26

This Quiet, when the air is as silent as the dead, I learn more of Dorcha culture than I ever wanted to know.

Funerals.

With all of Hemlock House out here in the ash grounds, just one phase after Aleana drifted away from our world, I feel as uncomfortable in my own body as I do in this moment.

It is an unsettling thing to watch General Agnar lift a weighted ateralum torch and dip it into the sooted metal pit.

Black flames lick up the torch and take root, fast.

Face like a stone mask, the general steps back from the firepit and takes the torch with him. He turns for the stacked wood bed, where Aleana’s body lies.

I don’t look at her.

But that doesn’t stop the sight of her corpse from creeping into my peripherals. Her rigid body, arms stiff down her sides, glistens paler than moonlight. But the hue darkens as Agnar closes in on her with the black flame.

My eyes crease against the heat of the flaming torch.

Beside me, Eamon turns his chin down to his shoulder. He can’t watch.

I don’t blame him.

A sickly burn sears my throat as Agnar lowers the torch—and Aleana’s body, balmed in fresh oil, takes flame.

This is so entirely different to what we do in Licht.

We have burials of the earth and the sky. Once the soul leaves the body, that vessel should return to Mother. It belongs to her earth, and so we have them composted: cut into small pieces, then spread over the soil. Birds and beasts will feast on the remains, because that is the circle of life. We feed it in life and in death. And once the body is devoured by nature, the soul is free from its vessel—and it lifts up into the skies where the afterlife awaits it.

The Dorcha way isn’t something I agree is best.

Those black flames devour Aleana’s body, and though I understand that this is the best way to ensure her soul isn’t tied to a vessel anymore, the savagery of the black flame eats her bones as it eats her flesh.

It’s a grisly thing to behold.

Silence consumes us as we watch Aleana sear to ash.

It’s no moment to speak. No song, no speech, no dance.

We do not celebrate her life, nor wail over her death.

We watch the black flame sever her soul from this life, so she is free to move on to the next. But in this manner, the circle of life isn’t appeased. The animals of this land are not fed, not nourished, nor provided for as they are in Licht when a fae dies.

Our tradition takes three moons to complete. And the pieces of the body are scattered on the third. We dance and sing in the nights leading up to the final one—and we celebrate the death in flesh but the life in soul.

There is joy in our funerals.

Here, there is silent misery.

Here, there is the oppression of grief.

And so the dokkalves make so much more sense to me now. The way they are, the metals around their hearts, the fight to speak their emotions—because it is beaten out of them in their culture, even in something as agonising as loss.

The pity in me coils in my chest like a writhing snake.

I throw a glance at Daxeel.

Hands rested on the hilts of daggers pinned to his waist, he stands proudly at the head of Aleana’s burning body. His chin is raised, eyes dead and fixed ahead at nothing—but the glisten on his chin betrays his pain, his tears.

Beside him, Caius wears only a slight glitter on a single cheek.

In their leathers, they stand as warriors on guard.

It takes every ounce of will within me to not shake my head in passive judgement.

I turn my stare to the black flame.

It devoured her fast. Too fast. Like she was never a person, never real, never lived, and she was only a feather to be burnt to ash.

I stare at that last piece of bone, flames dancing all around it. It’s not quite white, not quite yellow, but a lovely blend of both—and it sickens me.

Nausea crawls up my throat.

I fight the urge to shut my eyes on the grim sight as the last of the flickering black flames eat the small lump of Aleana that is left.

It takes so long now.

Maybe because I looked, time has shifted.

Eamon’s fingers thread through mine before he inches closer, a mild step that no one notices.

I lean into him, my temple on his arm.

That final flame hangs on. It lingers over the smallest, faintest piece of bone in the pile of ash. Flickers once, twice, then it is gone…

And so is Aleana.

I feel the roll of tears down my cheeks, down my throat.

Cautious movement ripples through the fae in the ash grounds.

Hands lift to wipe away tears, deep inhales swell chests, fingers curl into fists as if to crush out lingering heartache. Whatever they do, they all aim for the same goal—to stop weeping.

I understand this about them, only through my friendship with Eamon and my fascination with the scripture back home, learning all I can about anything at all.

These are the last tears that will be shed for Aleana.

When folk cry over the dead in this culture, the soul is said to return to the land—dragged out of the afterlife—to console the living. That is painful for the dead.

So we all cried with the black flames.

And now those are gone, our tears must disappear too.

This is their way. One Quiet to grieve: the funeral.

After this, folk must wait for the Sabbat: A time that comes once every year in all lands, a time to speak to the dead in wishes and letters and dreams and prayers.

But in this crowd of fae, it’s hard to say if many of us will make it to the Sabbat. With most of us in the Sacrament, Eamon to fight his honour duel, the only guaranteed survivors will be Morticia and Melantha and General Agnar.

