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I had believed Lancelet was dead. It was a miracle she had survived and due to no feat of mine. I had left her.
The children of Meridium. Could their fates be traced back to me? My father had desired their souls to fuel his own power. Was it because he had lost me that he needed them?
All through the Court of Umbral Flames, I had courted death, walked with it, delivered it, narrowly avoided it.
Beks’s death. I had not seen it coming, had done nothing to stop it.
Javer had sacrificed himself for me. Literally throwing himself towards my father’s altar.
Kaye. Lifeless but alive. I had not been able to save him.
Now I had brought death into the heart of these people of Rheged who had already been filled with so much sorrow.
And Gawain... Gawain was gone.
I could not bear to look around me. Mine, I knew, was not the only heavy heart.
The pyres that scattered the field bore the remains of mothers, fathers, children, grandparents. And in the center, a little larger than all the rest, lay Gawain’s. His final resting place would not be by Crescent’s side or with Taina holding his hand, but instead on a bed of wood and kindling.
They were lighting the pyres now.
A woman in the crowd behind me broke out wailing as a small pyre near the front was lit. A child’s.
I kept my eyes straight ahead. If I looked back at her, I knew I would break.
Draven brushed his hand against mine briefly, then moved forward and accepted a torch from a man with a soot-streaked face.
Touching the torch to each side of Gawain’s pyre, he stood back until the flames grew into a crackling blossom of crimson and orange.
All of the pyres were alight now. The heat emanating from the field was almost unbearable, but still we stayed. Around me, mourners bowed their heads, some whispering prayers, others quietly crying.
Tendrils of smoke rose into the night as the scent of burning wood became more pronounced.
To my left, Lancelet and Guinevere stood motionless. Hawl was not present. The Bearkin had gone to visit the exmoors. In truth, I believed the Bearkin had no wish to participate in one of our death rituals, no matter how respectful and well-intended. In Ursidaur culture, a body was left to decay where it fell, feeding back into Aercanum as nature had intended. They did not burn or bury their dead as we did.
Draven’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me against him. I stiffened, then forced myself to relax.
“Can we go back now?” he murmured into my hair.
I nearly sagged in relief.
I nodded, and together, our small group turned away from the burning pyres and chanted prayers.
Slowly, we made our way through the remains of the refugee camp, past burned husks of tents and scuff marks in the dirt from yesterday’s fighting to our small cluster of tents.
The fire was out. I sank down beside the little ring of stones anyway and wrapped my arms around my knees, resisting the urge to bury my head in my hands.
Guinevere moved to my side to gently touch my shoulder. “You need rest, Morgan.”
I yanked away. “So do you.” I ran my hands over my face. “I’m sorry.” I knew she meant well. I knew she simply wanted the best for me. “But it’s true. You’re the one who was ill.”
We would never know what had brought my brother and sister down upon us.
Was it the fact I had dozed off while Guinevere was sleeping?
Or was it because of the grail? I had touched it with my bleeding hand after the bandit attack. Could my father have sensed that somehow? Had the grail drawn Tempest and Lorion down upon us?
For my part, I was inclined to blame the grail. I hated the chalice. It had destroyed Gawain. Touching it had corrupted his soul in some way. Weakened him to Tempest’s magic. Allowed her a foothold for her poison.
