Tabiir performed his task with a workman’s precision.
Arran lay upon the table beneath a blanket of woven cloth, a grey material so dark it was almost black. From some hidden cache or alcove Rina brought several urns with silver covers; these she set upon the edges of the platform which held the corpse, accompanied by a long, dwindling taper.
Every motion was economical, each stroke or adjustment meted out with care. He, Rina, and Saric spoke to one another in low voices. Grannine stood close at my side, Her arms draped around my shoulders as we watched.
“Arran-dii,” Tabiir said briskly. His dry voice slipped in and out among the sounds of folding cloth. “We near the end. Your liver I surrender to Acrurina-al.”
I saw it silhouetted against the light of lanterns upon the wall beyond; dark, gleaming, lifeless. Rina held out her empty hands to receive it.
I felt deranged. As though the world had turned upon its head. Every tale of druid savagery I had heard seemed to return to mind with fivefold strength in the face of this mutilation. His liver! Is it cowardice to hold my tongue now? Or is it respect? Do I enable a new abuse, or am I on the verge of learning something new?
The very calm of the scene made it all the more difficult to speak out—torn though I was, I could still recognize the practiced hush of ritual.
“This I take, Arran-dii, to keep for you,” Rina answered. She spoke in response, but her words were directed as though to apprise the corpse of what passed between them. She lowered what she had received into one of the urns, as Saric obligingly lifted its silver cap with one hand.
My imagination had conjured a font of endless scarlet, nightmarish. There was less blood than I had expected, and it was not so bright and vivid; it was dark, almost black.
“Arran-dii,” Saric said, in a tone of light reproof. “Tabiir-torex has dirtied you.” She carried one of the squat bowls, filled with some softly floral-scented oil or tincture, and over her arm were folded five white squares of cloth. She slipped between Rina and Tabiir with one of these cloths fresh in her hand, wiping clean the corpse and its altar.
Rina picked up a long, white rod of wax and began to soften it over the taper.
“Now I seal your liver, Arran-dii,” Rina said to the corpse. To Arran. The corpse did not move. She lifted up the burning taper. I could look closely at how she applied the wax without seeing more than I wished—though upon the edge of my sight I saw Tabiir with the long, white sleeves of his robe folded back, held in place by bands of silver and druidstone. There were dark streaks on his arms up to the elbow, and he wore the expression of a healer with an amiable charge. Saric passed around him, circling the foot of the table amid the gentle tinkling of her bracelets and bangles.
“Ai, Arran-dii,” she said. Her impish manner seemed at once intimate and out-of-place. “You are too tall, I think. Maybe we must give you back your clothes, once they are cleaned.”
“The shirt is clean,” Rina said absently. Her fingers inched over the surface of the urn, drawing it about in a gentle rotation while she sealed wax upon the seam of clay and silver. “We will ask your priest. They may wish to make you new clothes.”
“Your hands are closing,” Saric said to the corpse, now passing upon the opposite side. “You have not made it too difficult, Arran-dii.”
“He waited to be found by us,” Tabiir agreed. He half-turned to Rina without withdrawing his hands. “If you are ready, Rina-al, I have his heart.”
“Saric-dae,” Rina said. She gripped the rod of wax between her teeth, grasping one of the larger urns and passing it carefully over the corpse. Saric set aside her cloth, leaning over the body in turn to take it from her.
“Sorry, Arran-dii,” Saric said gently, to him. To it. “Tabiir-torex.”
“Arran-dii. You were strong in life. I take your heart to Saric-dan. You used it well.”
I had shut my eyes.
Still I heard the loathsome sound of Saric’s vessel receiving its contents, dead flesh slithering into the urn. Metal clinked and cloth rustled.
“You are fortunate, Arran-dii,” Saric told him—told the corpse. “Your Death-Elder is skilled. His stitches are very fine.”
“My grandfather said to me, small hands make fine stitches,” Tabiir replied absently. When I looked again, he was bent forward over the corpse, his hands darting back and forth. I saw him draw up one bloodstained arm, and a silvery-white thread glinted in his hand. Between two fingers he held a thin, crescent-shaped needle. “He said for this I would be a fine healer.”
“Arran-dii, your grandson has strong hands as well.” Saric dipped a cloth into the bowl in her hand, dabbed it over the corpse’s features. “He will be a good Hunter, Berel says. Berel is a good hunter.”
“Were you a healer?” Rina asked Tabiir. With a final turn of her wrist, she finished sealing the urn and set it aside.
“I was a Speaker as you are, Acrurina-al,” Tabiir replied. He waited until Saric withdrew before he continued. “But a Speaker must be a Healer in need. I was not without practice on living and dead. That is how I can tend to you so well, Arran-dii.”
