by Mark Smylie
Stjepan led Erim, the gate guard, and the librarian down the central corridor of the Rare Books wing; both Stjepan and the librarian carried lanterns, casting long shadows against the closed doors of the hallway.
“Harvald?” Stjepan called out loudly as they approached the door of the Blue Room.
Through the door, muffled, they could hear words being chanted. “Tedema dorus, tedema urus. Me curess tharass te me dorus. Nathrak arass tedema urus!” They froze, Stjepan and Erim exchanging glances as they recognized Harvald’s voice.
They ran to the door, and Stjepan tried to open it in vain. They could smell smoke. “Who has the spare key?” he cried angrily.
“Clodarius!” said the librarian. “I will see what’s taking them!” he said without prompting, and he ran off back in the direction they’d come.
“No time to wait,” Stjepan said quietly as he ran his hand over the lock, and then he started whispering to himself. His gaze fixed on the ward enchanted into the lock. He brought the Labiran rune of making into his mind’s eye. And no time for finesse, he thought. “Desundro grammata resistrata. Desundro il laboro de Daedeki. Desundro grammata propitio. Sunder this ward!” he whispered. There was a sharp crack and a flash of flame from the lock.
Stjepan reared back and kicked the door right by the lock with full force. The door shuddered and there was a splintering sound, but it didn’t give. He reared back and kicked again, and this time Erim kicked with him, and the door burst open, wood and metal fragments spinning through the air from the shattered lock. They leapt through the open doorway, followed by the gate guard, and froze.
The Library room flickered with light as papers and books and parchment burned in a makeshift brazier on a table, embers and ash dancing in the air in front of them. Harvald stood with his back to the door in a large magic circle drawn on the floor in blood, making gestures with his arms in the air of a ritual. He held a rolled parchment in one hand and a brightly burning torch in the other.
“King of Heaven, a fire in the Library!” gasped the guard.
“Harvald!” Stjepan cried out. Harvald turned and looked at Stjepan; his skin had turned bluish-white and was blackening rapidly. Pieces of his flesh were missing, his face and neck a patchwork of gaping holes and rot. Even his clothes seemed to be decaying before their eyes, flaking off into ash. His eyes were sad and desperate. “Harvald?” Stjepan asked, almost unable to recognize him.
“Nathrak arass tedema urus. Nathrak arass urus!” Harvald cried out, and he brought his hands together, igniting the parchment with the flame of the torch.
He was confused at first when he saw the small lights dropping toward her. At first he thought they were fireflies, though it was too early in the year for them to appear in number, or perhaps embers from a fireplace, though no fire was lit in her room. Then as he squinted he thought he could make them out as letters, but he knew that couldn’t be.
He watched as one, then another came to rest first on her shoulder and then on her back. She didn’t notice the first one; it glowed briefly, then seemed to dissolve into her nightgown, leaving a burn pattern. Then the second landed, and he grew worried.
Annwyn sat alone in her bed, reading and whispering by candlelight. Engrossed in her book, she did not notice the strange runes and symbols that were floating in the air above her, glowing softly, floating down from the ceiling like ash. She scratched as one landed on her, then another. They floated, circled aimlessly, and then with sudden purpose alit on Annwyn in her bed like a swarm of insects.
She gasped suddenly and rose, dropping her book. She swayed, clawing at the air, as the glowing fire-lit runes and symbols swirled about her. It sounded as though she were drowning.
Harvald spit blood and collapsed, trying to repeat the enchantment as the map and torch fell from his blackening fingers.
The gate guard rushed from the room. They could hear him crying “Alarm! Alarm! Fire! Fire!” as he rushed down the corridors in search of help. Erim leapt forward, horror on her face, but Stjepan held her back from crossing into the magic circle.
“Don’t break the circle!” he hissed.
“What’s happening to him?” she cried out, looking at the burning parchment by his writhing body. “The map. Is that the map?” Erim lunged forward again but Stjepan retained his hold on her.
Finally she tore away, but not toward the circle, instead running to the table and searching it frantically, tossing burning papers out of the brazier, finally spilling its contents across the tabletop.
Leigh waited, and waited, his hand hovering over the deck, his heart in his throat; and then finally he quickly took and flipped another card on the table.
And it was Death, numbered XIII, depicting a naked woman bearing a great scythe, and standing over a field of black earth sown with heads and body parts as the sun descended behind a mountain in the distance.
He leapt up and back from the table in alarm, a look of horror on his face as the table rocked and shook. He made a warding sign and then reached his hands up to the ceiling. He cried out hoarsely in anguish, “What does this mean? What have you done? What have you done?”
Gilgwyr watched, his cock near to bursting in his codpiece, as the crowd roared in shock and lust and disbelief, wide-eyed at the debauchery being performed before them. This is a triumph, Gilgwyr thought. And it will only get better from here on out. A great change is coming. He surveyed the looks in the eyes of the crowd and gloated. But he did not notice that the Gilded Lady held up her black lace fan in front of her face to hide her expression, her eyes narrowed in disapproval and knowing calculation.
Ariadesma’s heaving flanks and legs were crisscrossed with razor-thin cuts, her breasts shaking and her skin shining with a mix of sweat and oil and blood. The priestess was thrusting wildly now between her spread legs, laughing madly as she pistoned the unicorn horn deeper and deeper into the suspended dancer’s gaping cunt, its spiraled ivory length flashing in and out her flesh, shining slick and bright in the firelight. Slowly the glistening ivory was becoming streaked with red, and droplets of blood splattered against the priestess’ thrusting hips. But the moans and gasps being wrenched from Ariadesma’s throat were nothing but pure passion and pleasure, her face wracked with ecstasy.
Careful, careful, don’t break the merchandise, nothing permanent that Sequintus can’t fix, Gilgwyr thought, laughing silently to himself. The enchanter stood nearby, his eyes clinically observing the proceedings, his box of salves and ointments and precious White Elixir at the ready. If you like this, my dear sweet Palatian, then just wait until the Feast of Herrata. Gilgwyr looked up at the ceiling, toward the Heavens, the rapture in his face mirroring that of the pinioned acrobat. Today is a great day, a blessed day, and soon, very soon, will come the best day of all. A great change is coming!
Annwyn fell onto the floor, gurgling and flailing as if in a seizure, her nightgown burning in dozens, perhaps hundreds of small spots, the cloth fraying as it burned. She tossed and turned trying to get free of the tormenting magic, her movements so sharp and sudden that she was in danger of hurting herself. The runes and symbols swirled in the air, landing on her disintegrating gown and her writhing body, crawling onto and into her skin.
He didn’t know what to do, could not comprehend what was happening to her. Fear ran deep into his core. Finally with a great cry he tore himself from the peephole and slammed it shut. Grabbing up the lantern, he did the only thing he could do, and ran softly off into the dark.
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!<
br />
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 wail
ing 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.”