Day two. Burial and Brutality

Chapter 3. 

   Valia stood at the edge of the cemetery, watching the death doers in their sacred act. The sun shone and a soft wind blew, and it felt like a terrible day to bury a brother. 

   The woman in green who hadn’t spoken at the meeting of the throne the night before came to Valia in the wee morning hours after the armies had dispersed out into the city to quiet the rioting. Valia had spoken briefly with Kit, that she would think on the Spokesman’s words about sending someone south to find his mysterious relic, and told the man that he should go out to the city with the soldiers to show the people a good face for their new king. Valia sat with Eadric’s still body in an anteroom off the throne room as the morning hours ticked by and the woman in green finally appeared. 

   She had named herself Davra Solstone–it was uncommon to have a surname in Raelle and hers sounded self adopted–and insisted that she care for the burial of Valia’s brother. She claimed her order, the Restoring Church, cared for all death in the city and wherever their reach spread, and vowed that no one would take better care in death than they. Valia had allowed it, seeing no other option and not knowing enough of the city customs to dissent. 

   Now she stood at the edge of their cemetery, one for those wealthy or prominent enough to get statues over tombs, watching as the green clothed priests chanted with smoking incense and raised branches of trees. It was a curious affair, one that Valia found equally strange and unsettling. Yet, death was both those things, and she supposed it fit. 

   The cemetery was in the northern quarter of the city, a historical district with temples and structures of an older civilization who worshiped strange creatures; if their relics and statues were any indication. The places had mostly been converted to libraries and museums, and though Valia had never visited one, she had longed to see them. Growing up an outcast in a band of mostly mercenary men, she found the thought of something beautiful for the sake of beauty a thing to dream about. She imagined seeing such places one day, she just never thought it would be because of her brother’s death. 

   Davra broke from the group of mourners and cultists and strode through the graves to where Valia stood, leaning against the gate of the cemetery. The woman was as tall as Valia and perhaps twice as broad, though her frame within her cloak did not speak of fat and softness but rather muscle and strength. She smiled wanly at Valia as she stopped before her, reaching out a hand to touch Valia’s cheek. Apparently it was a sign of greeting among her order. 

   “We are nearly ready for final rest,” said the woman gently, kindly, with a tone that belied her apparent age. She was an enigma of dating, for though there were wrinkles and smile lines, she spoke as a youth might and her eyes held no cataracts or signs of deterioration that an older woman might. There was a wisdom about her that Valia could not dismiss, and that only confused it all the more. 

   “I do not believe in the gods,” Valia said, finding her voice hoarse and scratchy. “They told us our father sailed across the God Sea when he died. What would you tell me to give me false hope?” 

   “False hope?” Davra asked with a little shake of her head and a chidding click of her tongue. “I would offer you truth, my dear. Your brother, Eadric the Blessed, as you called him? Yes, yes he will sail beyond this life, is sailing now, though it is no sea or water as those Olereon Oarsmen might have you believe. You don’t believe in gods, and rightly should you not, for there are none, only the stars beyond and the sky with which to sail through. And perhaps, a place beyond once we have sailed enough.” 

   Valia snorted derisively. “I would have liked something less flowery, thank you.” She pushed past the woman and entered the cemetery, expecting a dark feeling of dread or fear to slip over her, but she felt nothing, only the shade of the statues she passed beneath.

   The sun was out and hot, burning in the summer midday, and Valia wiped sweat from her brow and wished she didn’t have to wear her armor for appearances, and wondered how dreadfully heavy the cultists clothing must feel. Davra had assured her earlier that they were not cultists, not in the traditional sense, for there was no god they looked to and no mouthpiece among men whom they went to for guidance, thus no one to take the place of a cult leader. But they worshiped the trees and the grass and the falling leaves, those perhaps most of all, and Valia thought that was enough for the title. 

   She reached the group of men and women standing around the blackwood box, her eyes only for Eadric laying in the center, his arms folded over his chest, his sword across his body, broken in half as was the apparent Restoring Church custom. Candles burned and censors smoked, adding heat to the warm afternoon and smells to the air that were beginning to make Valia feel slightly light headed. 

   “My lady, please, you mustn’t be here before–” one of the group began to protest, but Davra cut him off with a single word in a language Valia didn’t speak. 

   “He is the last of my blood,” whispered Valia. “The last of our line.” 

   “You remain,” put in Davra. 

   Valia shook her head. She reached out and placed a hand on Eadric’s forehead. She imagined his skin would be cold, as death seemed to exist solely in a wintery chill, but it had no temperature at all; it was merely like touching stone. She withdrew her hand and stepped back, looking around at the half dozen cloaked men and women. The chanting had stopped and they watched her in silence, even the man who had spoken in protest. 