“Dermot-kae,” Rina said, over her shoulder. “Tabiir-torex is nearly done. Will you help us dress Arran-dii again? He is not too stiff, we may be able to return the shirt to him.”
Wordless, Dermot advanced to answer her request, and only I remained, with Grannine at my side.
Berel and Sadepa had sat so still among the company of corpses, where I was ill-at-ease directing my eyes, that I had almost forgotten they were present.
Saric now gently bathed Arran’s corpse with whatever substance lay inside the bowl. The smell was stronger now, strangely ethereal, the scent of a violet with some acrid undertone. She worked with a damp cloth, then passed over the same place with dry, as attentive to her charge as any healer.
Dermot slid his hands under the corpse’s shoulders, drawing him—it—up off the bier. Its arms hung slack to either side, the forearms stiff. Had the hands always been curled so tightly?
“Bagam,” Rina said. From the floor beside the table she picked up the old shirt Arran had worn upon our march from Caer Lunan, now much-laundered. Upon the far panel I glimpsed a splash of clever darning, some old split or tear freshly mended. Rina pulled one sleeve over his arm, up the tightened muscle.
I squeezed Grannine’s hand in mine. Together, we approached the deathbed.
Arran Scour lay upon the table, pale and peaceful. The blanket still covered him from the waist down, and a long, coiling mark like a serpent ran from the lower end of his stomach to just between his ribs.
It was this wound which Tabiir-torex was stitching. Each stroke was finer and more elegant than any needlework I had authored, and when his bloodstained hands left a streak or smudge, Saric was quick to dart in with a cloth to sweep it away.
Rina ducked lightly behind Dermot, trading Arran’s shirt from one hand to another. She made a faint sound to Saric, who paused her labor to help seat the other sleeve. Tabiir-torex made a sound of protest as the movement disturbed his needlework.
In the golden light of this Hall, Arran seemed at peace. He hardly even seemed to be a corpse, resting in Dermot’s arms with a look of calm and all things in order.
I felt something rising in me. My unease, coming to a head, or a sense of nausea in the pit of my stomach, revulsion, or that feeling of un-belonging that haunted me once more. I turned away, directing my eyes to the back wall of the Mavet-akad.
I stood perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, half-expecting either madness or terror to grip my mind. Neither came.
Instead, the demands of life obligated a quiet exhalation, and I took a breath of the cool, dry air. The smell of parchment and metal was stronger in this tapestry-lined Hall of the Dead, as though other senses were heightened in the cold and stately silence of this necropolis.
Grannine. I turned my eyes to Her, vivid as She was in red against this dead and gilded silence. You’re quiet. Please, speak.
“I will speak if you wish,” She answered at once. Her fingers were still laced in mine, and She looked down upon me with an expression I could not discern. That only added to my sense of strange, drifting otherworldliness—ever had Grannine worn a visage of subline transparency. “You’re ill at-ease here, my Firebrand. How can I soothe you?”
I don’t know. I don’t–
“Now,” Elder Tabiir said. Dermot still held Arran’s weight, but now the dead man’s shirt had been returned to him, buttoned almost to the neck. Sadepa and Berel crowded close to the table—to the altar. In a flash I saw the constellation not as a furnishing, but as an offering-place, something holy, each plinth in its own place, preordained. The vision lingered.
“Ready?” Dermot glanced over his shoulder at the step to the dais where the dead lay. “See, Saric, you come up and give us a hand from up there.”
“Ivelo,” Saric said lightly, and sprang up onto the stage. She had discarded cloth and vessel, and now moved like a scrap of cloud upon the mountains. “I am ready.”
“So,” Rina said. “Na. Tec!”
Upon the final count, all hands lifted this corpse that still seemed a man. Saric took the weight of him for an instant, and in one long, lean step Dermot gained the stage with her. In a matter of moments they were upon the dais, and here at last Arran was arranged among that silent number, neither interred nor at rest upon a pyre, but simply waiting.
Am I mad, Grannine?
“See, I’ve never been able to answer that to anyone’s satisfaction,” She answered, but Her arms enfolded me from behind despite the gentle challenge.
“Are you well, suuna’astrea?” Tabiir said to me. He alone remained at the altar, resting his hands upon a small copper statue with a patina that faltered only at its outermost curves. “I think we frighten you.”
“No,” I said, a lie before I even contemplated the truth. Upon the altar, Epa and Berel exchanged words with Saric, and Rina laughed. Her laugh seemed to set all the echoes to whispering. “I have seen nothing like this, Tabiir-torex. My people do not…treat our dead so.”
“This I have heard,” Tabiir inclined his head.
