Geilin had agreed to preside over the funeral service, and he approached the pyre, dressed in new finery of blue and silver. This was for reasons other than mere vanity. Geilin and Tanum had conspired together to design a new robe, as the circumstances demanded something formal, but it was no longer proper for Geilin to wear the gold-and-white robes of a
vönan
. Sael suspected the two had a secret plan to similarly outfit others who Geilin might persuade to study Taaweh magic. And though there had been no further discussion about it since he’d been injured, Sael also suspected Tanum was still determined to join this new class of mages.
All the members of the procession gathered in a large circle around the pyre, and a chair was brought for Sael. Regardless of how it looked to the citizens of Harleh to see the
dekan
looking infirm, it would be impossible for him to stand for the service. There were no townsfolk there, at any rate.
Master Geilin had fully recovered from his own “illness”—the incredible weakness he’d suffered as a result of the
vönan
bond, when he’d been deprived of access to the Eyes—and now he stood straight and tall before the pyre. The shimmering gold tattoo that had once adorned his scalp had vanished, though he still shaved his head out of habit.
“I am not a
caedan
,” he told those gathered around the pyre. “But there are no priests, as of yet, for those who might worship the Taaweh. I’m not even certain that they want to be worshipped. I’m not certain that they are gods. Those of us who have turned away from the Stronni, as
iinyeh
Koreh did and as I have done, no longer have answers for some of the fundamental questions—What happens when we die? Where do we go? If we are banished from the Great Hall of the Stronni, will the Taaweh care for our spirits when we leave this life? I don’t know. I have no liturgy, no sacred rites, no eulogy that I can deliver.
“But
iinyeh
Koreh had faith in the Taaweh,” Geilin went on. “He believed in them, enough to sacrifice his life for their cause, if necessary. And so he did. Koreh sacrificed himself for the Taaweh, for the
dekan
, whom he loved above all others, and for all of us in this valley. We are gathered today not to speed him on his journey into the afterlife, but to honor his sacrifice.”
Sael noticed his father bristle slightly at the mention of Koreh having loved Sael, but the man said nothing, and Sael himself was grateful for the acknowledgement. No doubt others would do their best to forget the love he and Koreh had shared, but he never would, and he knew Geilin never would. It was small consolation for the long, dark days and nights that stretched ahead of him now, but it was something.
With a small flourish of his hand, Geilin caused the funeral pyre to burst into flame—not the golden flame of burning wood or
vönan
magic, but a pale blue flame with a white-hot core. Its flames shot upward in a dramatic thirty-foot column of fire interspersed with sparks. The fire burned so hot that many of those present were forced to step back.
Sael had managed to hold himself together so far, but unexpectedly, Tanum began to sing. There were standard liturgical songs the
caedan
sang at funerals, but since they would be inappropriate in this context, Sael had expected they would simply watch the funeral pyre burn in silence. Instead Tanum sang a beautiful, tragic ballad that had been popular in the royal court about a year ago—one about a simple farmer who loved a nobleman. Every day, the nobleman’s carriage passed by the farm, on its way between the man’s estate and the city, and the farmer saw the handsome face of the nobleman in the carriage window. The farmer tried everything to get the attention of the nobleman, standing by the side of the road or riding alongside the carriage for a short distance on horseback. But the nobleman was always preoccupied with his day’s business affairs and never looked up to see him. Then one day, bandits attacked the nobleman’s carriage and killed his guards. They dragged him into the road and were about to slash his throat and steal all his gold and jewels when the farmer charged out of the forest, brandishing nothing more than a hunting knife. He fought valiantly for the man he loved, killing all the bandits, but he was mortally wounded in the battle. As he lay dying, the nobleman saw him clearly for the first time and was struck by how handsome he was. He held the farmer’s head in his lap and bent weeping to give him one tender kiss before he died.
Sael had always thought the ballad silly, the sort of thing the vapid women of the court enjoyed hearing and getting teary-eyed over. But Tanum’s voice was beautiful and clear, and as he pictured Koreh in the role of the farmer, Sael could not prevent his own tears from coming. He made no attempt to wipe them away. Let everyone in the city know that the
dekan
wept for Koreh.