   Turning, Valia stared at the gaping maw of the crypt they would lay Eadric in. It all seemed rather much for an insurrectionist, Valia couldn’t wipe that thought from her head, for she would have thought the city religion would care much for her brother or any of their Knights who died in the conflict. Yet, here he lay before an unmarked tomb, adorned in white and green to show his status as well as that of the Restoring Church. 

   “He is ready,” said Davra, announcing the words loudly as though she were calling out the winner of a joust. 

   The six cultists stepped forward and gripped the sides of the blackwood box, lifted it from its foldable table, and carried it slowly down the steps into the black opening. Valia stood at the top of the entrance, still in the light, watching her brother disappear into the black. 

   They chanted within and spoke in tongues Valia had never heard before, and finally they exited, sliding past her to gather their things. Davra was last and sealed the doors shut with a great tumbling lock. It would remain closed until the ceremony the following day, when the stone would be put in place and sealed forever.

   The church woman walked with Valia out of the cemetery and through the historic district, pointing out various things as Valia listened, hardly taking any of it in. At the statue of a giant bear standing with terrible spikes protruding from it’s back like the spines of a dragon, facing the smaller form of a man with a spear, Valia finally spoke, interrupting the older woman’s diction. 

   “You speak as though you did not just view a dead body,” she said. 

   Davra looked at her sidelong, clearly confused to at least feigning so. “Yes?” 

   “But you seem to feel no loss or pain. Have you acted in so many burials that life no longer means anything to you?” 

   She smiled, a broad smile that was almost condescending. “Your brother remains in the world, his spirit is with the trees and the grass. Even tomorrow, when we seal the crypt with stone, he will only change bodies. What we lay in the ground may have seem like your brother, but–” 

   Valia waved a hand, cutting her off. “No no, I do not adhere to the tenets of your cult, woman, I do not care for such talk. We are still human and to lose a human, no matter what star sailing or tree spiriting you believe in after death, the sole fact remains, that a person has died and is no longer with us, no longer human.” 

   “Yes?” asked Davra again, and Valia thought she might strike her. But, she calmed her temper and forced herself to walk on. 

   “To speak of death and the end makes me wonder at the Spokesmen,” Valia said, watching the older woman as she spoke. There was perhaps a small tenseness in the corner of the women’s lips, but nothing more. 

   “Ahh, you wonder at his words of relics and abjuration magic?” 

   Valia nodded. 

   They passed beneath an arch that seemed on the verge of collapse, and likely would have had hours of history if Valia had not diverted the subject. As it was, they walked through without discourse. 

   “I assume it is true,” said the woman. “Percho is an honest man, what little I know of him points exclusively to this fact. He has his own measures with his little group of five, they had a keen entrance to the ear of the late king, but I know he wishes for nothing more than the unity and power of the kingdom. If he believes there is something to this relic quest, then I would put great value upon it.” 

   They walked in silence for a time, passing streets of libraries and museums, some thronged with tourists from across the land and outside the kingdom. Raelle was an ancient place, built upon history. Davra led Valia across a bridge that spanned the Central River, so called because it bisected the northern quarter of the city, and the older woman stopped in the center, pointing up to the citadel high on the bluff, not far from where they were. Smoke still curled up from smoldering fires throughout the city, and no flags or banners flew from above the citadel’s towers. Valia hadn’t gotten word yet as to the state of the unrest in the city, but she hoped Kit was in a state of mind sharp enough to take care of it. She had spent too long away from the seat of power as it was, she should be returning. 

   Davra spoke, still pointing to the fortress on the hill. “You might call us cultists, or druids, or ferrafolk, but I wish you to know one thing above all: the Restoring Church cares most about keeping life in the world. We seek for the salvation of the forests and the valleys, and at the same time seek the safety and sanctity of all living creatures who roam upon this land. I have cast the leaves under seven full moons, and there is danger upon the wind, sister usurper. Danger that must be watched. Keep this city intact, hold the mage slayer in place, and find one worthy to quest the Spokesman’s magic. Do these, and you will hold the danger at bay. Fail, and not even the Tree of Giving can save you.” 

   She smiled a sweet smile and looked more grandmotherly than at any time since Valia had first seen her, then she turned back the way she had come and disappeared around a white marble building framed in pillars. Valia would see her tomorrow at the true burial of her brother, and even a whole day would be too soon to see the strange woman. 

