46 The Funeral VII (1/2)

A deluge. From the start, that's what it was.

The people who'd been surrounding the biers from the time they left the Royal Palace tried to keep their places. Those closer in pressed inward even more – they had little choice in that. But those in the outer perimeters couldn't help but be displaced by the rush of newcomers. As long as there was a big enough space between two people for the incoming crowd to squeeze through, they'll take it.

The first rule of any mob: stragglers die. If you stop moving with the current, you'll get knocked down, and others will run you over. No matter what, you must keep to your feet. You must constantly be aware of the direction the tide is taking and allow yourself to be buoyed by it.

Hilde's status protected her from the madness, but only just. The deafening noise of ten thousand voices keening for the bright hopes they lost assaulted her eardrums; she felt its reverberation inside her ribcage. There, the echoes multiplied.

Over everyone's head, the noonday heat of the last days of summer rained down – noble or commoner, royal or soldier, in this too, they were all equals. Combined with the cloying heat from living bodies thrown into close proximity, the rising odors and the stray scents of perfumes, the whiff of salt from sweat and tears…

At some point, the distinct smell of blood might also get into the mix.

'If the Prince's Guards had not stepped forward for me...'

Well, Lady Ilse would have put her foot down, but that meant she and her daughter would have had to settle with one less shield each.

Gripping her handhold, Hilde turned to her left, once again checking how Gisela was doing. Earlier, she'd felt relief upon seeing that her cousin had lost the preoccupied look and was giving her entire attention to the present nightmare. The soldiers surrounding her, Captain Helmut among them, were all old hands at royal funerals. Even after a quarter of an hour of jostling elbows and reaching hands, it seemed they'd barely moved an inch from their positions.

Seeing them, Hilde recalled a lesson she'd just learned that day. She turned to the soldiers around her. They were doing their own level best to stand their ground and – excluding the injured one who could still only do the first – at least prevent the physical aspect of the chaos from closing in on their charge. Though the choice of performing this duty might not have been theirs to make, it didn't matter. The fact remained that she was the recipient.

In a raised voice, she asked the man behind Raban and the man behind her, ”Will you tell me your names?”

They frowned in confusion at the strangeness of the request and at the even stranger timing – just then, they had their hands full simply with keeping themselves from knocking against her with their hard, bruising armors. Noting the sweat steadily streaming down their faces and necks, Hilde winced – they must be cooking inside those shells.

In the end, because she kept looking their way expectantly, they each gave their names. The one behind her also indicated whose son he was, marking him as a noble.

She repeated their names to them and, nodding in acknowledgment, simply said, ”Thank you.”