Gunnland
FTR
Cathedral of St. Andrew, Windhaven
Four horses plod through snowy streets, every steaming breath visible to bundled crowds pressed against Gothic buildings. Snow magnifies silence; silence magnifies the jangling carriage reins. What can be more picturesque than snow-covered old university towns? Even the baroque Gunns that vastly preferred Gallia to the "anus mundi," said the sight of Windhaven was worth their arduous journeys north. Today's journey is almost as arduous. The GDWR and the WHR have brought out the old steam engines for Coronation Day. Always aesthetics over modern efficiency; it's the Gunnish way.
Mass is mercifully short, even with the eighth sacrament. But it seems like an eternity to Julian for the corpulent Bishop of Ayr to place the Iron Crown on her head, so named for the thin dull band in the silver circlet made from nails from Jesus' cross, and to hand her the golden globus cruciger. Unpleasantly for her, her back is to the audience. Thank God it's not Cardinal Stewart crowning me. Anxiety gives her a moment of clarity. Have I announced my accession now only because that snake is in conclave?
Spider! She is actually glad to see Robert Gunn among the eight kilt-clad thegns, like fools in motley beside the altar. But he is an arachnid to her, scuttling between the government and the Stone Chair, Ayr banks and Seaguard factories. Gunnland is his web. He approaches with the final item of regalia, the Sword-From-Across-the-Water, and lays the claymore across her lap. What will happen if I cut his web?