When the song was over, they all fell silent, watching the flames lick at the sky, until Sael noticed someone standing at the edge of the road—an old man, with his head lowered and his hat in his hands. Sael wondered who he was. Had he known Koreh? It was possible, since Koreh had spent time working in the courtyard with the local merchants and farmers bringing supplies into the keep. Or had the man simply seen a funeral service and stopped to be respectful?
He told one of his guards, “Do you see that man? Please ask him to come here a moment. Don’t intimidate him—I simply want to talk to him.”
The old man did nevertheless look very intimidated when he was brought before Sael and the
vek
, worrying his frayed hat between his hands. He immediately fell to his knees and bowed low. “Your Grace! Your Lordship! I beg yer pardon if I intruded.”
“It’s quite all right,” Worlen said smoothly. “I’m sure the
dekan
isn’t finding fault with you.” He shot his son a look that said very clearly Sael had better
not
find fault with the poor man.
“No, of course not,” Sael said. “On the contrary, I was pleased to see you paying your respects. Tell me, goodman, do you know who the service is for?”
The man nodded, still keeping his eyes lowered. “I think so, Your Lordship. I heard that… it was a young man named ‘Koreh.’”
“Where did you hear that?” Sael asked, puzzled. Certainly it hadn’t been known to many in the city.”
“I’m sorry, Your Lordship. I don’t remember exactly who mentioned it, but it were someone in the courtyard, when I delivered flour to the kitchen this morning.”
“I see. Did you know Master Koreh?”
“Master Koreh… well, he was very nice to me and me family before the battle. A good, honest man. So I thought it wouldn’t hurt nobody if I paid me respects….”
Sael smiled at him, warming to the man. “No, it certainly doesn’t hurt anyone. And I think it has helped
me
a great deal.”
When the man seemed bewildered by that, Sael asked, “Might I ask your name?”
“Moghm, Your Lordship.”
The name meant nothing to Sael, but no doubt the man had spoken with Koreh in the days before the siege. “Thank you, Moghm. You’ve honored Master Koreh, and your consideration has eased my grief.”
T
HE
land of the dead had a name: Bashyeh.
Koreh had learned that in the months he’d been traveling. He’d also learned time moved differently there than in the world of the living. One night, as they’d been warming themselves by a blazing fire at a tavern, Koreh had muttered darkly, “Harleh has probably been reduced to rubble by now.”
“Why do you think that,
iinyeh
?” Chya had asked him. “Chya” was the name Koreh himself had given his Taaweh companion, since the boy insisted he could no longer remember his name. The word meant simply “boy” in the Taaweh language.
“It’s been months!” Koreh snapped. “If the Stronni haven’t broken through the Taaweh defenses by now, the emperor’s army must have found a way in.”
“It hasn’t been months for Harleh,” Chya said calmly. “It’s only been a few days.”
When Koreh stared at him, uncomprehending, he continued, “There is no time here. Not in any real sense. Whether something takes a day or a year depends entirely on how long you expect it to take. You expected this journey to take months, so it has.”
Koreh hadn’t completely understood, but it didn’t really seem to matter. He could do nothing to affect what happened in Harleh, so whether a month or a century went by, events would unfold as they would.
It had been several days since that conversation, and now as they walked along a winding riverbank, a small mill town appeared ahead, nestled in a fork of the river. To the west lay fields of grain, and farmhands were winding up their work day in the light of Kiishya as it set behind the distant mountains. Koreh had been fearful of Kiishya and Omu in his first days here, but Chya had repeatedly assured him the Eyes were not magically bound to them, as they had been in Dasak. Kiishya and Omu were not spies in this land. They merely illuminated day and night, respectively, and provided warmth.
The farm wasn’t the first they’d passed in their journey, and Koreh wondered again at the similarities between Bashyeh and Dasak. All his life, he’d been told about the Great Hall and the glories of the Eternal Battle. Though many of the poor peasants he’d known had regarded the Great Hall as the place that
nobles
went after death, assuming they would merely be servants in the Stronni kingdom, even for them the afterlife was associated with unending warfare. This peaceful, idyllic scene wasn’t what he’d expected at all.
