“They will return in moments.” His detached demeanour vanishes as soon as we are alone, his words barely breathed as he crouches in front of me, producing something from a small pouch on his belt. A vial, green liquid in it. “Drink.”
“What is it?” I whisper too, examining it warily.
“It will help you sleep. Deeply. You will feel restored when you wake.” He sees my lingering suspicion. “You are still weak. You cannot be so if you hope to escape tonight, and tonight is our only chance.”
I take the vial reluctantly. “Not sure I need help sleeping,” I mutter to myself in weary Common, and then, “Why do these men … want … kill me?” Far easier to translate than to dredge the right Vetusian for my own speech, unfortunately.
“Not these. The ones on their way. Ruarc and the Grove.” He hesitates. Eyes meeting mine. “They fear you, Traveller.” A half question hidden in the answer, I think, but there’s a call from outside and Cian flinches before I can say anything.
“Drink. Now,” he urges again.
A hundred more questions bubble through my weariness. The names he just mentioned mean nothing to me; I want to know who they are, where I am, what in all the hells happened to my gods-damned arm in the Labyrinth. But there’s no denying the urgency in Cian’s voice, and for all my confusion, he does seem genuine in his concern for my safety.
“When we are free, I am to take you to meet someone. I do not have their name, but I am told they will be known to you. Will speak your tongue,” the white-cloaked man adds quickly, seeing my doubts. “They will explain all.”
It’s the mixture of determination and reassurance in his blue eyes, I think, more than the sudden hope of the words. I grimly down the green concoction in one swift motion, almost choking at the bitter taste, and hand the vial back.
The door bangs opens a heartbeat later and Cian tucks the empty bottle away, unseen by the warriors at the entrance, before turning to them. “Fós aon rud,” he growls, shooting me an irritable look. “Ná lig aon duine isteach nó amach go dtí anocht.” The latter is an instruction of some kind, I think.
The two men step aside to let him by, Cian leaving without a backward glance. The door shuts.
There’s the heavy thud of the beam outside being dropped into place, and I am alone.
III
DEATH IS A DOORWAY.
It’s echoed too many times, in the day that has passed since I woke in the Academy’s infirmary. My father’s words. The vain comfort of a ghost.
And yet as I silently join the crowd of mourners, fingers brushing against the shape of the wooden ship in my satchel, I cannot help but ponder it once more. Cannot help but wonder again at whether his spectre really was—impossibly—more than just a conjuring of my fevered, melancholy mind.
Here and now, I have never so desperately wanted to believe something was true.
The jagged crest of the Necropolis stands tall in the west, blotting out the setting sun. Hundreds of us gather, hushed, around a pyre. It is a symbol only. Callidus’s body is already interred in the Ericius crypt. When I arrived a few hours ago, I asked to see my friend, one last time. I was told no.
Grief, thick and heavy, threatens to choke me as I stare through the crowd into the flames. I swallow it down.
“Are you going to be alright?” The burly redheaded boy standing next to me murmurs it in Cymrian. He doesn’t look in my direction, but I know he’s seen the way I occasionally sway unsteadily.
“Yes.”
Eidhin grunts. He’s one of the few not casting furtive glances at me, despite us keeping to the back and arriving unheralded. We’ve been elsewhere in Agerus since disembarking the Transvect from the Academy, just sitting and talking in the spring sun, delaying our arrival at Callidus’s rites until the last possible moment. My suggestion. Many of those present will want to speak with me about the Iudicium, but I am here to mourn my friend. Their questions can wait.
“You look like you are about to fall over.”
“Trick of the eye. Not as symmetrical as I used to be.” Flickering orange highlights the dangling, empty left sleeve of my tunic. Quips are my best defence against the hollowness of that particular loss. It still hurts. Still feels like it’s there, half the time.
Up front, silhouetted against the flames, the priest gets everyone’s attention. His voice rings out in the cold.
He makes a solemn libation of wine, and begins my friend’s funeral.
I listen despite how empty it makes me feel, aching as I wonder what Callidus would have thought of all this. There are so many people here. How many knew him? A lot are patricians, judging from their clothes—older men and women, probably a mix of Governance senators and wealthy clients of the Ericius family. Plenty of them simply eager to show support for Magnus Tertius Ericius, no doubt.
The Magnus himself stands at the front next to his wife, head bowed, his two daughters—both younger than Callidus—veiled by his side. I can see Veridius on the other side of the pyre too, a gaggle of sombre and pale-faced students alongside him. Indol, Iro, Aequa. Emissa. The latter catches my examination through the flames. I look away before she can react.
It’s not long before the priest gives way to the Tertius. It’s the first time I get a good look at the man to whom I’ve tied my fate. He’s slender, on the shorter side of average height. Walks with a pronounced limp. Still, even from here power radiates from him. As he turns to face the onlookers, I can see Callidus all too clearly in his angular features and quick brown eyes.
He starts talking of his lost son, so softly that I strain to hear him. Stories from years ago, mostly. Halfway through, he falters and chokes to a stop. Looks away as a chorus of sniffs and sobs fill the abrupt silence. I feel tears welling in response. I know Catenan funerals are seen by some as opportunities to flaunt their grief, a way to advertise the pious bereavement expected of patricians, but I don’t think this is an affectation.