   “Hold the mage slayer in place,” repeated Valia, turning back from the woman to look once more upon the citadel. “Kit, please. Remain steadfast,” she whispered, as much a prayer as a wish, and then hurried forward to find the nearest hire carriage heading for the bluff. 

Chapter 4. 

   Captain Borneld was a tall man with a thick beard he kept braided in threes, a bald head he wore marked with rune tattoos, and thick fingers adorned in dark rings enough that they nearly acted as gauntlets. He drank heavily from an ox horn flagon, stuff that smelled like swamp water and steamed a little each time he took a swig. 

   Kit never used to hate the man but he did now, sitting across from him in the tavern, watching the drink spill down his black beard but never drip onto his shirt, the thick hair absorbing all the leakage. Kit’s sword, Bloodswill, leaned against the side of the table, the leather tip guard resting on a tavern floor that likely hadn’t been clean in decades. 

   “Say it again,” Kit said, doing his best to bore eye holes into the man. Borneld seemed unperturbed. 

   “They need to know fear,” repeated the man. He burped loud, thumped his chest, and grinned down at Kit with a half-toothed smile. “We’ve given them that, given them a promise of danger should they fall out of line.” 

   “They aren’t soldiers!” shouted Kit, slamming his fist onto the table, making the horn flagon shake. He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “They’re citizens, Borneld, subjects of the former king and people needing a new regime to look up to! You’ve given them terror instead of respect!” 

   The big man laughed, drank, burped, and spoke again. “You killed their king and one of their feared mages. Don’t pretend that that didn’t spread fear before I burned a single building or hung a single city watchman.” 

   That was something Kit couldn’t understand. The bard twins who were in the throne room during the attack had somehow spread word throughout the city, telling of the change in power and the death of the Spokesman. Yet, they hadn’t left the room and as far as Kit knew, no messengers had come or gone either. And yet, within an hour, everyone knew that the king was dead, and everyone knew that Kit was a mage slayer. The bard twins were legends across Raelle, their stories and songs permeated all of life. Their word spread like a flash flood and seemed to cover as much area as the sea. Borneld was right in that respect, the people did have something to fear before the captain’s damage was done. They had to fear change. 

   “Four hundred dead?” Kit asked. 

   The captain shrugged, black chainmail shaking over his shoulders. “Not all of that was my men, of course. Chaos and midnight do terrible things to average folk.” He winked. “You’ve seen that yourself, eh?” 

   Kit didn’t want to give the man any pleasure of a response, wasn’t sure what he was referencing but hoped that, for his sake, he didn’t mean the attack on the throne room and the death of Eadric. 

   “More!” shouted Borneld, raising his flagon to the barman who sat alone in the silent tavern.

   Kit had found where the man was, assuming that the trouble was caused by his hand but hoping it wasn’t, and had entered with Eadric’s twelve, sending out the rest of the patrons and Borneld’s guards, leaving only the barman who refused to leave. 

   He was a skinny man, possibly too skinny with stringy blond hair that fell about his face in such a lazy way Kit wondered if he wasn’t wasted on skunk meat. Goats were not the only animals who could process the magic beans that grew in the northern plains, and other animals produced strange effects in their meat, some of them far less beneficial and far more like spirits. The barman nodded and came around the bar to take the horn from Borneld, the flagon seemed to grow twice in size compared to the skinny man’s small hands. 

   The captain stared down at Kit, his dark brows furrowed in drink and buffered in anger. “Your father would have done the same as I,” he said, his words low and dangerous. “Eadric is dead, and you are in place because of the myth around the Spokesmen, but have no misgivings, little fox; I should carry Arloth’s banner. I should sit upon the Raelle throne.” 

   The barman came back with a steaming smelling horn of swill, and hurried back to the bar once it was set down. 

   “You are not upon the throne,” Kit said. “Arloth would have done nothing of the sort, you know nothing of my father.” 

   The man smeared at Kit, leaning over his drink until the braids of his beard dragged in the murky liquid. “He’s not even your real father, boy. We only say it for his memory, not for your honor.” 

   In a flash, Kit reached forward and grabbed the man’s beard, yanking forward with all his own strength, no goma necessary. Borneld slid out from his chair as his chest hit the table, and before he could move further, Kit’s other hand was on the bald tattooed head, slamming it down to the wood. The flagon cracked on the man’s neck, spilling swill over the table and down his lap, and Kit lifted and crashed Borneld’s head again to the table. Then, he threw him back with such force that the bigger captain stumbled from his seat and fell sprawling to the dirty floor, his face red with the pain and the strain on his beard, his nose broken from the table. 

