[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The rain was pouring from the roofs of the Palace in cataracts as Rae visited his fury upon the hapless form of Rhais. His water carved deep channels through the earth, washing away whole banks of the River, causing it to twist about and shift, like a serpent in its own death throes. The sands of the dessert, just beyond the frail verdant strip of land that clung to the edges of the River, was turned to mud that slipped and sucked at the feet of those travelers unfortunate enough to be caught in the open by the deluge. In the streets and ways of Kanak, people ran for shelter in doorways and beneath such trees as they could find, but the waters rose and the streets became small rivers of muddy water. In the poorer quarters, entire households had their earth-packed floors become slippery muck that ruined their goods. In the richer homes, the torrent flooded the central courtyards and servants were hurriedly dispatched to bail away the waters before they breached the homes and ruined the silks and furniture of the nobility. The fury of the storm was great, and many in the City cast their eyes to the new Temple. Some felt that the God was angered in some way, while others hoped that He might see the new structure and take pity on them.

From out of the west there raced a solitary horseman. The animal had been cruelly driven beyond the endurance of mortal flesh, and its sides streamed with a thick foam of sweat that withstood even the punishment of the rain. His rider bore armour upon his back that had been rent and tattered almost beyond recognition, and his eyes were as red and ragged as his mounts. Those who still remained out of doors paused in wonderment as the rider tore along the road toward the City, the hooves of his tormented horse creating an endless series of geysers as they charged through the water that churned toward the River, seeking there the welcome embrace of Rhais after its torment by Rae.

In the Palace, the wailing of women could be heard even above the roar of the wind and of the water that fell in droves upon the garden. A sodden form, its humanity still lingering but slowly fading by the moment, lay upon the floor of the grand hall. About it there spread a pool of gentle pink as the rain from its garments mixed with the blood, forming a puddle upon the marble floor. The old woman Homay knelt by the form, beating her breast and crying out a grief that none there could understand, for she spoke now in her tongue of old. It was the first time that any had dared speak the language of Alanazia in that hall, but no-one tried to stop her. Beside her knelt the healer Dahliyah, gazing down, her own lamentations mixing with those of the aged Nurse. She had come immediately but there had never been any hope for the wretched wreck of humanity that they had brought before her. One look at her neck had told her the tale of violence that had unfolded. Behind the women stood two more forms: the aged Chamberlain Jarult gazed downward as though he had seen the end of the world, his hand mechanically making the old sign of warding against evil, over and over again. Beside him was the Lady Arshalous, and though she was soundless her eyes were large with terror at what had befallen. Surrounding these few figures, removed by a slight distance as though in respect or fear, were dozens of courtiers, soldiers and servants. Neither rank nor privilege was observed as they ranged about the ragged form: noble stood shoulder to shoulder with serving girl, and soldiers shed tears while aged women looked on dry-eyed with shock.

In a far corner, lost almost in the shadows that clung there, was the lone form of the King. He crouched into himself, his cloak cast about his head. Neither guilt nor terror nor grief had penetrated his mind yet, for at the sight of his wife’s body, ravaged and shattered, his world had become a mighty white blank and all he could feel was the overwhelming numbness of a loss unlooked for, and incomprehensible. He repeated to himself over and over, he did not know why, “I did not love her. I did not love her.” It was a confession. It was a lament. It was an accusation.

After a time a hand touched him upon the shoulder and he turned to look into the eyes of the healer. Her gaze was hard and she was speaking to the King, but he could not hear her for the roar of the rain – or perhaps it was the pounding of his heart. She spoke again, firmly but not unkindly. “Khamul,” she said, “your wife needs you.”

“What?” he stammered stupidly.

“She requires the final purification, majesty. The day is already well advanced and with this rain it will be difficult to build a sufficient pyre by morning. We must begin immediately.”

“Yes,” he said as though he were a statue new come to life. “The pyre. We must build the pyre by tomorrow. She cannot wait longer than that.”

“No,” she said soothingly, taking him by the hand and leading him through the crowd toward the Queen. “We women shall prepare her for the journey, but her husband must begin the purification. Oil has been brought, all you need do is anoint her eyes. Then we shall wash her and wrap her in silk, the pyre shall be built and tomorrow your children will lay her upon it.” She spoke these home truths to calm the King, and to give him something familiar to cling to. She knew how important these rites became to those who had to go through them. At the time of loss, the mind shuts down and refuses to act – only ritual gave it any form or movement. As she led the King forward she felt the familiar listlessness of grief in his arm, but she noted that his other hand clutched at his heart in a fist so tight that his tunic was bunched into a painful knot. She sensed then a terrible coldness radiating from the King, and centered upon whatever it was that lay beneath the folds of his silk. It was a familiar sensation, and painfully so, for she had felt the same when she had been attacked by the Emissary. The shock of recognition was so great that her step faltered and she almost let go the King’s hand but she composed herself in time and led him on.

The crowd parted and Faroz went toward Bekah. She was cold to the touch now and he knelt down to look at her. She was still lovely, and in the moment that he regarded her the lifetime that they had spent together came to him clearly. He had not loved her, but he had depended upon her and respected her. The memory of the last time that they had been so close came to him like a knife in the chest, and his eyes lingered upon the splints that were wrapped about her arm. In that second he felt as though he were responsible for her death and could almost have leapt to his feet and confessed to the crime, but for the weight of the Ring about his neck which bore him down. A small plain bowl with some oil in it had been placed upon the floor near her head, and he reached out to put some on his finger. His gaze went to the hideous marks upon her throat, the shape of her murderer’s hands clearly outlined in black upon her skin. Her eyes were still open and they stared at him, but he felt in them neither reproach nor forgiveness, for they were as lifeless as stone. He closed them, and anointed the lids with the cleansing oil to prepare her for her journey. He spoke the ritual words: “Farewell my wife, and my Lady. May you find peace and honour among the dead as you did in life. Those of us who remain will ever remember you and turn to your shade for guidance. Watch over our children, and await me in the next world when I shall come to you and enclose you in my arms once more.” His eyes closed and the first tears came. “Forgive me, Bekah.”