalry patrolling back and forth.  Vendors are already about, crying their wares.  I see a Healing station being set up nearby, one of many throughout the City this day.

It is now the 8th Hour.  Precisely on time, we can hear the trumpets blare out the Royal Fanfare in the distance.  The Coronation Processional has begun, but it will be at least an hour before the first ranks pass below.  The entirety of the parade will be nearly four hours long. 

Our hosts arrive with the refreshments promised in the fee.  The cold meat pies, fruit, cheese and watered-wine are delicious.  They are anxious to please; being Hobling vintners of some renown, they cannot afford to diminish their reputation for hospitality.  I converse in his native tongue with the Quentari Elf standing at my side.  He tries and fails to conceal his surprise at my facility with Elven, for it is not an easy language to master if one is a Half-Orc.  I tell him that I am the den-daughter of a trading house in Kyzl, and he nods in understanding.

The pageant is approaching.  The cavalry riders patrolling the route snap to attention as they are handed their regimental colors.  They are all members of the Crown Guard - the oldest and most honored units of the Royal Army, several of which predate the Kingdom's founding.  Twin lines of infantry stand tall and straight, weapons raised in salute. 

First in the Procession is the Lord Herald of the Royal Court, crying out for all to attend and give ear to the Ceremony which is about to follow.  Just behind is the standard-bearer of the General of the Guard, Commander of the forces charged with responsibility for the King's personal safety, followed by the banners of each of the five Crown Regiments.  The General, the Brigadiers and senior officers follow, securing the route for their Liege Lord.

Trumpeters are next, chorusing harmonies both old and new.  Behind them march the drummers, matching their cadences to the music and the gait of the horses.  Then come the Royal Almsgivers, their Amulets of Endowment flashing as they toss handfuls of coins - gold, silver, copper - into the throng.  No one shall be denied the opportunity to reap the King's Largesse, no matter how deep in the crowd they might be.  Now come the Flower-bearers, dancing and strewing a brightly colored carpet that will perish in a cloud of fragrance under hooves, wheels and feet.  They are orphans, the children of those killed in heroic service to the Kingdom, who will receive a Royal Sponsorship when they come of age years hence.

The cheers that began when the first banners swept into view reach a crescendo, and then fall.  There is a pause, almost a hush.  Then, just ahead of the next group, the voices swell to a roaring cheer that seems to carry the riders forward on its momentum, for now comes His Royal Majesty, King Mykel Endarr II, Lord and Liege of the Kingdom of Evendarr.

He is led by his standard, the twin lions of the House of Endarr reversed in black and silver, flanked on either side by the arms of his vanished Queen and son.  Resplendent in his House colors whose argent and sable gleam in the sunlight, he sits silently, almost sternly, upon his great black Thalassian war-horse.  His only acknowledgement to the wild acclamation of his subjects is a gracious but formal nod with outstretched arm.  His war helmet rests upon his saddle-horn.  He is bareheaded but for a thin gold filigree; his Crown of State awaits him at the end of his journey.  There seems to be little joy on his face although he is said to be a man of some affability.  It is as though he sees only the responsibilities that await him, and is uncaring of the power and privilege that is his by blood-right.  He is a Time Traveler, and a dear price was paid for the passage.  Perhaps cherished ghosts ride beside him. 

One companion from his past accompanies him in the flesh: Lord Ambrose Huntington, Chief Advisor to the Crown, a contrast in the white, purple and gold of the House of Huntington.  Once a Being of great Power who shook the stones of Saxony Keep, now he is just the man who twice rescued Kings of Evendarr as well as his own sister, only to lose all but the man at his left to the adamant of uncompromising Time.  He is ever at Mykel Endarr's side.  Now and then the Lord offers comment to his Liege, who nods, and occasionally responds. 

Suddenly cries of wonder erupt from the throng, and a sea of arms point to the sky.  We look up just in time to see an awesome sight: flights of winged horses - Pegasi - wheel over the City once and disappear to the north.  The Procession comes to a halt.  There follows a hush and the murmur of thousands of voices speculating on the meaning of the appearance of these magical creatures.  The opinion of those beside me is that the Royal Wizards have outdone themselves.  But I was watching the faces of Lord Ambrose and the King, and saw naked astonishment for just an instant.  They pass from sight and begin the climb to the Pavilion.

