The King is Dead
“The King is dead,” they are told, and they wait, patient, for the cry that always follows, the duality, the assurance that things will go on the way they always have: “The King is dead. Long live the King.”
But the Cryer stands up on his parapet, his mouth shut tight, letting his dire proclamation hang on them like shackles. The silence stretches. The crowd ripples, whispers, weeps – There is the Prince, they say, but there are tales of his disappearance, of betrayals, of a curse on the royal house.
They watch the Cryer. He could speak at any moment.