The clouds before the sun proved the king was dead, and the keening in the city confirmed it. Who did not mourn? Even the river ceased in its course for an hour, unwilling to flow as the king's blood did.
The council chose a regent, who wore the mask and the cloak so no god would glance that way and think him a king. He arranged the effort. One crew set out to establish camps along the way while a second began the road to the chosen pyramid. Priests blessed every step of the route. The rich sacrificed and the poor prayed that the pyramid held an excellent king inside.
Pessimists instead called the people to think what would become of them when the pyramids were all demolished, plundered for their kings. Once there had been forty; now eight. Did the end of the kingdom wait after those eight generations?
Not so, said the new king. Soon they would learn to build pyramids again. A river might cease for an hour, but not longer.
Finis
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