Day 4. Death and Deception

 Chapter 8.

  Kit did not look like a king. 

   He stood with the rest of the congregants, garbed in black as was the customary color, no singlet or crown upon his head, though the pieces left behind by the old king fit his head easily. Valia had checked. 

   She watched Kit from across the circle of mourners. There was a strange custom in the Restoring Church, pushing men and women to opposite sides of a funeral ring. Davra mentioned something about it briefly as they walked through the cemetery, mixing that in with plenty of other information that Valia immediately forgot.

   They were underground, all of them, in the recently marked tomb of the usurper, Eadric the Blessed, son of Arloth, and though there was a large open door and vented slits in the ceiling–ones that Davra had assured would be sealed as well to keep vermin and rain out–the place was stuffy and Valia found it difficult to breathe. 

   In the center of the circle, in his blackwood box, face marked with lightning bolt lines spreading from the place where the Spokesman’s hands had gripped him, lay Eadric, the final blood relative that Valia had. Kit was very much an adoptive brother, and though she would never speak it to him aloud, there was a difference in relation. 

   Davra was overseeing the rite of burial, as they called it, though the stone case would be placed over Eadric and then the tomb vacated and sealed, and no actual dirt burial would take place. The woman chanted softly in that foreign language from the day before, moving about the oblong box with a smoking censor hanging from three short strands of chain, her hand swaying the bronze globe back and forth, over and over Eadric’s body. 

   Valia looked at Kit again and found that he was looking at her. He did not look away and she smiled at him, finding the motion forced and hollow. He nodded with a blink of his eyes, and Valia nearly began crying. So much thrust upon this man, her friend, her brother, and so much loss that he could not have the time to deal with. They had spoken the night before, after her bath and dinner and after he had met with The Ox, that great brute of a man who oversaw the king’s guard, and shared more of what they thought about the kingdom. She knew some statecraft from speaking with her father and speaking with Eadric and listening to others of the Knights’ elders, but she never thought she would need to know how to run anything beyond a small squadron of soldiers. Even then, it would be a unique group, for though she was strong and capable in certain fighting scenarios, she was still a woman and the world seemed to move one way. 

   Davra spoke then, turning her tongue to the common language that Valia understood, breaking her from her thoughts and pulling her stare from Kit. 

   “Beloved of the perished, do you hold any ill will toward this man, secret or open, large or small?” 

   The circle was filled with Knights of Arl and some of the citadel leaders, the later mostly there to show face, but no one answered her. 

  “A cry goes forth from the earth, ‘return, return!’ A shout from the rivers and the air, ‘return, return!’” She looked around the circle, her green eyes catching Valia for a moment as she rotated. “Who are we but leaves upon the wind, carried at her whim and will? Who are we but blades of grass grown under the perfect sun, destined for things beyond our know, destined for return and rebirth.” She looked down at Eadric then, her hands grasping the edges of his coffin, the stone shape that surrounded the blackwoodbox. Her fingers gripped white. “Go forth, Eadric the Blessed! And return to what we all are, a leaf on the wind.” 

   She sang then and so did her other cultists, scattered through the circular crowd. Four men from the crowd stepped forth, arms as large as Valia was wide, and gripped the lid of the stone coffin, raising it up and lifting it over Eadric’s body, closing him in with the grating sound of stone on stone. 

   Valia wept then, and hurried out of the tomb, leaving everyone else behind, pushing through those standing at the entrance in a blurry rush, trying to hold back the audible sobs until she was out in the sunshine. There was no rain and she ran among the headstones and statues, no clouds to mar the day, and somehow, it seemed an affront. 

   Eadric was really gone.

Chapter 9. 

   Kit watched Valia run from the circle of mourners, watched as eyes followed her for a moment and then turned back to the closed coffin of stone that encased his friend. His brother. Kit stepped forward, not worrying of consequence, not worrying of right or proper, and placed both hands on the stone. It was marked with leaves and branches and runes, the later an ancient form of writing lost to the modern world, and he whispered to his friend the final words he wished he could have spoken to him. 

   They weren’t really words, even, for no sounds came from his lips, but it was the feeling Kit had that he must share, the final moment between the two of them before the stone was placed over the door, the vents were all sealed, and the tomb closed for eternity. 

   The druids sang around him but he heard them little, mostly listening for the voice of his friend, imparting some wisdom or bravado, speaking in eloquence as he did, giving Kit the drive to carry on. But he was gone and no words came, and Kit turned from the stone and walked in downcast silence from the tomb, blinking against the sunlight as he exited, looking around for Valia.

   He found her hunched over on a small bench in the far corner of the cemetery, the half broken wings of an angel spread above her, a statue that told of some ancient story where men were as beautiful as women and had wings, sent from the skies to minister to the people. Clearly there were no angels anymore. 