“Are there wars here?” he asked Chya as they passed through one of the stone archways that marked the boundary of the town.
Chya shrugged. “If you like.”
“I don’t like,” Koreh said irritably. “I was simply asking a question.”
“If you don’t want to be in a war, you do not have to be.”
“I didn’t have to be in a war when I was alive,” Koreh said. “But there were still wars. And not everyone was able to run away from them.”
“Here, there are only wars for those who want them,” Chya said. “They do not involve those who do not want to fight.”
“How is that possible?” While no one other than the
vek
had ever dared challenge the emperor in open combat, to Koreh’s knowledge, the city keeps often went to war. Koreh had seen entire villages burned to the ground and all the villagers put to the sword. It was not something easily avoided.
“This world is vast,
iinyeh
,” Chya replied. “Those who enjoy combat may engage in it without disturbing those who wish to be left in peace.”
Koreh thought back to his first night there, when Chya goaded him to throw himself off a cliff. Obviously, he hadn’t died. And it hadn’t hurt. So anyone who wanted to do battle in this world would be engaging in a sport without death or injury. It seemed rather pointless to Koreh, but then he hadn’t been raised as a fighter.
On the other hand, he was baffled by the fields of wheat. “Are farmers forced to continue farming, even after they die?”
Chya shook his head. “Nobody here is forced to do anything.” They were nearing a large building at the edge of town with a wooden sign hanging in front of it sporting the name The Hungry Tekh. Chya suddenly broke into a run and scampered up the wooden steps like a child playing a game. He pulled open the door with both arms and shouted back to Koreh, “Come on! I’m hungry.”
Koreh sighed and followed him up the steps. Hunger was another oddity of this world. Koreh did feel hungry, now and then. But one recent evening, when he and Chya had been far from any town and there hadn’t been any berries nearby to eat, he’d complained about it, and the boy had simply replied, “You don’t need to be hungry if you don’t want to be.” And instantly Koreh’s hunger had vanished. Eating, Chya had explained, wasn’t necessary.
But apparently, the boy had chosen to become hungry. So Koreh decided to be hungry as well, and the two of them went inside the inn. It was a homey place, with several heavy oak tables and clean straw strewn on the wooden floor. Though of course that was kept well away from the massive stone fireplace in the back of the room. A couple of men sat at one of the tables near the fireplace, playing
gönd
. Otherwise, the tavern was empty.
A cheerful old woman brought out a pitcher of ale and poured some into the men’s empty mugs. She glanced up at Koreh and his companion and smiled broadly. “Just seat yourself anywhere. Would you like some ale?”
“Yes, please,” Chya said.
They found a table in a corner, while the matron wandered out back for something.
Koreh noticed she walked a bit slowly, limping a bit, and he leaned in close to Chya. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “If someone dies in old age, or after they’ve become infirm, are they doomed to remain that way in death?”
“No,
iinyeh
. You can be whatever you want to be.” To illustrate his point, Chya quickly transformed into a handsome young man Koreh’s age, and then just as quickly into a middle-aged woman, and lastly into a squirrel, before settling back into the body of the small boy Koreh was familiar with. Startled, Koreh glanced at the men by the fire to see if they’d noticed. If they had, they gave no sign that anything unusual had happened.
“I don’t understand,” Koreh said. “You keep telling me that people can be anything they want and do anything they want, but you expect me to believe that they choose to be old or weak, or spend their time laboring in the fields all day? That doesn’t make sense!”
“We are still on the outskirts of Bashyeh,” Chya replied. “These people still cling to what they knew when they lived. It comforts them.”
“Then they don’t stay like that forever?”
“Nothing is forever. Not even here.”
The old woman returned while Koreh was mulling that over, and she set two mugs of ale down on the table between them. “We have lamb stew, just made this morning, if you’d like some,” she told them.
“Yes, please,” Chya said with a wide grin. He could be adorable when he smiled like that, and Koreh found himself wondering, not for the first time, if he was really a child by Taaweh standards. He didn’t act like any children Koreh had ever known, but the Taaweh appeared to live a very long time. He might be hundreds of years old.