“
But there was another shrine at the back of the room, where the throne had once been. There, the dais had been lowered, and there was no throne, no deer, no rays of sun. There were still some who worshipped Arren the Sunbringer, Fireheart, but Lessa was determined he be remembered as only a king, stacker of Lesscia and Blenraden, burner of his people, not the winner of their war.
For he had not won it.
In the space where his throne had been, a small but grand shrine had been raised. Its walls were panelled in etched brass, showing green leaves, patterns and feathers, and its totem was white marble, beautifully carved: a hare with a stag’s horns and a bird’s wings.
His eyes had been set with amber, his fur detailed so meticulously it looked as if he might spring up and move at any moment. Offerings had already been draped on his antlers, pooled in the bowls before him. Libations, incense, sweets and wine.
Inara’s offerings were different. They were written notes on long thick pages. Inked stories of what he had been, what they had done together. She had one tucked in her pocket, ready to read aloud. His history, and hers.
It was a greater shrine than he had ever dreamed, etched at its base with his name:
Skediceth. God of hope and telling tales.
”
”