"Hail, King Martris, son of Bricen!" came a cry from among the tables. "Hail, to the King of Margolan!"
The cry began to echo through the common room until it became a chant that reverberated from the rafters. Tris raised a hand to still the cheers, and stood.
"Thank you," he said. "Tonight we celebrate the Feast of the Departed. I dedicate this evening to the memory of King Bricen and Queen Serae, my sister, Kait, and to all the loved ones we have lost." He raised his goblet; all around him, others did the same. "To their memories, that their spirits may live on in peace."
"Aye."
The first course was already on the tables, and its aroma tempted Tris from his gloomy mood. Balladeers performed their opening song, a haunting tale in memory of the late royal family. Its effect was not lost on the audience, though Tris found himself dry-eyed. Perhaps, he thought, I can't cry for them any more. Next came one of Serae's favourite ballads, then a ribald tavern tune known to be one of Bricen's favorites, and finally the "Falconer's Lament" in memory of Kait. It was this final song that made Tris avert his face until he regained his composure. The skirling notes told of a wandering falconer, forsaking home and comfort to search for a wounded prize bird. The castle ghosts, known to be partial to good entertainment, clustered silently to listen. When Carroway strummed the final notes on his lyre and bowed his head, the room exploded into applause.
The next number also bore Carroway's mark, though it was a different set of minstrels who performed it. A suite of songs from Isen-croft, in honor of the king's betrothed, with dancers in the soft silk tunic and pants common in southern Isencroft. The entertainment was well-received, and Tris knew that Carroway had begun seeding Isencroft-themed songs and diversions into the entertainment of the palace months ago to ease the acceptance of a foreign queen.
After each course, as the kitchen prepared for the next indulgence, Zachar presented a dozen of the guests to the king. Soterius stood to Tris's left as the receiving line formed, close enough to draw his sword if trouble arose.
Tris looked out over the next group awaiting their moment of audience. Lord Acton was the first of many. There were rumors that he had turned away a legion of Jared's soldiers by his steady gaze and a curt word of dismissal. Acton bowed low as he approached the throne, slowed by his age.
"Rise, old friend."
"It's good to see you wear the crown, King Martris," Acton said in a voice as clear and strong as a young man's. "Some among us believe it was always the Lady's will that it be so."