Othilfess,
4th of Aft Summer
The long slate table was bare, a body laid out on the cold stone, wrapped to the neck in white linen. A cowl of the same cloth hid the hair but a few wisps escaped, dull with smears of rusty blood. An insidious hint of decay hovered in the air like an unwelcome truth. The lonely flames of candles set at head and foot held back the darkness as evening fell outside, leaving the rest of the room in disregarded gloom as the fire sank to a sullen red heap of cinders.
Aritane watched the three women weeping as they began stitching the corpse into a shaped shroud of stiff leather. “I see no reason for salting the body,” she remarked coldly. “I could perform the charnel rites at once, if you would only let me.”
Ismenia bent to kiss the marble white brow before closing the folds over Teiriol’s face, hands deft and gentle; Eirys and Theilyn were barely able to hold their needles, let alone sew, their fingers shook so much. The old woman looked up. “I’ll have Sheltya who remain true to their oaths lay my son under the sky for Misaen to judge and the ravens to reclaim,” she said calmly. “Get out.”
The girls both froze, trickling tears their only movement. Aritane’s chin came up on an indignant intake of breath. “You owe me the courtesy of my calling and I’ll thank you for it. You would not have his bones at all, were it not for Sheltya bringing him home.”
Ismenia’s eyes flickered to her daughters. “Please leave us to mourn our dead,” she said in more temperate tones.
“Mourning is all well and good.” Aritane looked around at the disordered furniture and unswept floor with disdain. “Taken to excess, it becomes self-indulgence.” She moved briskly to the hearth and piled fresh wood on the remains of the fire.
Eirys was fumbling as she attempted to thread a needle in the uncertain light. “If my child is a son, I’ll name him for Teiro, Mama.”
“You are truly with child this time?” Aritane’s slaty eyes bored into the girl. “So it would seem. Have you told Jeirran yet?”
“I’ve had no chance.” Eirys’ face crumpled with distress. “I’ve seen so little of him—”
“Do not tell him,” commanded Aritane coldly. “You may well yet slip and he needs neither to be distracted by the prospect of a child nor by the blow of its loss.”
Ismenia’s lips narrowed to a bloodless line as Eirys ducked her head to hide fresh weeping. “Leave my daughter’s care to me, if you please.”
“Pander to her endless hysterics like this and she will surely lose the brat,” snapped Aritane. She did not sound displeased by the notion.
Theilyn’s mouth fell open, puzzlement coloring the pain in her eyes. A dead silence fell, the circle of light around the women of the soke excluding the Sheltya in her severe gray robe.
“There are more besides Teiriol have spent their blood in defense of their beliefs,” Aritane said pointedly after some moments’ silence. “I will ensure their bones are in Maewelin’s embrace as soon as may be.” She strode out of the rekin, back stiff with indignation.
“Why not let her do it, Mother?” whispered Eirys. Her fair skin was blotched from weeping, her eyes red and swollen. “We owe her much, you know that.” She rested a hand briefly on her full skirts.
“Don’t credit her with your blessing,” said Ismenia icily. “She won’t welcome anything that might distract Jeirran from the mark she’s setting up for him. All I owe her is the death of my child. Don’t doubt that I will repay her somehow.”
Theilyn looked from mother to sister, her eyes deeply shadowed in her pale face. “You should not say such things. Don’t even think them.”
Ismenia looked at her sharply. “You’ll be running with tales again, will you?”
Theilyn’s mouth trembled, her lips chapped and bitten. “They can hear such things unspoken,” she said hoarsely. “Sheltya and the man from the east.”
“Do not grace them with the name of Sheltya,” hissed Ismenia. “They do not deserve it.”
“But how will we get the rites said for Teiro?” wailed Eirys, fresh tears running through the smudges dried on her face.
Theilyn wasn’t proof against this renewed assault of grief and wept bitterly in her turn. “It’s all my fault,” she choked. “If I hadn’t told him what Eresken wanted, if I hadn’t listened to Aritane. I don’t know why I did, I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
“You were flattered by their attentions, you saw their favor promising you a good match, a rich husband and whatever else it is you want but you’re not prepared to work for,” Ismenia told her curtly. “I need no Sheltya powers to know just what you’ve been thinking, my girl. Don’t ask my forgiveness.”
Theilyn burst into noisy sobs and fled up the stairs, stumbling as she went. Ismenia sighed and rested her head in her wrinkled hands. Eirys sat in mute misery, absently winding a thread in and around her fingers, finally pulling it so tight she drew blood. She looked at the welling red with bemusement.
Heavy boots sounded reluctant on the steps outside and the door to the rekin opened slowly on the summer twilight. Fithian looked around the heavy oak and sidled in, twisting a rag between his hands. “I brought him,” he said simply, his lined face deeply graven with weariness and grief.
He pushed the door wider and ushered Keisyl in. The younger man was thick with dust from the trail, unshaven and filthy from the diggings. Horror haunted his eyes as he looked at the shrouded body on the bare table and he hesitated on the threshold.
Ismenia looked up and managed a watery smile. “Oh my boy, come here.”
Keisyl stumbled toward her, scowling as he fought tears of his own. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I should have stopped him, I should have stayed—”
Ismenia held him tight. “It’s no one’s fault,” she said hoarsely.
Keisyl hid his face in her embrace for a moment before forcing himself upright. He wheeled around and stared at the central hearth where flames suddenly burned bright and heedlessly cheerful as the wood laid on it caught fire. Face contorted with rage, Keisyl grabbed a massive poker and swept aside the logs, sending sparks showering in all directions. Raking embers all over the broad stone plinth, he smashed the iron down on the glowing heart of the fire, strewing the coals to scorch the floor, burn holes in the rugs and cushions and to die, first to red and then to ashy gray, all warmth spent on the cold stone. He stamped furiously on the scattered clinker, reducing the fragments to powder. Ismenia and Fithian watched in silence, faces solemn yet sympathetic. Eirys clutched a scrap of linen, bleeding finger forgotten in her mouth as she looked on aghast.
When the fire was a ruin of cooling ash, Keisyl stood, shaking, head bowed. He dropped the poker with a clang that rang around the room like a death knell. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head but before he could speak, the door was flung open to reveal Jeirran silhouetted against the colorless sky.
“Keisyl! I saw you arrive,” he said with restrained enthusiasm. “I wish you were returning under better circumstances.” His voice trailed off as he saw the smoldering destruction within. “What do you think you are doing?”
“No fire will burn here,” Keisyl snarled, face haggard. “Not while my brother’s body lies waiting for due ceremony.”
“The fess is full and the men have to be fed,” objected Jeirran with rising irritation. “We’re all upset but life has to go on. What of dinner?”
“Cook yourselves eggs over skillets in the forge,” spat Keisyl. “This is a house of mourning.”
“This is a time of war,” Jeirran retorted. “We are up in arms to avenge Teiriol and those who died with him. We will claim double payment in blood from those lowlanders responsible.” He marched into the room and looked around for agreement.
“It’s you who are responsible,” said Keisyl softly. “It’s you who tempted Teiro with your false promises, your fool’s ambitions, your faithless Sheltya. You owe this soke a life, Jeirran!”