   Kit sat down next to Valia and put his arm around her, holding her against him as her shoulders shook and she wept. He stared at the stones beneath their feet, each one circled by moss that threatened in some place to cover the stones entirely. 

  “I cannot remain,” Valia said through the hands over her face. “I cannot stay in this place knowing what it could have been with Eadric. And I cannot return to the forest for I fear the looks of those there, those who may know loss of some sort but do not know mine.” She raised her head and pushed back her blond hair from her face, flowing it over her head like a bride on her final day. “I would not be reminded of him every day.” 

   Kit nodded, though he found he could not understand. If he could, he would visit the tomb every day. He would see his friend’s armor polished and cleaned upon its rack, he would read some of the notes his friend had written in his journal, found in his travelling bag, and he would think of Eadric often. It was the loss that hurt, not the memory. 

   “Where will you go?” he asked, finding his words. 

   She shook her head and leaned against his arm. “You need me here, don’t you? If what The Ox said is true, then there are rats in the house and a horde of them waiting outside. You need all the cats you can get.” 

   “You never struck me much as a cat,” Kit said with a smile, one he actually felt. “You’re more of a hawk or an eagle. Royal and free.” 

   She smiled and wiped at her face, smudging some of the dark paint she had marked around her eyes. Makeup was not the fashion in Raelle, not nearly as much as in the Southern Eyes where both the men and the women painted their faces for beauty, but in the customs of death shadowed eyes were more than appropriate. 

   “I don’t much feel like flying,” Valia whispered. 

  “I can fend for myself,” Kit said, trying to sound more sure of himself than he felt. “I trust some of the men here, Ulrig and Stanho at least, and if my personal guards are all that I have, then I shall still fend for myself. But I trust The Ox, oddly, and Rogo seems to only have the citadel’s best interests at heart, and they are two men who would do well at my side.” He forced a smile even though Valia was not looking at him. 

   “What of the quest?” she asked. 

   “What of it?” 

   “Perhaps. . .” her voice trailed off. 

   “If you are determined to leave this town and this kingdom, to find fresher air for your wings,” he smiled again, “I would trust your hand in the matters of the Spokesmen. There is no one else I could send whom I trust.” 

   She sat up and leaned away from him, turning to look at his face. She had cleaned the smudges of dark away and her cheeks were red and puffy. She looked tired, above all else. 

   “We must pick someone to become the fifth Spokesman,” she said. “I would go on their quest with them, but whom shall we choose? It sounds like true magic, not that of the goat meat. What he did to Eadric,” she shook her head, the sorrow returning to her face with a quiver of her lip, “I’m loath to trust them, Kit, I really am.”

   “So am I,” he answered. 

   “My captain?” 

  They both turned to see Ulrig, Kit’s close guard, standing nearby. Kit hadn’t noticed that the man had followed him. It was a compliment, for Kit would have attempted the same thing were Eadric sitting there as king instead of he. 

  “Yes?” 

   “There is a man to see you, he says it’s quite urgent.” 

   Kit frowned a little and found his muscles tensing. He carried a small ceremonial dagger beneath his black doublet, but he wished for his broadsword. “Send him forward,” he said. 

   Ulrig saluted with two fingers to the center of his forehead, his hand open and palm sideways as was the custom of the Knights of Arl, and an average looking man stepped out from behind a tall obelisk-like headstone. He was the man who had been in the throne room two nights before, and the one who had caught Kit on the street corner after his meeting with Borneld. Rusk, the man had said his name was. 

   Kit sighed and shook his head as the man approached. 

   “You may not wish to see me in this hour,” began the man, “but I would only say a few words and if you are not inclined to hear then I would leave and cease to bother you.” 

   Kit felt Valia grip his arm and noticed that he was grinding his teeth together. It wasn’t hate for this man, it was the terrible sincerity with which he spoke. Whatever it was this man had to say, he believed it with all his heart. 

   “Go on,” Kit said. 

   Rusk swallowed and took a breath. “The man they sealed in the tomb is not Eadric the Blessed. The Restoring Church holds your brother in a crypt beneath the city. They are attempting to return him to life.” 

Chapter 10. 

   According to Stanho, it was the nearest, most private place. 

   They stood at the top of the clocktower in the north quarter, the wind blowing through the open level between the bell above and the four faced clock below. A circular rail stood in the center of the square level and a spiral step led down the center of the rail to the inner workings of the clock faces below. Rusk seemed to think such a place was the only location with which to have an audience. 

