Chapter 36

JUNE 26TH IN TRELLECH

W ednesday morning found Vitus - and a number of others - at another funeral. This one differed from the beginning, as it was being held in a small temple building near the Temple of Healing. It was one that could be set for a number of different practices, hallowed ground that was bound to no particular pantheon or faith or tradition. The Temple of Healing worked much the same way, but that was a much larger space. If Philip’s funeral had been there, the mourners would have been lost in the vastness.

There was an entry hall, perhaps a third the visible length of the building, with double doors that opened into the main temple space. Candles had been lit, not just charm lights, and light shone in from skylights above as well. There were no seats, just a broad empty space with a coffin at one end, and simple illusion work of great statues and an Egyptian temple. Vitus wondered fleetingly who had done it, or if there were illusions in stock somewhere, brought out for all rituals of the appropriate type. There were a few benches along the walls, a gesture at seats for anyone truly in need.

Vitus had expected that Philip Landry’s funeral would be small. Certainly vastly smaller than a sitting Council Member who died in the prime of her life, with an extensive family as well as numerous social connections. And that was before he counted up the lesser known connections, the others of the Four Metals he’d seen among the attendees. Yesterday, it had been hundreds, too many to count easily. Today it was dozens, maybe sixty at the most.

He was grateful that the quieter part of Metaia Powell’s memorial had gone well, at least. He had met up with the others of the society who’d known her at the country estate. Each of them had beaten out a flat circle of copper, joining it by overlapping the ends and hammering it smooth, making a chain. His had a private word inscribed, the one he’d chosen at his initiation. It had been quiet but companionable in a way Vitus hadn’t known he needed. A few people had told stories of Metaia Powell, but there had been a lot more of the wordless sounds of hammer on metal, or stamp and copper. No one had commented on how many of them cried as they worked silently.

From there, they’d gone out to the family estate in the twilight, to add the chain of links to the grave and cover it with dirt. The groundskeeper had been there, and as they walked back silently to the portal, he had filled in the last shovels of deep brown earth and was tamping it down. Vitus turned once, to hold the memory of it in case, at some future time, Thessaly might want to know.

Now, he stood in his best black suit, formal and uncertain. These weren’t his customs, whatever the Landrys kept, he was sure of that. And it seemed that most of those there weren’t sure what to expect either. The men stood still, the pose of people who knew uprightness was expected, literally as well as figuratively, while the women waited. Vitus found a spot about a quarter of the way back from the front, over to the left side. He took an occasional glance around, seeing a cluster of the Fortiers, and then - arriving just before the hour - Thessaly and her father. She was veiled again and entirely in black. He hadn’t expected to see her here at all.

Outside, the bells chimed at the Temple, and then as the last of the strokes sounded, there was the sound of something else higher and sharper, claiming the space. Vitus couldn’t see what it was or where it was coming from. A door from the back opened, admitting a man in long ritual robes. Then Henut Landry - it could only be her - and Alexander followed. Alexander was in black ritual robes, of a sort that anyone in Albion would recognise over a stark black suit. The white of his shirt collar was the only variation. Magistra Landry was in full mourning, with a dark veil that entirely hid her face and fell to her waist. She took up a place near the head of the coffin, with Alexander closer to the feet.

There was no announcement, certainly no explanation. Magistra Landry said one sentence, waited, as if the answer informed her of something. Then she began declaiming, pausing for an answer from Alexander. The two of them set into a dialogue of some kind, the sort that obviously formed some ritual purpose, but in a language Vitus couldn’t even begin to parse. The respectful thing to do seemed to be to listen, but several people there shifted uneasily. Vitus could understand the desire there. He could feel the ritual energies building around him.

But he knew enough to know they weren’t about him, they weren’t touching him. He was standing on a steady rock in a stream, water rushing around him. The water would do as water did. He was above it all, untouched and unsplashed. Whatever they were saying went on, perhaps five minutes, enough for a few of the ladies to claim a seat on the benches and fan themselves. The air felt close, certainly, and there was incense in the air in a blend Vitus didn’t know.

But then, the ritual magics, beyond what he’d learned at Schola and the few he used in his own work, weren’t his specialty. He knew enough to know each part of this was doing something that mattered to the Landrys. Perhaps he would have a conversation with one of them - Alexander by preference - at some later date, and be able to ask. Perhaps he’d come across some reference that would explain it, in his reading about some other topic entirely. Most likely, he would live with the mystery of it. Not all magics were his to understand.

There were several sharp comments, the kind that if they’d been in English would have been scolding, even challenging. Alexander stepped backwards once, with the force of it, said something, then took another small step of retreat. Something in the language changed then, a different rhythm that shifted the energy one more time.