The thought of Eamon’s impending duel just next phase—it thickens my throat.

If he dies…

How will I even know?

I’ll be in the Sacrament, in the second passage, and so I will not know if Eamon survives it or not.

I gulp down the lumpish sensation and, eyes still wet with tears, I draw in his arm closer to me. I hold it in an embrace.

His hand firms on mine, the grip of someone hanging off the edge of a cliff. Don’t let go .

I don’t.

I hold on.

General Agnar kneels at his daughter’s ashes. No emotions flicker over the stone of his expression. A stubborn boulder, this male is, one by the sea that never wavers, never crumbles under the constant assaults of the waves.

I decide that about him, because not so much as a twist of his lips betrays his heartache as he starts to gather a small pile of ashes.

He does this, silent, until seven small mounds of ash are neatly arranged over the ground. The air is still, as though it has joined us in silence.

Agnar lifts a black metal bangle and sets it on one pile.

Then a shudder of movement.

One by one, the males draw closer.

Daxeel moves first for an ash pile, his own plain black bangle dangling from his finger. Caius is next, his bangle firm in his fist. Then Eamon, whose hand slips from mine, and he tugs his from the pocket of his breeches. Rune, Samick and Dare approach like shadows, until all the males stand at their own ash pile.

One by one, they kneel and place their bangle on the dusty mounds of remains. They each add pressure until the black metal indents—then is fully submerged.

Stillness steals them again.

Knelt at the ash mounds, hands and bangles buried in the dusty remains, they each bow their heads, frozen.

Melantha steps forward. Her broken voice lifts with a faint melody, “To thine eternal bed, to thine eternal slumber.”

Morticia lifts a bell and rings it.

I flinch, the clang of the bell vibrating through my bones.

Melantha’s poem is strained with battled tears, “Sleep thou, sleep, and away with thy sorrow.”

Again, the ring of the bell.

My mouth twists.

I fight the litalf urge to flee from the clang.

Then Melantha whispers out the words with the same hoarseness I feel deep in my chest, “Sleep this night in the breast of thy Mother.”

The third ring of the bell is loud enough to deafen the sharp inhale that pierces through me. My hands fist as the vibrations of metal hum. My bones are scraping from the inside-out.

It takes too long for the hum to stop.

But once it does, the males shudder with movement.

In perfect synchronicity, they push from the ash mounds and lift their blackened, dusty bangles to the bleak skies above.

They lower the bangles to their chests, and hold.

For a moment, their hearts beat on the metal. Then, as they force the bangles over their hands and onto their wrists, I watch Daxeel’s face harden, his jaw tighten, his lashes lower over wet ocean storms.

He lifts his firm chin.

And as though the land participates, as though the darkness joins the mourning on the ash grounds, a wedge of wind gusts directly through our circle.

It gusts over the ashes—and takes them away on the wings of the breeze.

Daxeel fists his hands at his sides—and storms away from the ash grounds.

A current ripples behind him. The others follow. An orderly line of procession leaves behind scorched earth and a flickering firepit.

I follow last.

The walk to the road is long and suffocating. No one speaks, not a murmur, as we reach the carriages that brought us here.

Three of them are idle on the gravel beyond the dehydrated, black trees, dead like the ash grounds.

I keep to the back of the line.

Tris in front of me, my steps are as fatigued and weathered as my heart. And I know, I know , I just can’t take much more of anything.

Not the rules, the Sacrament, the honour duel, the death of my friend, the hatred Daxeel harbours for me, my father and Taroh— anything .

If I’m a glass ornament, cracks formed long ago on my surface, but now they reach into my core and threaten to break me at the slightest breeze that disgruntles me.

But I am not an ornament.

I am a halfling.

So I don’t expect that, when I break, it will be as pretty as glass confetti.

Tris steps aside—and it’s only then that I blink and realise the walk is over, that we have reached the carriages, and she makes to help me inside the one I aimlessly followed her to.

But I hesitate.

I rebel against the rules of Dorcha culture, for I pause and look over my shoulder.

I mouth the words but don’t voice them, “Goodbye, sister.”

I fight those tears I’m not supposed to shed, and I climb into the carriage. I slide into the seat beside Eamon.

He looks at the window, though the curtains are closed.

Tris manages to squeeze in with her hideously puffy dress. She sits opposite me.

The carriages ahead of us are first to move.

And one by one, we leave the ash grounds behind.

We leave Aleana in the past.

The others reach Hemlock House before we do, since their carriages departed ahead of ours.

The delay of our journey being halted in the bustling heart of Kithe costs us the chunk of an hour. But for it, I’m glad. Because when we do reach Hemlock, the others are already inside, gone, and Tris is quick to rush herself up the porch.

Eamon walks alongside me, an unwilling stroll up the path, like we both avoid passing over the threshold and returning to the home without her.

The door creaks ahead, closing itself over, but not all the way.

