Page 113 of A Crown of Hopes and Sorrows

Hopelessness poured around so heavily it might drown us all.

Valerian drew me into his arms, and I leaned into his steadiness for a moment before kissing him and drawing on a hooded cloak as I exited his room, pulling the door slowly, letting the latch whisper into place and studying the dark halls for any flicker of movement before easing my way through them.

The offerings would begin at sunrise. I had little time.

Once I’d rushed through dressing and made it back out with Father and Emrin to a high hill in the far corner of the palace grounds, the sun just peeked over the hills, casting the horizon in rippling washes of rose. The weather had been strange over the past week, heavy hours of rain alternating with sunshine, the air cooling and then warming again, the sun not rising reliably. But on that day—on the morning we lay Hyacinth’s body to rest—the sun eased up as it should, raising its face to a lavender and periwinkle sky scarcely marred with thin clouds.

Our family stood next to the funeral monument where workers had erected it. It was a wonder they’d finished it so quickly. The carving on it depicted Hyacinth, his chin raised, flowers at his feet, a crown on his head.

Gods, was he young.

And beautiful.

And wasted.

I wish we had words to commemorate him.

But Hyacinth was the poet. Not any of us.

Father leaned down to the sarcophagus—intricately carved on the side with a man sitting in a meadow looking at the sun in the distance. Whether it was rising or setting, I couldn’t say. Father kissed the top of it and spread his fingers out over it, his rings glinting and reflecting over the cool surface of the stone.

I blinked hard and shifted towards the crowd. Thousands gathered, but I only let my gaze drift to familiar faces. Valerian stood next to Temi, where she had clasped an arm around him. His expression was hard, but his eyes shimmered. Delon and Len flanked them, heads bowed.

The high priest raised his voice, his words indecipherable as my thoughts overwhelmed me. It wasn’t until everyone stared in my direction I realized he talked to me. His bushy brows pushed together as he spoke again. “Who presents the offerings?”

I moved a step forward, my hands clenching the bundle I held.

The gold, for his passage to the underworld.

The soaps and wines and dedications for him.

The jasmine scent of the oil he loved to wear.

I took a shaky breath as I advanced another step.

Light flashed through the sky, golden and burning. The crowd covered their faces with their hands, many crying out.

Gold dappled the grass.

The radiance of it dimmed, shrunk into itself until it became an oval form of silver just beyond the mass of bodies. People shuffled away, and it moved towards us. Our guards raised bows and drew swords, but Father lifted his hand. “Wait.”

The guards hesitated, their weapons lingering aloft.

The clicking of them blended together with the clattering of tree limbs.

My arms trembled, but Father didn’t break his gaze from the light.

When it stopped moving, the glow softened further.

And Apollo stood wreathed in it.

But he appeared unlike I’d ever seen him before.

He looked like a god.

His entire body emanated heat, his silver glare illuminating the crowd, his irises as bright and piercing as the midday summer sun, his arms holding thousands of flowers. He bowed deeply to Father. “If you’d allow it,” he whispered, “I would like to make the offerings.”

A sheen spread over Father’s eyes, but he nodded. “You may.”