   “You are stripped of your post of captain, and hereby put on guarded leave,” Kit proclaimed. He whistled one sharp note and four of his guards entered the tavern. They saw Borneld right away and moved to restrain the man. For his part, he did not resist, though blood streamed down his lips and beard, and Kit’s handprint slowly faded from his skull. His dark eyes burned down at Kit’s own as the guards pulled him away. 

   “You are a boy,” growled Borneld. “Boy’s are not meant to rule, certainly not adopted bastards at that.” 

   Then he was out the door and into the midday sun. Kit followed, giving orders to take the man to the citadel gaol, to treat him with respect but severity, and to ensure he had no weapons upon him. 

   Kit watched them go, the citadel a tall backdrop in the distance. They were in the western quarter of the Taro Myule, the sector of manufacturing and trade, a place where Borneld had burned six textile plants and three meat shops, and killed one hundred fourteen city watchmen.

   There was much to be done. 

   Kit went back to the barman and paid him generously for the broken flagon and loss of patrons, and then returned to his men outside. He needed to meet with Goro half-herian, to find out what was expected of him from the royal staff. He needed to talk with The Ox and find out the morale of the citadel soldiers and how he could establish new guards in the place of those Borneld killed. He must also meet with the Spokesmen to find out more of their wild quest for prevention magic. Had one of them called it abjuration? It would soon be found out. 

   And then there was–

   A man of vague familiarity waved Kit down and called out to him from a group of men standing on a street corner, all dressed in common brown doublets and breeches. He said Kit’s name, and though most of the city new the mage slayer, not many knew his actual name. 

   “Sir,” said one of Kit’s guards, a man just older than Kit named Ulrig, “would you wish us to call them back?” 

   Kit watched the waving man in brown as they neared, then finally remembered where he knew him from. “Hold a moment, Ul,” he said, then pushed out of the phalanx and stopped just before the man. He waved once more, an easy smile on his face, then his hand fell down before him as though he would clasp Kit’s arm. 

   Kit didn’t take the hand. “You were in the throne room, in the meeting to determine the course of Raelle,” he said. 

   The man’s smile widened, even more pleased than before. “Rusk, your highness,” he said with a little bow. He was smiling and near laughing, but Kit didn’t get the impression that the man was making fun of him. He must have been ten years Kit’s senior, but carried himself in a young, free manor that was both confusing and comforting. 

   “Why were you there, Rusk? The others I understood, but why you? And why did I not speak with you then?” 

   The man spread his arms, nearly hitting his fellows, the men around him watching in quiet observation. “You had much larger fences to mend than the one I carried,” he said. 

   “Is that supposed to mean something?” Kit asked. 

   Rusk shook his head. “An attempt at a new euphemism. Not very good, I’m afraid. My point, your highness, is that I did not feel it the place to assuage your time and attention. There will be plenty of hours in the common weeks for an audience. We are a patient people.” 

   “We?”

   Rusk again spread his arms, this time reaching out and patting the other men on the shoulders. “There are many of us, my lord, though not as many as may be. For you see, our way has been crushed by those who would see our work as a threat.” 

   “What work is this?” asked Kit, suddenly finding interest. 

   “Hope,” said the man. “Truth.” 

   “Religion?” asked Kit, the interest snapping away like a greedy fish taking the worm and breaking the line. 

   “There is a god, my lord,” said Rusk with joy and excitement. “His name is Olereon and it is his cleansing flood that–” 

   Kit waved him off and walked on, rejoining his group. “Make an appointment at the citadel,” Kit called back. “I only have so much time for the crazed.” 

   His men chuckled around him but Kit felt no mirth in his words. Some spoke of gods and others of a universal power, binding all together and putting life, once dead, back into all things, and endless turn of a cosmic wheel. Neither would bring Eadric back, not in this life, and neither would solve the city's problems and certainly not those of the kingdom. 

   Kit marched on, wondering where those bard twins had gone off to. Kit had more than a few words for them. They may have thought they could run things all over the kingdom, but the kingdom was in new hands, and the speed of the news must be slowed. 

   He marched on, thinking of Valia and wondering if she had seen to the preparations for Eadric’s entombment. He would be sealed on the morrow, but that green druidess had insisted they prepare the body that morning and Valia had gone to ensure nothing foul had occurred. For the time being, they were still the most recent enemy to the kingdom. 

   Kit looked up at the Citadel and hoped Valia would be safe. He needed her at his side to rule this mess, and even with her knowledge of state craft and her natural charisma that matched her brothers, Kit knew it would be a long road to rhythm.