Sadepa, Dermot, Rina, and Berel left the altar, murmuring together in low voices, though Dermot cast a curious look in my direction. I could not sign for him to wait, held as I was by the Elder‘s attention. Tabiir drew my eyes back with a subtle bow, releasing the figurine. “Rina-al has said your people bury their dead at once without vigil or ceremony.”
I was saved in this by Saric’s arrival, though the reprieve was to be brief.
“Tabiir-torex, Suuna’astrea-dae.” Saric placed one hand upon his right shoulder and one upon my left. “I have not yet eaten, and Rina-al tells me it is morning. Will you mind the dead a while?” Her bright brown eyes met mine, as pleading as a hound without its supper. Tabiir chuckled and made an affirmative sign with his hand. “Bagam, I return!”
Fleet of foot, she pursued the others. The hall seemed all the more silent for their departing voices.
“The dead trouble you,” Tabiir-torex said. With a quick step and turn, he flanked me opposite Grannine, raising a hand to indicate the dais. “Here in the mavet-akad, those who were living rest, and we who are living look over them. When Arran-dii is ready and the ground is soft, we will take him above with the dead of winter. Until that time, he will never be without aid or company.”
“Company,” I repeated. My voice still sounded hoarse. “You speak of them as though they are still alive.” “They are.”
“He is.” For an instant the very certainty in Tabiir’s voice sent a chill down my spine. Alive! And I stood by while–I stole another glance at the dais, half-expecting to see one of those silent figures rise again. In the steady and unflinching light of those otherworldly lamps upon the wall, anything seemed possible. “Always there must be one of those who is living, to care for and clean those who were.”
“To…clean them?”
“For the newest it is more necessary. The further from life, the less trouble they are to mind. But the closer to life, the more of our help they require.” He frowned. “Do they frighten you?”
At first, I could scarcely nod assent. I had the wild and fleeting thought that to answer too loudly here might be rude. As though the dead could hear!
“Yes.”
Tabiir seemed to receive my response with satisfaction, as though some suspicion had been proven true. “I have heard this, that the Church finds death fearful. I had hoped you might be willing to watch over them; there is more that is needed to welcome Arran-dii below, and I must replenish our supplies. Can I ask this of you, suuna’astrea?”
A light, quick flush of panic shot through me at the thought, and I sought vainly up the far end of the hall for any living soul who could relieve me of the necessity. Yet also with this came fascination, a dark and creeping curiosity. Was I a woman capable of such a feat?
“I…can,” I said. Saric will return soon. Or Rina. I felt a strange desire to conceal my own misgivings, as though my fear of this place were something superstitious, and my confusion too ignorant to pardon.
“Bagam,” Tabiir put a grateful hand on my shoulder. “I return as soon as these things can be gathered.”
“Now?” I was at least able to control the volume of my voice, if not the tone of surprise. I prayed the waver I felt in my throat had not been audible.
“I had forgotten,” the Elder’s eyes lingered on the dais for a moment before he turned to me. “Fedxir-dii is a friend to you, yes?”
“I–yes. I’ve not seen him in some–”
“Then you will not be without friends.”
With this final thought, he left me at a brisk pace. Despite the soft deerskin of his shoes, the echoes of each step whispered around the hall, a chorus of departing sound. Silence welled up beneath that retreating tread like rising water, and I felt the presence of the dead even as I turned longingly to look after Tabiir, in the vain hope that someone might come to take his place.
To face them seemed awful. To have them at my back, far worse.
Saric will return soon. A druid must always be here to watch the dead? I watch the dead. I am a druid.
“I am a druid,” I said, aloud. “Ix le gim-alarmecanin.” The words were poorly-formed, and my tongue fumbled about the name of Raven Lake like a fish in a basket. But they were my words. I spoke them.
So long had I clutched at the shawl about my neck that the tips of my fingers were growing numb. In a fit of stubborn impulse, I let it fall to the floor, baring my shoulders. The cabochon sealed upon my heart was glowing faintly, with a depth of red light moving therein. The air of the mavet-akad was cool, but not cold, upon my skin.
I picked up the shawl and folded it upon the altar. The pit of defiant bravery in my stomach was growing stronger, and rather than steel myself, I gave in to the impulse. There was no one living here to see; I drew up my skirts and climbed to the stage with only the faintest crack of protest from my knee.
We stood among the dead.
There were nineteen bodies here. Their lifelessness was impossible to overlook—their skin was pallid and drawn, their features composed in unflinching peace. All but Arran Scour wore gold and jewels, as though I stood within a tomb of kings.
Seized by grim curiosity, I looked from one dead face to another, seeking each new detail. The dry blackening of lips, the hollowness of their cheeks. The eerie contrast of sleek, healthy hair upon each corpse, including one which wore a full beard—whose name escaped me in shock as soon as I recognized him.