That split second of privacy strikes me.

I snatch Eamon’s sleeve and yank him to a stop. “Run.”

Thin braids of hair fall over his face.

His lashes flutter as he considers me.

I don’t speak for me. Commands tie me to Daxeel—so it is not my opportunity to flee. It is Eamon’s.

“Run,” I say again, grip on his sleeve tightening. “Flee from the honour duel. Promise me, Eamon. You must flee—tonight.”

His brow starts to knit with a frown. “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can. I know why you stay.” My fingers slip from his arm as my mouth starts to tremble. The strain on my voice turns it wispy, “You want to be in the stands, watching the portals—watching me.”

The truth of it shuts his eyes, tight.

He turns his cheek to me, a hint of guilt flickering over his warm complexion.

“You believe that watching me somehow helps me.” I reach up for him. My hands steal his cheeks and force him to face me. “But to help me, I must not be worried about you while I’m in there. You must go.”

“The laws here—” he starts.

I cut him off, sharp, “You are not of Dorcha, nor of the Midlands, so why must you be brave in their customs? Their ways are not our ways.” My hold on his cheeks is unyielding. “There is no crime in the Midlands for running. So drown them, drown them all, their silly ideals of honour. Your life is worth more than their manipulations—and you know it, too.”

His lips part on words that don’t come.

He has considered it.

I see that in his eyes as he watches me, looks at me like he truly understands in this moment how deeply I know him, how connected we are.

He deflates with the softest of huffs. “That is to be a coward, Nari.”

“Then be a coward,” I scoff. “For me, for yourself, for life. We can be cowards, because what does it cost us? Nothing at all, but we save our lives.”

His eyes soften. “Is that your plan? To hide in the Sacrament?”

To be a coward and survive.

“My plan is do anything, anything ,” I add darkly, dropping my hands to my sides, “to be free. And when I come back… I will be with you.”

Eamon strokes his soft fingertips down my cheek. “In Kithe?”

I nod, firm. “I will flee these prisons—and be free with you. But to do that, you must be alive.” I swat at his chest. “If you are dead from some meaningless honour duel that wears no true honour, how can I be free with my brother?”

His voice is soft, “You will not be ashamed?”

“Sometimes it takes courage to be a coward,” I say with small smile, and I feel the relief in my chest, the uncoiling of a tight knot that loosens throughout me. “So you will flee?”

Eamon nods, his touch tender on my cheek.

Lord Braxis can, of course, renew that honour duel when Eamon returns to the Midlands. But at that time, the Sacrament will be over, and there will be many options for a second. Dare might stand in his place, or Rune or Samick, even Daxeel and Caius. Each one of them, formidable.

“There is something I have not confessed to you, my Nari.” He tugs gently on a strand of my hair, watches it as though it’s so fascinating, but I know he just can’t meet my gaze. “Ronan approach me some time ago.”

“And?”

Still, he doesn’t look at me. “He insisted I kill Daxeel and Caius before the second passage begins.”

My mouth flattens.

Ronan flickers in my mind, memories of the same request presented to me.

I don’t need to ask what Eamon said. The outrage, the rejection glimmers like fire embers in his eyes.

“And if not them—then you,” he finishes in a whisper.

My nostrils flare.

A hot, enraged sensation sways me.

I bite it back. It is no surprise—and yet, it is. Because while Ronan might be only a messenger, he is still familiar.

“Ronan made it clear,” Eamon says, “that if do not fulfil this task, I will not be welcomed back to Licht.” His smile is bitter. “Such is the life of a halfbreed.”

To belong nowhere.

And so he must take up residence in Kithe, now.

It’s no more a dream to stay here.

It’s the Midlands or Dorcha. And in Dorcha, he cannot be a same lover without banishment.

“Then flee,” I say with a swallow, “and when you return, I will join you here in Kithe. I make a promise.”

Eamon slips his hand around my back, then draws me into him.

My lashes flutter shut the moment my brow presses to his chest.

He curves around me in the embrace.

His murmur presses to the crown of my head. “I will leave within the hour.”

A silent tear falls down my cheek.

The relief is a breathed sigh from a tight chest—but the ache is a hollow pit carving deeper and deeper into me.

This moment might just be the last time we see each other.

For all my hopes, my false confidence and determination, the chances of my survival in the Sacrament are slim. If a litalf doesn’t kill me, then Daxeel might. I expect my death in Mother’s granted wish.

I might never return.

Eamon might not make it out of the Midlands, make it to Dorcha, in one piece. This might be anticipated, and there could be warriors in waiting.

With Aleana gone, it’s all starting to feel so real, so doomed .

So I speak one firm truth that I can hold onto like a rope in pitch-blackness.

“I love you, my brother.”

He echoes the truth, “I love you, my sister.”

True to his word, Eamon leaves within the hour.

I weep in bed.