Dorjan nodded and pretended to rummage through a drawer on his desk. He produced a single sheet of paper and a quill pen. “Did he have any last requests, Ma’am?” he asked as he opened a vial of black ink.
She snorted and shook her head. “Not about ‘is plantin, if that’s what ye mean. ‘Blasie, get me a cuppa cider!’ he’d say, or ‘Hurry up wit my dinner!’ or ‘Clean my boots, woman!’ But as fer last requests, nah. There wer’nt none. He died sudden like, a wolf jumpin’ in the well wit him an all.”
“That is an unimaginable tragedy,” Dorjan said, knowing neither tragedy nor wolf had killed Maur. He made a note on the parchment: Shovel. Blasia glanced at it as if it were gibberish, which to her, it was. “Do you have any requests for Maur’s, ah, internment?”
“I don’ want no ‘ternment. I just wants ‘im planted.”
Dorjan smiled without showing his teeth. “Certainly, Ma’am. A plain and simple funeral.” He moved his pen over the parchment. “Will you be in the need of a casket? We have several inexpensive models.”
“Nah. I gots me a box. Ain’t mucha him left anyways. The wolf ate a good hunk.”
He wrote again. “That will be fine, Ma’am. So you merely require me to dig the hole?”
“Just plant ‘im an say a kind word er two. How much’ll that cost me?”
He smiled and tapped the quill against his chin. “I can have my man dig your hole for a mere quarter crown. The kind words are no charge. Your Maur was the salt of the earth.”
She nodded and stood. “I can barely afford it, but it will hafta do. Thank ye.”
As she turned to go he said, “I offer a free service, Ma’am. I can wash and wrap you, ah, remains, to ensure a peaceful rest. No charge.”
She turned to stare at him, suspicious. “Are ye sayin I canna tend to me own dead?”
His smile was sweet and consoling, practiced for countless hours before the cracked mirror in his rooms. “Oh no, Ma’am. I know these times are trying, and you’ll have so many things to do, to prepare for the funeral. Even if only a few folks stop by...” he shrugged and shoved his bulk to his feet. “Surely the children need consoling, and there are always other matters to tend to. I intend to help our community with this one last chore whenever I can. It is my job, after all. My calling.”
“Outta the goodness o’ yer heart, you’ll tend a corpse?”
He bowed slightly, for his ample belly would let him bow no farther. “Of course, Ma’am. Why else would I?”
She shrugged. “If yer so eager to get the mess all o’er ye, that’s yer doin.”
He bowed again. “It is my privilege, Ma’am. I’ll send my man to retrieve your husband and his box. Shall we plan on the service for tomorrow morning? Perhaps just before lunch?”
“I can be ready by then. Thankee, sir.”
He beamed.
2
Darkness
Castle Pyrinn
Sucking, slurping sounds skittered through the black void, overflowing occasional grunts of contentment. Far away, a door opened and a narrow shaft of dim light leeched in.
“We have received a courier, my liege,” a trembling voice said from the light.
A light thump, and the slurping stopped. “You interrupt me?” growled the dark.
“M-my most humble a-apologies, my liege,” the voice said. “But the message comes from our associate in Waterford.”
A sigh, another thump, and the wet suckling continued. “Enter, and close the damned door.”
“Y-yes, my liege.” Shuffling feet entered the dark and the door closed, obliterating the weak light.
“What is the message?” Slurp, slurp.
Paper rattled, and a light snap of a breaking seal skittered through the dark. Faint red light glowed from far away, like a lost ember in a cold fireplace, illuminating the narrow pock-marked face of a slip of a man. The light and the fiery redness increased as he unrolled the scroll. He winced and lowered his eyes, backing away. “A sword has been sent, my liege. To Faldorrah.”
A thump, a moan, and the slurping stopped. “What kind of sword?”
“A holy sword, my liege.” The narrow man’s voice sounded small, a tiny waver in the dark. “For an Anointing.”
A louder thump, a squeal, and a creak of wood. “Who?”
“I... I do n-not know, my liege. But surely it is Dubric Byerly who—”
“Who the peg else could it be? Contact our best Faldorrahn spy. I want to know who Dubric is elevating, and I want to know now.”
The narrow man rolled the scroll, extinguishing the ember. “Yes, my liege,” he said, and shuffled away. Only the thinnest shafts of light pierced the darkness to mark his exit.
Wood creaked, and a mutter, too low to understand. “Quit dallying,” the darkness snarled.
A small moan, and the slurping began again.
Castle Faldorrah
Lars opened his eyes and saw nothing but the ceiling. At least he thought it was the ceiling; with all the spinning, it was hard to tell for certain.
“I think he’s waking up,” he heard Otlee say.
Lars’ eyes rolled to the left like slick cool marbles. The world shimmied and spun, and he closed his eyes again as his stomach flipped. “What happened?” he rasped, his voice sounding faint and echoing from the bottom of a well. A twirling, swirling well. Up and down, turn it around. Whee.
“Give him a drink, lad. Just a sip.” Dien’s voice said from somewhere, not close but not far away.
Cool wetness touched Lars’ lips and he drank. Water. Sweet, magical water. He heard a baby cry, its half-hearted protests swirling and spinning, a whirligig of sound, a twirl of life.
“That’s it,” Dien’s voice said again as Lars dropped his head back onto the pillow. “You’re doing fine.”
“At least he’s waking up. I was getting worried.” Otlee’s voice twirled through the air again, and a metal cup rang against a table.
“No need to worry. He’s over the worst of it.”
Consciousness whirled around, drawing near and furling away in its careening dance of white.
Village of Caria
“But Ma! It weren’t no wolf! I saw it!” Belendin had slammed his fist on the table, just as his pa used to. He was man of the house now, after all. “It were a lil critter, a lizard, bout the size of a robin but wit no tail.”
“Bele, I’m not intrest’d in yer stories,” Ma had said. “We foun yer pa right where you sed he’d be, but Mister Luig lost a boy ter a wolf attack and he should know better’n you wot kilt him. No robin ain't never kilt no one. Eat yer dinner.”
“I ain't hungry!” Belendin had hollered, shoving himself away from the rickety table. She thought he was lying! Blime!
Both his sisters had gasped their surprise. No one ever talked back to Ma.
“Sit yer ass back down before I gimme a switch,” Ma had said.
“Mind yer manners, woman!” he had snapped, stomping over to Pa’s chair.