The sky was grey and rumbling like an ogre’s belly. Below we stood, solemn in dark veils, the women left behind. Behind us green plains stretched for miles and miles; ahead of us the citadel rose up into the sky, but we were not gathered to admire the scenery.

Instead we followed my father’s mahogony coffin as it took its path along the river Meth, past the citadel and down the Falls of Hirim. At last it dipped over the edge of the fall, tilting slowly, dragging out its fall from grace, before disappearing behind its horizon and into the depths of the chasm below.

“This is it,” came a deep female voice at my neck. “Your father has gone, now you must take his place.” My aunt’s voice was strained. She always kept her tears behind her eyes; it made them turn a sad shade of blue.
“Not now!” I choked.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “The people are waiting. The ceremony must begin.”

I collapsed to my knees, wanting more than anything to mourn the passing of my father, even when I hated him in life.