The Barrow (28 page)

As Erim tossed through burning papers and the smoldering remains of several books on the tabletop, Stjepan knelt and looked at the burning parchment lying within the magic circle next to the twitching body of Harvald. He could see inscriptions and symbols being devoured by flame as the last bits of the parchment folded into fire and then crumpled into ash.

“The map . . . oh, Harvald, what have you done?” he said quietly. He shook his head and sat back on his haunches, and started to pray.

Dawn Maiden. Awaken!
Bright Star. Awaken!
Sun's Herald. Awaken!
And announce the death of
a loyal servant to the Divine King!
Dread Guardians, light his way
on the Path of the Dead!
Seedré, Judge and Gatekeeper,
welcome him below,
and know that he is claimed!

Erim shouted at him. “Stjepan, the map's not here!” Harvald's body shuddered a last time as Stjepan bowed almost to the floor. He was vaguely aware of a general commotion, of other men rushing into the room finally, some bearing buckets of sand.

Islik, King in Heaven, once King on Earth!
Your servant falls to Death, your hated enemy!
King in Heaven, know his name:
Harvald Orwain, son of Leonas of Araswell.
Send your bright messengers to the
place of Judgment, to claim his spirit
from the grasp of his accusers!
Bring him from Darkness
to your Heavenly Palace!
Save him from Death!

“Damn it. The map's not here!” he could hear Erim's voice cry out, but she seemed far away.

The last parts of the map rose into the air as ash, and the heat carried the ash into the darkness above.

An ash-like dust fell in her chambers as Annwyn screamed. And at last, her prayers were finally answered.

The funeral of Harvald Orwain, son of Leonas, Baron of Araswell, was held on the last day of his spirit's seven day journey through the Otherworld to the Place of Judgment, where he would be stand before the Judge of the Dead. This was later in his journey than was customary, and the first unusual element of note in his funeral. As faithful worshippers of the Divine King, his family and their household had spent the last seven days in prayer for the intercession of their most holy God and His agents, in the hopes that an
Archai
of the Heavens would be sent to claim Harvald's spirit for its rightful place in the heavenly palace of the Divine King, there to spend eternity basking in His radiance. In accordance with Divine King custom, his body was to be cremated so that his ashes, in ascending to the skies, might draw the gaze of the King of Heaven.

His body, in as poor condition as it was, had been brought not to the Great Temple of the Divine King that sat astride the city as part of the sprawling hilltop complex of the High King's Hall, but rather to the Public Temple of the Divine King that sat at the water's edge by the docks of the Public Quarter; this was the second unusual element of note in his funeral, as by right and custom as the son of a loyal baronial vassal to the High King he should have been granted the honor of cremation on royal grounds. His body had been brought into chambers beneath the Public Temple and carefully washed and anointed with sacred oils by priests and undertakers, then wrapped in gauze. It had been brought out onto the public funeral plaza, a broad marble-paved and walled enclosure that stood on a small promontory into the bay behind the Public Temple, and there it was placed upon stacks of corded firewood on a low stone bier that would serve as his funeral pyre.

The plaza was quite crowded in anticipation of his cremation. The spring weather, thankfully, was clear, though slightly overcast, giving the proceedings an even grayer tone; the wind blew softly from the north and west, which was considered propitious, as his ashes would be carried off over the waters of the bay. Funerary urns were stacked against the walls of the plaza and steps that led to it, and filled the shallows by the sides of the promontory, as it was a custom amongst some Aurians of the lower classes that their remaining ashes would be gathered and then the urn dropped into the bay, as a gift to their ancient and estranged ancestor-god. Braziers were lit and filled with incense, torches neatly stacked nearby to light the eventual conflagration. Priests of the Divine King wandered amongst the mourners, and lined the broad walkway to the funerary plaza. Three priests in holy vestments stood at the head of the bier, intoning the cult's prayer for the dead, their words echoed by thirty paid professional mourners dressed all in black, who knelt to their right.

Islik, King of Heaven, King of Earth!
Islik, O King, the funeral pyre is lit.
We raise our hands to you in mourning,
and your servant's ashes rise to find you.
Here lies Harvald Orwain, son of Leonas!
Save him from Death, your hated enemy!
Save him from Darkness, your hated enemy!
Arm him against the Underworld!
Send your angels to ward his path!
Send your angels to claim this spirit!

Bring your vassal to the Heavens,
to your Golden Palace high above.
Order a throne of gold for him,
and place upon his brow a crown.
Give him a scepter and an orb,
and set him as a King amongst Kings,
favored amongst your subjects.

Islik, King of Heaven, King of Earth!
Islik, O King, the funeral pyre is lit.
Save us from Death, your hated enemy!
Save us from Darkness, your hated enemy!
Great King, save your servants!

As was the custom amongst many Aurians, a veiled woman dressed in white stood in the far corner of the plaza and sang a mournful dirge, her voice mingling with that of the priests and their choir, and with the hushed conversations of hundreds of gathering mourners.

