Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to lose oneself in the chapel. The grand, vaulted ceilings rose sixty meters above the congregation, and stretched nearly one hundred fifty meters in length. Not quite tall enough to park a DropShip in, but almost able to take an Overlord laid on its side. Tara bet she could find room enough for a full battalion of BattleMechs if she were willing to ruin the magnificent vestibule by parading them through.

Skylights opened up at either end of the room, with light filtering in through awe-inspiring examples of stained glass art. Religious and—some might say—mythological scenes. The one she liked best showed a priest, a monk and an earth-mother druid all waiting in line at the gates of Heaven.

Which sounded like the start of a bad joke, but was quite tasteful and elegant in the display.

The air was actually damp with the night’s heavy rains, and it tasted of old wood and new carpet. A sluggish chill crept through the room while everyone waited for the last guests to file in. The Republic Cathedral seated over four thousand souls, and would be filled to maximum occupancy with relations, foreign and domestic dignitaries, an entire regiment of military officers, and the friends, associates and well-wishers accumulated along a century of full life.

Victor’s transparent coffin had already been brought into the chapel, resting on the altar’s stage under an honor guard of six paladins. David McKinnon. Heather GioAvanti. Drummond, Mandela, Avellar and Marik. All wearing their dress uniforms. All with eyes on their former comrade, as if willing him back into service.

Tara spent some time leaning forward, eyes closed, lost in thought as she contemplated what Victor might have wanted said at his final service.

And what was likely to be on the agenda instead.

“They should plant him quick,” Daoshen said, his tenor voice rising above the whispered conversations which buzzed throughout the grand chapel, “before he changes his mind.”

The Chancellor of the Confederation sounded more amused than bitter. As if Act II, Scene I of his own little drama demanded an obnoxious comment at the expense of those truly sorry for Victor’s passing.

Tara opened her eyes but refused to glance his direction, to give him the satisfaction. She stared straight ahead, past several rows of pews holding the As and Bs of the distinguished guest list. It surprised her to see, in front of the seated paladins and a space reserved for Exarch Levin, a mostly empty pew for immediate family. Victor had been survived by at least one son and a daughter, and grandchildren, that Tara knew of. One or two great-grandchildren as well? Plus there would be a few immediate cousins still alive.

But there were only two adults sharing the long bench, and one child between them. Tara recognized Simone Davion from a charity social they had both attended years before. And Sir Kitsune, of course. Knight of the Sphere, and Victor’s recognized son by his lover before Isis Marik. Was it Simone’s son who sat there between the stiff-backed adults? Or Kitsune’s?

A pregnant hush swept through the room, and the air of expectancy did cause Tara’s head to turn this time. Exarch Levin, escorting his wife, and former-Exarch Damien Redburn walked the lonely aisle between the chapel halves. A carpet runner laid out over the marble floor soaked up their footfalls as the dignified trio moved straight to the front of the chapel, to the front row where, after a word of condolence to Simone, and likely seeking her blessing as well, they joined the family members at the very front.

The paladins smoothed over the gap in their row by sliding over to fill the space.

A full house.

Tara swallowed past the tightness in her throat as Bishop Wesley-Smith of the New Catholic faith walked in from a chamber off to the right-hand side of the altar. A friend and long-time counselor of Victor Davion, he would open the nondenominational ceremony. His goatee was not exactly church-standard, but it was well groomed and he had a light of grace in his eyes that few pious men truly achieved.

The silence deepened as he seized the podium with large, rawboned hands. “Let us remember,” he said, “Victor Ian Steiner-Davion.”

The reminiscence would replace an opening invocation. It was long but heartfelt. The bishop personalized Victor, speaking of him only as a man, and a friend.

“Never so strong he did not recognize his own weakness. Never so weak he could not take a moment to help lift up another.

“He lived his life so simply, in the end. Preferring a daily routine not so different from one you might find in any home, in any city, on any world. A normal man with a very large heart and an enormous capacity for living.”

“At times caught up in extraordinary events. But, in the end, someone’s son, and someone’s father. A husband. A brother. A friend. Let us all take a moment of silence to recall who Victor was, to each of us.”

Tara tried to imagine the answers being thought and whispered around the room. A leader. A prince. An enemy. A patriot and a tyrant. For her, Victor was an ideal. She had never known him well, but had studied his history—from birth through the Clan invasion and Jihad, and finally into his twilight years as a paladin exemplar.

She knew Victor might not care for his funeral serving political expediency, but he’d also have been strong enough to make the same, hard decisions to which exarchs Redburn and Levin were being put.

“Thank you,” the bishop said, ending his part in the service.

There were some whispered amens around the room. People who had taken the time for prayer, according to their own beliefs. Devoutly Catholic, Tara crossed herself.

Next, two score of Gregorian monks moved up onto the stage from behind the altar, taking the place of the regular choir. With no musical accompaniment, they launched into a spiritual chant. Their strong voices lifted, cascaded throughout the magnificent chamber, echoing strains from Berlioz’ requiem, the Grande Messe des Morts. One of very few ancient pieces to survive the various neo-classical movements mostly intact.

Tara lost herself in the rendition, swept away by the masterpiece and the powerful delivery. It wasn’t until afterward, as echoes of the last four great beats died away, that she wondered about the choice. The Grande Messe des Morts.

The requiem that was nearly murdered by the political intrigue and infighting of its day.

Message? Almost certainly. Nothing today would be confined to a single meaning. Not one pregnant pause or turn of phrase.

Certainly not the eulogy being delivered by former Exarch Damien Redburn. The first of three planned eulogies, it was effectively the keynote address of the morning’s service.

Redburn rose from his seat, moving slowly and stately as he took the podium from Bishop Wesley-Smith. Only fifty, the former exarch carried himself as if he still bore a great weight of responsibility. Tara was close enough to see the extra gray that feathered into his dark hair, and the exarch’s face was lined heavily with the stresses put on him in the last few years. The rumors of his graceful retirement to the “easy life” seemed greatly exaggerated.

“I knew Victor Steiner-Davion,” Redburn said, by way of beginning. “As a warrior and a patriot. As a statesman and a paladin. As a friend.

“There are few of whom it can be said that they gave more selflessly to this great Republic, or to the entire Inner Sphere. He gave of his fortune and his faith, and he so often bled for his beliefs. Victor was never happy with the status quo. He graduated the Nagelring with honors, and took command of several line regiments. He served as archon and prince, as commander of a new Star League army, as precentor martial, and as a paladin of the Sphere. And he worked tirelessly, his entire life, toward one, single, pursuit.”