Close behind His Majesty are the Lieges of the Principalities: Prince Miles Tegg and Princess Eleanor of Southwatch, who are known to my people; Princess Lillian Rotari, radiant in elven silks and riding upon a snow-white palfrey under the banner of Greenmarch; and Prince Kevynn Blackfox and Princess Crissea of the Heart and of NorthMarch.  Some say that Kevynn is second only to the King in power and others that the difference is only one of rank.  Nevertheless, there has not been even a whisper of rumor questioning his loyalty to Mykel Endarr.  I see also the arms of County Blackstone, whose Liege stands as Hereditary Regent to the Heir of Evendarr, but I cannot identify the riders.  Here also are to be found the Houses of the Five Old Families who have figured so remarkably in the Kingdom's history: the Buttons, Huntingtons, Monays, Bartholomews, and a cadet branch of the Endarrs.  Among them I see the formidable Dame Lorna Bartholomew, sitting upon a horse as erect as any soldier despite her advancing years; and Sir Percival Huntington, son of the late Princess Andrea, the dashing young Viscount of Cwyll.

Behind them is such a great sea of dazzling color and pageantry that I have difficulty sorting one impression from the next.  I recognize the Royal Chancellor, Lord Dugan Haversham, cousin to the Princess of Southwatch, among the senior nobles who follow in the next rank.  I see several young females swoon at the sight of him.  He seems to be comely enough, but he is a Human and too fine for my liking.  I mention this to my Elven companion, who laughs outright. 

Primacy of place has gone to the lands of Southwatch, who are locked in a struggle with the rebellious Duchy of Sutherland.  That standard seems not to be present, although I may have missed seeing it.  Nearly every eye is focused on the Court of Tyrangel, led by the young Count Roderick Daleron.  Among their ranks is a company of cavalry with a dozen heads impaled upon their upraised lances, so blackened that it is impossible to distinguish race or gender.  A howl of congratulations arises from the throngs, and I sense that it is genuine.  The Sutherland Necromancers will find little support here.  Even my Elven companion is shouting praise.

I see the Court of Therendry close behind, although I cannot tell if their Duke is with them.  A woman riding among them seems almost glowing with intensity, and I am told that she is the Dame Skymane, scourge of the Kitherian Mires whose fell beasts plague Therendry.  Apparently the Kitherians do not mind, for Duchess Kassandra Drenin follows closely behind in her carriage, and there is no sign of displeasure on her face.

Another great cheer rises, and the Duchy of Evendarr comes before us.  Duchess Jane Monay is riding in an open carriage, and beside her is Sir Richie Buttons, Lord Chancellor of the Heart and her predecessor.  She is dazzling in white, her fair hair gleaming gold in contrast;  he is arrayed in breathtaking sartorial splendor, plumed and feathered and bejeweled.  His silks would drive my people to tears of envy.  Their courtiers follow, and another shower of Noble Largesse is rained upon the joyful masses.  There is a third figure in the carriage whom I do not know, but my companion tells me that she is Dame Pamilla Saxony, the new Lady of Saxony Keep in the Barony of Arawyn and the Heir to the House of Saxony.  Showers of nosegays from earnest young males fly from the crowd, for her beauty is evident even to me.

The Duchies of Greenmarch pass us next.  Leading them is Morten Sarten, the Elven Duke of Rotaria, who is said to be a favorite of Princess Lillian.  He, too, is the object of much attention from the ladies in the throng.  I marvel at the shyness of the expressions of appreciation among these peoples.  In Dar-Khabad, the Half-Orcs would be shouting their compliments and invitations from the rooftops.

Next I can identify the gold wyvern on the blue-and-burgundy standard borne by the Duchy of Ashbury and their Graces, Duchess Mara Tirane and Duke Bryan Nordenn.  My eyes begin to seek the next banner when something draws them back, and I stare in astonishment.  Marching in array with the Court of Ashbury is a company of my own people, clad in the garments that are called tartans by Evendarrians, and are said to be worn by the Barbarians of Volta who call themselves Highlanders.  I ask my companion about them, and he tells me that they call themselves the Clan McEwan, and are passionately loyal to the Duchess.

