The bowl went silent, and Charrin’s final note faded in the air.
Verice released his hold on Warna’s hand and stepped forward.
She felt his pain and ached for him. Ached for the sorrow etched in every line of his body. But her strong mael mounted the steps slowly as Dorne stepped to one side. He raised his hands and opened the main doors and stepped within the darkness and lit the mage lights to either side.
Warna and the white clad servants followed behind.
The crowd followed as well.
Verice was supposed to advance further into the hall, but he froze in the doorway, seemingly unable to move forward.
They all paused, the others looking at each other uncertainly. Warna understood. “Verice,” she whispered as she touched his shoulder. “Wait here.” She gestured to the others to follow her, and led them past Verice and into the wreckage beyond.
It hadn’t changed. Nothing had been moved, or altered since the night of the attack.
The dying light outside was just enough to light the colored-glass windows, letting their hues spill onto the floor. Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter stood silent guardians over the tables still set with dishes, some over-turned, with broken glass and pottery shattered on the floor. The high table, was cracked and the area before it covered in a large reddish-brown stain. Old dried blood.
Warna swallowed hard. One glance showed her that Ersal and Janella, as well as the other volunteers that stood with her were just as stricken. They’d thought they’d known how hard this would be, but the reality was so much harder.
They’d planned this in silence, with Charrin and Dorne outside, chanting a dirge. But suddenly that wasn’t enough for the emptiness and the ache she felt within. Warna swallowed hard, and gave voice to her sorrow, one long mournful keen for her pain.
She reached out, picked up a soiled plate, and placed it in her basket.
Her keen was caught by Ersal and the others and amplified as they joined in, lifting their voices in wordless sorrow. Deeper voices joined in, as some of the men added their grief to the rising tide of sound.
Verice stood silent, in the doorway, as still as stone.
The sound of the keening seemed to free them. As they’d planned, the men began to remove the broken furniture and chairs, as the women gathered the shards of glass and pottery. Everything was taken away, the room cleared of everything, all of it carried outside with reverence.
When the men returned, they carried buckets of water, and clean white cloths.
Warna took the first bucket, and one of the cloths, even as she continued the song. She knelt on the floor, at the edge of the dried blood, and started to clean.
The outside light faded as they worked, night having truly fallen. Mage lights appeared around them, and Warna glanced at Verice, sure that he had lit them. But he still stood, unmoving and still. She wanted to go to him, but she knew it was best that this be done and finished as quickly as they could. Only then would she offer him whatever comfort he would accept.
The weeping grew as they worked, the keening broken with the harsh sobs of those that labored. Each took a turn, taking over from another when the pain grew to be too much. Warna eyes stung, and her voice grew hoarse, but she didn’t stop. No one stopped, until the floor was clean.
Then the buckets and rags were taken up, and they all started out, weary, their clothing stained and damp. Warna lifted her hand to her hair, drained and exhausted.
A fluttering of wings caught her attention. Her gaze flew up to the huge circular window, as a small bird flew out. She gaped at its shattered opening. The window. Her stomach knotted in a flash of pain.
Lord and Lady above, how had they forgotten the window? She glanced at Ersal, who was staring up at the opening with the same stunned look. There was a sharp intake of breath from behind her, probably Janella. They’d focused on the clearing, and the cleaning. All their plans for the use of the Great Hall during the rest of the Festival—
A warmth at her side, and Verice was beside her. She feared the worst. His face was shuttered as he gazed up into the empty space.
He lifted a hand, and whispered under his breath. She followed his gaze to see the empty space fill with the golden light of a magical barrier.
Warna sighed with relief, and slipped her hand into his. Verice pressed his cheek to her head, and then led the way out and down the stairs.
Outside, Dorne took the lead, with Charrin singing, chanting a hymn to the Lord and Lady, asking for blessings upon the dead. He’d made no protest when Warna had asked him to sing the songs, even though they were of human crafting. His voice was lovely, and Warna was content as she walked at Verice’s side and into the gardens between the walls.
A trench had been dug in the garden, and the wreckage of the hall piled within. The contents of the buckets were poured at the feet of the rantha bushes, and the buckets and cleaning cloths added to the pile.
Off to one side a small tent had been set up. Warna and the others went inside, to wash and change. Verice too, Warna insisted.
Once they were all reassembled, Dorne stepped forward, and struck his bowl again, letting the tone wash over them all, bringing them to silent attention.
Dorne handed the bowl to an acolyte, and took up a small pitcher. “With this oil, I ask the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter to bless this pyre.” He poured the oil into the trough.