The ensuing silence lasted five beats of his heart. Then there was wailing and moaning, high and sharp and pitched, coming from every corner of the room. It was mostly women’s voices, but a few men as well. They came forward, along the paths at the edges, weeping and crying out, until they formed little groups at the front of the room. It wasn’t a Deschamps custom, but Vitus had heard of professional mourners, the role they played. The man who had opened the door at first then gestured. Magistra Landry and Alexander processed up toward the entry hall, and the other attendees were encouraged to move slowly past the coffin, for whatever final moment they wished.

The way the lines flowed, Vitus was toward the end, the people behind him coming around first. He saw Thessaly’s father, her arm through his, then Thessaly glanced his way. He nodded once, minutely, but he didn’t see if she made any gesture of reply before the angles changed again. One attendant gestured him into place, perhaps ten feet behind the Lytton-Powells, and he was focused for a bit on his own thoughts.

He was sorry for Philip’s death. Confused by it, as well. There had been no information about what had happened, even in the announcement in the paper about the funeral. He had died suddenly, a brief biography, and of course no mention of Schola house or Trellech’s clubs. He hadn’t had those connections. The thing of it was, Vitus had hoped to know him better. The man had been clever, and even more than clever, thoughtful. That was rare, but the range of knowledge he’d applied in that one conversation had suggested he’d known a great many things Vitus didn’t.

And all of that was lost now, all the chances they might have had. Besides the fact that no man of thirty-one ought to die suddenly, for no reason. All he could do was hold the memory and hope that mattered a little. He remembered that much of what he knew of Egyptian religion - assuming that carried over to the Landrys. That remembering the name mattered.

By the time he made it to the entry hall, he was in the tail of the gathering. Thessaly and her father had disappeared through the door to the outside just as he’d entered. There was no chance to greet her. The Fortiers, too, had entirely disappeared. Then he was up at the head of the line.

Vitus bowed to Magistra Landry, low and respectful. “I am sorry for your loss, Magistra, Alexander.” He hesitated, but then trusted that instinct that had been lurking there. “I wish I could have known Philip better. Please, I am sure I cannot offer much in the way of help, but if I can, I hope you will call on my aid.”

Some silent communication passed between the two of them. Then Alexander cleared his throat. “Would you wait a few minutes until we have greeted everyone?” It was an unexpected request, and puzzling, but an easy one to grant.

Vitus nodded. “Of course. I’ll wait somewhere out of the way.” He went and found a bench in the main temple room, sitting silently and reflecting. Not that he made any progress on any particular thought. They were chasing around inside his mind and refusing to settle in any kind of order.

When the room was empty except for the attendants and the wailing mourners had fallen quiet, he stood again, to save someone having to come find him. The entry hall was empty now, other than the man who had opened the ritual, speaking briefly to Magistra Landry. He waited until the man backed away, and Magistra Landry turned her body toward him.

It was eerie, knowing she could see his reactions - he was sure she was marking each move he made - and he could not judge hers a tenth as well. Alexander inclined his upper body, opening one hand in a gesture of invitation, and Vitus joined them.

“There is one thing you might help us with. Do you know a source for a piece of carnelian, of talisman quality, two to three inches long, an inch and a half wide?” It was an exceedingly specific sort of question. On the other hand, he had just done an inventory of all of Niobe’s current stones. Before he could figure out how to bring up the fact it was not his stock, Magistra Landry lifted a finger. “I will gladly pay, but my usual sources do not have such a piece on hand.”

“I would be glad to inquire of Niobe. We have two pieces that might serve, if—” He cleared his throat. “Would you prefer to call by her workroom or for me to come by? I would want to double check the measurements and quality before presenting the piece.”

“Alexander will call tomorrow morning. We have the other stones I wish.” The ’morning’ was a slight question, but Vitus nodded. “We thank you. For your care and your memory.” That was a sharp nod of dismissal. Vitus bowed and withdrew. He set off for the Stream to change clothing into something suitable for his obligations at the Faire. And also to send a messenger to Niobe about the carnelian, with a promise to explain in the morning when he got to the workshop.

The whole thing had been unsettling, as if other people in the room had been weighed and found wanting. He half remembered the discussion in one of his Society and Culture classes. There’d been more detail in Ritual class a year or two later, about the weighing of the heart against a feather. What discomforted him most was that he wasn’t the one being weighed. He’d have understood having that eerie feeling if it had been meant for him, but he was certain it wasn’t.

Then he was at Portal Square, and he had to set the whole thing aside for the day. Perhaps tonight he’d be too tired to dwell on it. Or perhaps a night’s sleep might shake something loose, he did not know.