   Stanho, one of Kit’s two most loyal guards, stood at the railing, turning about slowly to survey the area. Of course, unless dragons climbed out of the story books and began having diplomatic interests, Kit couldn’t imagine anyone listening to their conversation. But the man was thorough, there was no denying that. He was from Avri Amur, the western most kingdom of the continent across the Farra Peaks, and had the sharp features and slight frame that would place him there, though his name was securely Raellian. He spoke little and preferred to work with Ulrig ever since Kit could remember. Ulrig, for his part, guarded the stair at the bottom of the clocktower, six stories below where they stood. 

   Rusk shielded his eyes against the sunlight shining on his face, adding a shadow to his plain features.

   “If what you say is true,” began Kit, “We must reopen the tomb. And you must show us where Eadric’s body is. If it is not true,” he let the word trail off, staring as harshly as he dared at the man. 

   “All true,” Rusk assured them. He glanced to Valia and then back to Kit. “We have been banished from practicing our religion openly in Taro Myule. We have spread to other kingdoms and even across the White Sea, but this city has stifled us. It is all thanks to the druids and their lips on the ears of the king. Before my grandfather was born, Olereon was the primary god worshiped in this land–” 

   “What has this to do with Eadric?” Valia snapped, cutting off his words. 

   The man nodded. “We cannot cease our worship, so though we have been persecuted these past decades, we have moved underground. The Hollow Church, we sometimes call ourselves, though it’s only a friendly name.” He swallowed, realizing he was going on again. “Cities are built upon ruins, the old upon the new. It may be hard to notice, but the northern quarter of the city is much lower in relation to the other sectors, the primary reason being that, while industry and modernism grew above and on top of most of Taro Myule, this area was dedicated as historic and kept preserved. What is hidden beneath is original dungeons and catacombs and escape routes, but what’s hidden beneath the rest of the city are layers and layers of older city, much of it still strong and intact, just abandoned. We found tunnels to entire districts we were not aware of, and in certain of those,” he lowered his voice as though he hadn’t already been whispering, “we found the Restoring Church and their current ‘activities’.” 

   Kit and Valia looked back and forth at each other, eyes narrowed, then back at the man. “What activities, man?” asked Kit. 

   “Necromancy, death experimentation, preservation and extension. They have fed beans to every animal there is under the stars, and tested the meat of them all. They would seek an elixir of eternity.” 

   “That doesn’t sound very ‘restore, return’ to me,” said Valia, crossing her hands over her chest. 

   “No one knows?” asked Kit. 

   Rusk shook his head. “We are outcasts, my lord, much as you were. If you came to the former king and told him that there was a secret society of experimentalists hiding beneath his city, do you think he would take your word?” 

   Kit slowly shook his head. 

   “There it is!” announced Rusk with triumph. “I have approached the king, not on the grounds of what we’ve found below, but on the grounds of being reinstated as a kingdom religion. Our primary request is to worship without persecution, to share the water of god without fear of death. Beyond that, we have knowledge we will share.” 

  “I have no fear of religion,” Kit said carefully. “You must come to the citadel and present your case to the court, with Rogo there as well. He still acts as advisor. I would have his word on this. As for this underground business. . . what are we to do? Send a contingent of soldiers beneath the ground to verify your claims?” 

   “Let us go now,” said Valia. “I would be there with you at my side, for if you have falsified this claim. . .” 

   Rusk put his hands up and stepped back, visibly moved by the voracity in Valia’s voice. “I have not seen your brother myself,” he said, “though those who have I trust with my life. We are not a band of liars.” 

   “That remains to be seen,” said Kit. Then, he turned to Stanho. “What do you say, Stan?” 

   Stanho shook his head, narrow eyes not focusing on any one thing but likely seeing all. “I would fear a trap, sir.” 

   Kit nodded and looked back to Rusk. “Valid point. We will hold you at the citadel as collateral should danger be waiting for us. I will go in your stead.” 

   “Kit,” snapped Valia. “I spoke first of going with them.” 

   He shook his head. “A king must lead.” 

   “This I would speak against, sir,” said Stanho quietly from the railing. 

   Kit bit his lip. If he did not stand by his word, if he bent to the whims of everyone on every emotional level, how could he possibly lead as king? 

   “No,” said Kit. He faced Rusk. “I will go with your consort. Arrive at the citadel after nightfall and ask for Ulrig, he will bring you to me. If you yourself do not come, I will bind every one of your men in the gaol and there will be no freedom for worship. You may find, monk, that this is a terrible week to test my patience. Now go.” 

   Rusk seemed as though he would speak again, but closed his mouth and gave a curt nod, then hurried down the spiral stair, disappearing in the lower levels of the tower. 

   Kit turned to Valia, waiting for a biting remark. None came. 