The cheering seems to subside to a murmur as the Court of Niman makes its passage.  Duke Vordan Nicadaemus blazes with light in his silver-gilt dress armor, a masterpiece of Dwarven craftsmanship that brings a chuckle to my Elven companion even as he is frowning in disapproval.  When I ask why, I am told that His Grace does not wear armor while in the field, but that it is a subtle and two-fold challenge issued to Chancellor Buttons.  There has always been competition between the two for leadership in the rarefied atmosphere of Court fashion.  The choice of armor is both the Duke's subtle reminder of his participation in the recent field campaigns against the Hadrani Barbarians, and also implies disdain for playing their game on Sir Richie's terms.  Duke Vordan is also distributing alms, and the crowd is responding with cries of approval.

Once more there are shouts to look upward, and the processional comes to a halt.  We all turn our eyes skyward, and see a pair of incredible beasts circling the city high upon the rising currents of air.  They are Gryphons, and gasps of astonishment and fear follow in their wake.  They hang briefly in place, great wings beating in unison before they turn and swiftly disappear toward the west.  Once more my companions on the balcony express great praise for the work of the Royal Wizards, but I remain silent in disbelief.  And I look upon the ageless face of the Nimani Duke, whose mask of charming gallantry has slipped in his surprise: there is worry there, as though some matter of great concern were weighing heavily upon him.

The final group of Royal vassals are those of NorthMarch, along the northern frontier.  Leading the ranks is the Court of Duke Rutherford Rawlings of Elysia looking fresh and eager, as though they were about to begin a new adventure.  Like Niman, they must hold the line against incursions from the Plains of Hadran, and their intensity of purpose is almost palpable.

They are followed by the twin bear standard of Volta, the colors of Duke Adrick Voltan who is also garbed in full battle gear.  The eyes of this fierce and genial man blaze with such intensity that the very air seems to become warmer around me, but he nods and laughs aloud as he acknowledges the cheers of the crowd.  Behind him in a garlanded cart rides a great black bear who appears unmoved by all the noise.  I am told that it is his gift to his King.  I notice that both Elysia and Volta have tartan-clad followers with them, but they are Humanlike in appearance.  I conceal a twinge of regret; my people are not that commonplace in the cold Northern lands.

Last in the Procession of the Duchies comes Ravenholt under the purple and gold banners of Duke Andros Holmsong and Duchess Alexa Rhyannan-Holmsong, matched black coursers prancing in step to the music.  There are few courtiers among them, as was the case with the Rotarian Duke, and I am told that the two coastal Duchies of the North are on alert against invasion from the evil Sessuar Empire across the great ocean.  There is an aura of vigilance about them, almost as though they, too, feel personally responsible for guarding against the enemies of the City and the Kingdom. 

Behind them are more musicians and drummers, keeping the line of march in a cadency of movement.  Then come the carriages and mounts of those representing all of the great Guilds and the Royal Academy.  Above them, shimmering rainbows seem to dance upon the breeze, and I sense that these are small Air Elementals charged with adding their powers to the great spectacle.  Wizards, Healers, Mages and Alchemists, Astrologers and Bards, Armor and Weaponsmiths, and all of the Royal crafts are represented.  Behind these pass the delegations of those of the races who enjoy the rights of Ancestral Homelands, hundreds strong.

There is a space in the line of march, as more flowers are spread along the Royal Way.  The din subsides, as though the crowd were taking its collective breath.  In the distance one can hear a low but growing sound - not so much a cheer as a cry of respect and awe pouring from thousands of throats at once.  Movement within the throng seems to still as anticipation builds.  Even the soldiers guarding the route seem to stand a little taller.  The sound travels up the Royal Way like a wave upon the waters.

He rides into view under the emerald-and-ivory standard of the Kingdom of Quentari.  His garb is of the most exquisite of elven-silks, in the colors of the House of Ar-Din, and seems to flow into his mount until the two appear to be but a single figure.  A simple silver filigree set with a single emerald is the only symbol of his rank - that and the fabled Amulet he bears upon his breast.  He wears no armor.  He needs none.  He is Elenaro, King of the Quentari Elves.  A legend rides this day in Evendarr City.

At his right and a pace behind rides Prince Mirtaur, the Heir to the Quentari Throne.  I have heard that Elenaro would stand aside for his son's sake, but that neither the Prince nor his people will permit it.  My companion drops to one knee as his Liege passes, and even I bow my head in respect.  Warrior-wizards are held in great esteem by my people, regardless of rank.