There upon a mantle of woven reeds lay a man I had not seen since our arrival, sharp-featured and fair. His hair was combed back, his beard trimmed and arranged to neatness. His right hand lay at his side, palm upturned, and upon hand and wrist there were half a dozen deep, dry wounds. His left hand lay upon his breast, clutched tight to a wicked knife with a blade of flint.
Upon his face was a smile, and I felt as though I looked upon him for the first time. The memory crystallized at the back of my mind, held in Her hands like a jewel.
Fedxir had been at our vanguard at Raven Lake, a stolen sword in his hand. I thought I might have recalled seeing Saric with him, but the last glimpse I had made of this bearded, taciturn Hunter had been upon the first shock of contact, blood upon the snow.
With a look up the length of the Hall to ensure we were alone, I put a hesitant hand upon Fedxir’s. His skin was cool but not cold to the touch, and it warmed under my palm.
The dead did not speak, but the calm upon Fedxir’s expression was eloquent enough.
“I could die now,” Saric’s memory spoke with scarlet eyes. “I have had a good life in a little time. I have loved many people and killed many of my enemies.” His expression fit her words like lock to key.
I still have his gloves, I thought. They were one of the few pieces of armor I had kept.
“I’d meant to return them,” I said, aloud. “I must have known. I should have.” The hollow in my heart felt less like surprise and more like certainty. Yet even so I felt a strange peace, an unreality to the thought of his death. Fedxir was dead. The dead had an honorific all their own, like a healer, or a hunter, or a priest.
“Fedxir-dii,” I said, more quietly.
Yet he was here, and at peace, close enough that I might exchange words. The two thoughts had a disharmony between them which I could not resolve. Dead, yet his skin was warm beneath my palm as I held the hand of a dead man.
I snatched my hand away with a burst of nervous energy, but he did not move. The calm smile on his face did not fade. Seldom had I seen Fedxir smile—and on those rare occasions his amusement had come at someone’s expense. He had a sidelong, smirking cast to his face, and now in the bright and eerie werelight it seemed that he were laughing at my apprehension.
“Not a word,” I told him.
The silence in the Hall of the Dead was light and easily broken. It seemed as though the air itself were listening, as though the dead did not lack the power of speech, only held their silence. As though I could speak here, and the dead might listen.
I glanced at the woman beside Fedxir.
Another familiar face, another flash of recognition. Tall and dark, with regal features and a natural air of command. But the woman I now looked upon was young. I judged her my age at the very utmost, with a head of coarse, close-cut black hair. Time had not had its chance to grace her with the Elder’s formidable strength of feature; her face was carefree, and the scant few lines about her eyes were those of a smile. She wore a Hunter’s grey, her sleeves cut free to the shoulder. Upon her arms were many rings of gold, and between them, deep and bloodless marks of battle. A stranger to me, but so alike in appearance to a woman I knew that I wondered to look upon her.
Soft footfalls stirred at the far end of the hall. Despite the pregnant silence of the mavet-akad, I had scant warning before a woman much like this corpse in bearing emerged from the dark bath-chamber of Raven Lake.
Elder Gafed carried in two hands a small tea-service, a wooden tray with two bowls and a steaming jar, which occupied little of her attention as she reached the smooth stone floor of the mavet-akad. She seemed wrapt in thought, lost to some meditation. I felt sure that she had not seen me, and dreadfully certain that any breath or movement on my part would instantly reveal my presence, not a hand’s breath away from the body of her daughter.
Gafed’s eyes flicked up to mine, cold and grey. She did not waver or spill her tea. If she were surprised to see me, it did not show on her face in any sign that I could discern. Again she wore only simple white, no jewelry save the small piece of druidstone upon her ear.
She gained the dais with one long stride, and within the span of another two steps she stood over me, over the young woman at my side.
I reached for Grannine’s hand. I found Fedxir’s instead, the flush of life fading from his fingers. Gafed’s eyes passed to his face. To me. To the shift I wore. She said nothing.
She knelt, and set her tray upon the ground, looking only upon her daughter’s face. Above row upon row of golden chains, the corpse had a faint and faded scar on the underside of her chin.
With one finger, Gafed traced the faintly-lightened divot.
I felt as though there had to be something to say—some druidic proverb or platitude of the Church. Yet were platitudes what druids sought in the face of death? I could not think of a way to break the silence that now had stretched overlong.
Gafed met my eyes over the body of her child. My mind went shockingly blank.
Seldom had I heard Gafed speak without seeming malice, without some animus conveyed. Even here, she was simply quiet; she was not gentle.
She spoke the only words I ever heard her utter in the tongue of the Church, soft and unmistakable.
“Leave us.”
I obeyed.
*
BLANK SLATE 
2 thoughts on “3.2.6 – Vigil”