The third unusual element of his funeral manifested itself in the disposition of said mourners, for though his family seemed initially unaware of it, there were in effect two separate funerals occurring simultaneously, and mourners arriving at the plaza quickly divided themselves roughly into two major camps. The first camp was centered on Harvald's brother Arduin and sister Annwyn, who stood at the foot of the bier receiving a line of well-wishers. They were dressed in mourning finery and attended by squires, knights, handmaidens, other members of their household, and priests from the temple. Men and women from the Court and from the upper echelons of the city's social strata dutifully took their place in the line, and expressed their most heartfelt condolences to the family, then took their place amongst the nearby mingling crowds to whisper and gossip, craning their necks for a glimpse of Annwyn's fabled beauty under her mourning veil.

The second and less illustrious camp was centered on a more dangerous-looking crowd, also dressed in mourning black, if not as finely done. Stjepan and Gilgwyr stood amongst this camp, as did Jonas the Grey, and the three of them had been joined by two other surviving members of the Lords of Book and Street, ridden down with haste from the Plain of Gavant upon hearing the news. Coogan was a stocky, solidly built Danian, with a chest and arms of solid muscle and a receding hairline; Cynyr was shorter and cheerier and his head was still full of short dark hair, but his pleasant expression was spoiled by the eyes of a mad-dog killer. All of them were dressed in black long-coats, black doublets of cloth or leather, black breeches and boots, and had a black tear drawn by the corner of their left eye, except for Stjepan, as this was apparently not an Athairi custom.

Around them extended a most peculiar entourage. Erim stood slightly behind Stjepan, craning her neck to scan the growing crowd. Sequintus stood doddering nearby, one arm held protectively around the beautiful young Palatian Ariadesma; she was attracting almost as many looks as Annwyn, being dressed in a Palatian style, a daring dropped shoulder corset with lace sleeves and a black netting collar, her black dress split to reveal a red brocade petticoat, her curly hair pulled up into a high coiffure behind her mourning veil. Three dozen other members of Gilgwyr's staff and household were there looking as presentable as possible, as Harvald had been a frequent customer. Petterwin Grim was there, with his entire crew, some thirty-odd men, and the Squire of Mud Street with his (and indeed their mourning clothes, despite their best efforts, still seemed to be half covered in mud). Jon Deering and Red Rob Asprin had brought their crews as well, and Mina the Dagger was there with her guardian pair and several weeping and wailing whores, but Tyrius arrived with only about a third of his Hooded Men, apparently still on the outs with the rest of them. Naeras Braewode was there as well, but the notorious back-alley warlock had masked himself with someone else's face, so only a few people knew. Barkeeps and tavern owners and booksellers who had dealt favorably with Harvald over the years wandered about as well, many of them bearing bottles of liquor or ale, and some drank from them either surreptitiously or openly. Mixing with both camps were the braver of the clerks of the High King's Court, and scribes and copyists who had been Harvald's classmates at the University, who would first pay their respects to Lord Arduin and then, spotting Stjepan and Gilgwyr, would wander over to have a word.

Stjepan received their condolences with grim thanks and quiet words, but Gilgwyr appeared to be all out of sorts, often ignoring those who were trying to speak to him. He took frequent swigs from a small bottle. All week long his mood had been black, to see this potential path slammed shut in front of him; black and terribly confused, for to his deepening bewilderment his beautiful dreams were getting stronger and more beautiful, to the point where he would wake from sleep exhausted and covered in sweat, his member as hard as wood. His face was pale and drawn and haunted as he scanned the gathering crowd.
Why do I still dream of triumph?
he wondered.
Why do the gods torment me so?

“His funeral is much delayed,” Gilgwyr finally said with a sour look when they were just amongst themselves. “His Seven Days are almost up.”

“I'm surprised they're letting him have a public funeral at all, given the nature of his death,” said Stjepan. “Priests sent from the Inquisition by the Patriarch himself and Magisters and alchemists from the University have been squabbling and fighting over his body for most of the week. I don't think they'd ever seen a curse quite like the one that killed him.”

“Aye, I suppose this is more mourners than I would have expected, given the nature of his death, but still, a poorly attended funeral when it comes to his own family and the high worthies of this city,” said Gilgwyr, bitterness in his voice. “Not a single one of the University Chairs, not even Magister Arathon. Not a single senior member of the Chancery. Oh, he is ill used in death. Neither his father nor his eldest brothers have returned from the field and the Grand Duke's sport. Instead they send paid mourners in their place. Everyone is afraid to show their faces . . .”

“Aye, his father could have made it down here in time,” said Coogan. “We did, with a bit of hard riding. So they should have no excuses.”

“Instead the Baron's holed up in his tents, in council with his sons and advisors, trying to figure out the next play,” said Cynyr, and he spat to one side. “Pathetic.”