Eton and Olina had been many things. Religious wasn’t one of them, so the cathedral near the Winter Palace was just another opulent venue to Nick, one he wasn’t and had never been familiar with as a child. Walking through the Hall of Kings to the nave before he and other dignitaries practiced the order of events for the first state funeral in a generation, he’d appreciated the artistry of frescoes illustrating various points in the empire’s history and the gleaming statuary of gods and goddesses revered by the individual tribes. He gasped at the architecture. High-vaulted ceilings created an echo effect, a rainbow of colors shining against marble floors from stained-glass windows towering above them.
Crews worked in the nave, dusting and polishing benches until the wood shone. Standing candelabras waited to be buffed. The tang of cleaners fought with the old wispy aroma of incense worshippers had burned in offering so frequently the scent lingered in the decorative tapestries, oak, and plaster.
“On Sunday, you’ll be guided after the parade to a private chapel in the southern wing of the transept.” Deban, hands clasped with Elder Belia’s, smiled. “The northern wing fell into disrepair before the war, and poor economic conditions since has prevented us from spending on restoration of imperial landmarks.”
“If funds are left in the Wallach Trust after we’ve invested in education and job growth, we’ll save what we can.” Nick hoped. “Prepare a list of the buildings and monuments most in need of repair.”
“Already done.” Deban tapped on his phone. “Sending the file to you.”
Walking next to him, Arit snorted.
“Jobs and education first, I agree,” Nick said. “Infrastructure in the outer territories should be updated before we sink a solitary coin into historic places, too. Roads are crumbling. Many bridges are dangerously obsolete. Internet and cell phone service outside the cities are a joke.”
Leading him from the nave into the transept, Belia frowned. “The Wallach Trust won’t supply enough capital.”
“Perhaps tax monies squandered on lavish parties, parades, and televised extravaganzas would be better spent on improving the future of the tribes?”
“Bread and circuses,” Arit muttered.
Nick grinned at him. “Exactly.”
Deban bit his lip. “As I said, the parade route through the capitol ends here, at the cathedral. You’ll be met at the entrance by a contingent of White Army veterans who will escort you to the Urals Chapel.” He ushered Nick and Arit through an arched doorway into a smaller, more private sanctuary with a shocking amount of gold leaf.
Nick widened his eyes, gritting his teeth to stifle a burst of laughter. Wealthy patrons traditionally outfitted and decorated chapels in the transept. Nick didn’t want to consider which family was responsible for this monstrosity. The benches were constructed of mahogany to match the raised pulpit, which was carved with bas reliefs of the saints accompanied by representations of their animal forms: wolves, mountain cats, bears, and falcons. The stylistic design might have been tasteful if the saints and beasts alike were not depicted in a hunt scene, ripping some poor elk to gory pieces. “It’s…” Nick struggled to find a tactful word. “…interesting.”
“Benjic felt you and Arit might appreciate waiting in his ancestral chapel while dignitaries attending the memorial are seated.”
Arit’s eyes rounded. “Benjic is religious?”
“I don’t believe he is.” Deban shrugged. “You can ask him once he finishes reviewing the itinerary with the media and directing placement of video cameras in the Hall of Kings, but I think this chapel was originally built by a high alpha from the Urals two centuries ago for the use of visitors from home. Benjic paid to maintain the chapel since the war, though. The southern wing of the transept was closed for public safety when many families abandoned those responsibilities.”
“Many families were dead,” Nick replied. “The purges were brutal.”
Belia winced. “War isn’t kind.”
“Neither is genocide. Which is what happened to loyalists and any humans unlucky enough to be captured in raids on the borderlands during the revolution: genocide.” The indignant outrage Nick kept a firm lid on slipped loose. “Isn’t that what the international court and neighboring countries ultimately judged the mass killings, torture, and rape? Genocide?”
“We are grateful for a quiet space for prayer and reflection.” Arit’s warm grasp on Nick’s biceps steadied Nick. “He will be more comfortable here instead of enduring public scrutiny while attendees stream into the cathedral for the service. I’m heartened some in the capitol have been compassionate and considerate of Nick during such a difficult time. Thank you.”
Sighing relief after Nick’s bristling attack, both Deban and his elder mate nodded. “The emperor, empress, crown prince, princes, and princesses died many winters ago, but without the closure of laying their remains to rest with their ancestors, we understand His Highness’s grief must be as fresh and new as the day his family was lost to him. None of us wish to prolong or add to his sorrow.”
Nick would not be pacified with smooth platitudes, no matter how well-meant. “Except the elders who refused to honor my bloodline or me by rejecting attendance at the memorial and would like nothing more than for me to crawl upon the funeral pyre of their bones to die alongside my murdered kin as I should’ve.”
Pulling Nick flush against his stolid body, Arit murmured Nick’s name in pained sympathy. “Obviously, the circumstances are harrowing for His Highness. We need a moment?”
“Of course,” elder Belia murmured.
“Lingering here while the nave fills is part of the funeral staging we’re practicing today.” Deban consulted his smartphone as he and Belia hurried to the chapel entrance. “Dignitaries or their standins have begun filing into the cathedral by order of station and importance. White Army escorts will not return to the chapel for you for a while, but if His Highness needs longer than the procession into the nave demands, we are at his disposal.” He paused at the doorway. “Please. Take all the time he needs.”
When they were alone, Nick cursed under his breath.
“It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not all right. I’m not.” Nick pushed Arit away and clenched his hands at his sides. “Belia and Deban are allies I—we—desperately need. Yet I snapped at them. If I can’t be smarter than this, I’m not the leader they or the tribes deserve.”
“You are too hard on yourself. We rehearse burial rituals for laying to rest the family you loved and cruelly lost. Family you were never genuinely permitted to mourn. You stifled a lot of anger and pain to stay alive. You think I don’t realize it? That they don’t?” Arit shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tense. “Natural for you to be distraught. No one blames you for it.”
Fury enervated Nick, rage and something else. Restless, he paced the chapel, feeding his anger because rage was easier to cope with than the grief threatening to swallow him whole.