   “You can’t do it all,” she said instead, gently, almost motherly. “What if it is a trap and you perish below ground, and another cycle of this starts again?” 

   “I won’t die underground,” Kit said. “You’re a fighter, Val, not a soldier. There is a difference, especially in foreign territory. I would consider sunken cities as such.” 

   She narrowed her eyes and her lips drew to a narrow line, hiding all color. “Do not shut me out, Kit. Do not bear this alone.” 

   She said nothing more but went down the spiral stair alone, not looking back once. 

   Kit waited a moment longer before following, not looking at Stanho as he did. The man wouldn’t say anything, but there was something in those Avri Amur eyes that always showed disappointment when it was felt within. Kit didn’t have any room for that feeling. 

Chapter 11. 

   Not two hours after the funeral of the rightful king of Raelle, a coronation ceremony was held for the new king, one far more reluctant than the intended. 

   It was a small affair, out on the public promenade in the eastern quarter, markedly the wealthier neighborhood. Few dukes or earls from around the kingdom were in attendance, for while the twins' news traveled fast, horses were still only so limited, and no one had found a way to get them to eat the sild goat meat. 

   There were wealthy business people there, those who owned the textile mills and the grain processors, those who ran the masonry guilds and the herbiaries, and anyone else who believed it unwise to support the new king. They were doubtful of the changing power, and for good reason, though likely for different reasons among them. 

   The ceremony was short, Kit was dressed in silly robes of unnecessary decadence, and when it was over he quickly entered the royal carriage and rode back to the citadel. There was a winding road that cut back and forth up the northern slope of the bluff, and it added a terrible amount of time to the journey. There was an elevator system, but Rogo assured Kit it would look poor if he was seen riding this. He wasn’t a commoner after all. 

   Throughout the whole affair, Kit could only think of what Rusk had said, of the prospect of Eadric being alive or perhaps far worse, being made undead. 

   Though Rusk seemed to believe the Restoring Church held all of the religious sway in Taro Myule, it was not one of their order who oversaw the ceremony. Instead it was a grizzled old man who seemed more of a war veteran than a priest. He wore a wide travelers hat in white with a long white and gold robe, the symbol of the Veclian crux running up and down the robe’s length. The Veclian church was not one Kit was very aware of, and Rogo assured him it was more ceremonial than anything else. There were cathedrals of the church, still, but the congregants were few and far between. 

   None of it mattered to Kit much, as he rode the royal carriage up the crossing slopes of the bluff road. 

   “Court will return tomorrow,” Rogo said as they rumbled along. “I have the slate of appointments in my chambers; we can discuss them this evening?”

   Valia sat next to Kit and looked out the window. She was still dressed in her black dress from the funeral that morning, and Kit wondered how long she would remain in her mourning attire. 

   “I will be occupied this evening,” answered Kit. He held the crown in his hands, rotating it back and forth, feeling the black diamonds beneath his thumbs. 

   Rogo nodded, unmoved, “Of course. Perhaps as soon as we return to the citadel? It will not take but an hour.” 

   Kit nodded. “Better to suffer first than long,” he said. 

   The short man laughed, mopping his brow with a pink cloth. “Right you are, sire, right you are indeed. Might I suggest something, my liege, if you would permit my boldness?”

   Kit raised his hand, indicating the man to go on.

   Rogo bowed a little, folding over his wide belly. “There is an expectation of your decorum, sire. Godsmar was not a kind man, and though he was hated by all, his word meant steel and he did not go against his morals. They were broken morals, to be sure, but they were his and they never bent. You will see farmers and craftsmen and merchants tomorrow, and they will approach you with the fear with which they came before Godsmar. You are not him, you do not hold his tyranny, but if you appear soft, you will never rule half as effectively as he.” Rogo wiped away more sweat. “You must hold to your word, sire, above all else, and choose a facade of stern resolve. Do not break, do not bend.” 

   Kit felt the intensity of the man filling the carriage, the open window let none of it out.

   “Kit’s as soft as a mouse,” Valia said, not looking from the window. “He was raised by foxes, didn’t you know?” 

   Rogo raised an eyebrow. “Is this true, my liege?” 

   Kit shook his head. “Stories,” was all he said. 

   They rode the rest of the way mostly in silence, though Kit’s mind was a race. He was a man of the military, of swords and armor and blood, not of throne rooms and court hearings and land disputes. He pushed it out of his mind, giving him space to think about the mission of the night. He couldn’t deny that he felt a generous measure of excitement. It hadn’t even been two days since they had stormed the citadel, and yet it felt like a year had passed. Kit was ready for another adventure. And if it meant saving Eadric, all the more. 

   If you’re there, my friend, he thought to himself as they reached the top of the bluff, I will come for you. I will do what I can, I promise you.