Directly behind the Elven King comes a carriage wrought of such grace and beauty that it seems to glide along, wheels barely touching the ground.  Its curtains are closed to outside view, but everyone knows who rides within - Lady Arienwen, Queen Mother of the Quentari Throne.  She does not consort with outsiders, and I cannot help wondering if a part of the affection and respect held for her late daughter's Life-mate is a balance to the awe and fear that she inspires even in her own people.

Shouts of joy and the clapping of hands follow the Queen Mother's carriage, for behind it two Royal Grooms lead a pair of mounts, one a silver-gray palfrey and the other a sturdy, dappled pony.  They are draped with the colors of the Queen and Prince of Evendarr, who were the Royal guests of the Elves until they met their destiny in the ruins of Saxony Tower last autumn.  I look around, and men and women are weeping openly.  The Queen was beloved of her people, who never knew their little Prince.

The Quentari delegation is the first of a long parade of foreign embassies and dignitaries to pass before us.  I recognize but a few of them from my family's business interests - the Sarr, of course, from the exotic land of Myrr, the Wolvaerans and the Dwarves of the Ouachitamugi Mountains, the Thalassians - and, of course, the embassy of my own homeland of Dar-Khabad, Half-Orcs and Dwarves together. Once again the elephants are creating terror among their populace. Although the Evendarrians have several within their stables, few people have seen them.  Nostalgia fills my heart; I think I am becoming homesick.

The last of the foreign delegations pass, followed by the Royal troops.  The Processional ends with the customary finale of the Entertainers - jongleurs, dancers, actors, acrobats, musicians, singers, exotic creatures and likenesses of fantastic beings that, I hope, have never existed in reality.  These will give the Royal Entertainment’s that will fill the Castle, the Amphitheater and the Great Houses upon the Hill.

It is now High Noon.  Although we can barely glimpse the principal players in the Coronation Ceremony, special Heralds placed along the Way are intoning the Ceremonial words.  We see a flash as the ancient Crown of Evendarr is placed upon King Mykel Endarr II's brow; the Heralds speak the words of the Royal Oath in concert with the King.

For the third and final time, a cry goes up to look at the heavens.  This time, even I recoil at the startling sight, and some of the company on our balcony runs shrieking indoors.  People fall to the ground, some in faint and some in fear.  A noise like a roaring wind sounds across the Plains of Evendarr, and I see the flash of Magics high upon the Royal Pavilion.

From out of nowhere, a flaming bird larger than any animal I have ever seen in my life sweeps down upon the City, its body a shimmering glow with fire trailing from wings and tail.  It dives upon the Castle and the Second Terrace where it turns upon a wingtip, and the sound of its passing makes my head spin.  No one has moved upon the Royal Pavilion.  My knowledge of legends tells me I am witnessing the flight of a Phoenix, but my mind refuses to accept the testimony of my eyes.

With a single piercing cry that shakes the leaves on every tree, the great bird rises into clear skies and disappears into the sun.  I begin to shudder all over, awestruck, and I realize that the only reason I remained in place was that my legs would not have carried me an inch.  When I look down upon the street, I see that even some of the soldiers have fallen in place.  Cries go out for Healers, since some spectators have fallen out of trees and off rooftops; but they are some time in responding, as even they need to recover from the spectacle.  My Elven companion has also remained beside me, and as the more timorous return to their places, the guessing begins about what these appearances mean.  The prevailing opinion, both upon our balcony and throughout our portion of the crowd, is once again that these creatures were Summoned in tribute to the King by Wizards of great power.  It is known that King Mykel Endarr II was born under the sign of the Phoenix, so what better offering in celebration than a visitation from his symbol?  I nod in acquiescence, but I do not believe it.

The public portion of the Coronation Ceremony ends with the declaration by the Royal Herald that the principals will now return to the Castle, where the Oath-swearing of Vassals will take place in the Hall of Crystal.  A week of National Celebrating is declared, and the King and his guests depart to a roar of cheering that continues for many minutes. 

The Kingdom of Evendarr has a new King.  This portion of the tale is ended, but I think that the greater part of the saga of the reign of King Mykel II of Evendarr has only begun.