Hweilan did her best to ignore the exchange and concentrated on carving the last rune. Rhan hadn’t seemed bothered by the news. And if he’d come this far to honor her mother’s body, she didn’t think he would let any trouble near the place without a fight.
He was gone long enough that Hweilan was beginning to reconsider. But when she looked up, Rhan was returning at an easy gait, his sword still on his back. He stopped near her, though he purposefully avoided looking her in the eye.
“There are others-warriors of the Razor Heart-who wish to bear witness.”
“Why?”
“It seems that word has spread of your mother’s history. And all the Razor Heart have heard of the Hand of the Hunter-saw her nearly kill their Champion. They wish to honor her. And you. To honor a true warrior.”
“You did this?”
“I asked no one to come,” said Rhan, looking her in the eye at last. “But many asked why I brought an enemy’s body to the Cauldron of the Slain. I told them the truth. Nothing more.”
“And what does Maaqua say?”
Rhan bared his teeth in what probably passed for a smile from him. “Do you care?”
“Not very much.” She set to work finishing the last rune. “They can stay.”
Hweilan did not have any sunche, the sticky resin made from pine sap, to rub into the runes so that they would burn bright in the fire. But she knew that the Vil Adanrath had not always used sunche. So she chose the old way. She opened her right palm. The scars there were still sharp and clear from the first time she had burned a ghost stick. KAN, they read, in the Dethek runes. It meant “death.” She had suffered many cuts and scrapes over them since then, all of which had healed, but those three letters never faded. She had sometimes wondered if she cut off the hand, would it grow back just to show the scars and spite her.
She chose her red blade. And when she slid the edge along her palm, slicing her skin, the blood that flowed out was the same color as the steel. She clenched her hand in a tight fist, squeezing the blood so that it dripped into the runes on the stick. Then she put the knife away and, with her thumb, rubbed the blood into the runes, staining them. Messy, but it would do. She set the ghost stick beside the pyre.
Standing, she looked up at the sky. Nearly evening. Then she saw how many hobgoblins had come. None had entered the Cauldron itself, but they crouched on the rim or stood on boulders where they could look down into the bowl. Many had even climbed up a nearby cliff face and stood on precarious ledges so they could see the proceedings. It was not the “hundreds” Jaden had first claimed, but a quick glance told her how he could have easily made that mistake. Hweilan counted two score and saw she hadn’t yet counted half.
Darric stepped forward and held something out to her. A long strip of cloth he’d cut from his own cloak.
“You should staunch that bleeding.”
She nodded her thanks, for she didn’t trust her voice at that moment. She wrapped the makeshift bandage around her hand a few times, then used her teeth and free hand to attempt the knot.
Darric reached for her hand. “Allow me. Please.”
Hweilan didn’t need his help. She’d tied scores of knots with only one hand. Training with Ashiin, her lessons hadn’t slacked even when nursing a broken arm or fingers. But she gave him her hand, anyway.
“Not too tight,” she said.
“That was a deep cut,” he said as he carefully tied the knot. “I watched.”
“I’ve had worse.” She pulled her hand away and made a fist. The congealing blood filling the bandage felt warm and thick. She could salve it later. Time was running short.
Hweilan allowed no one to help her lift her mother’s body onto the pyre, though the stench of it made her head swim, and the dead, stiff weight threatened to raise a sob in her throat. Once it was atop the pile of kindling, she rearranged the wood, making gaps to let air in to feed the flames. Rhan had layered the pyre well, but Hweilan’s hands needed something to do until she could calm herself.
Satisfied at last, she took a good-sized branch from the pyre and returned to her pouch, which lay nearby with her other belongings.
Simple flint and steel would never catch in this wind. Hweilan found the small brass vial, stoppered with thick felt. A gift from Gleed. A bit of the oil smeared even on wet wood, and the tiniest spark would catch and burn. It had disturbed her when he’d taught her to make it, since more than half of the ingredients were the same herbs he put on their meals. She pulled the felt out with her teeth and carefully tapped a few drops onto the wood. Then she twisted the felt back into the vial, put it back into her pouch, and kneeled beside the pyre.
Setting the branch near the bottom of the pile, she drew both her knives. Her hands were shaking. She’d known for a long time that her mother was dead. Her mother, her father, her entire family …
But something inside her, some deep part of the old castle-girl Hweilan revolted at putting flames to her mother’s body. No going back after this.
The image of the thing that appeared in front of her, wearing her mother’s body, using her mouth to speak … that hardened her will. The old fury stirred, and Hweilan understood the real reason she needed this pyre. Gleed and Ashiin had trained her. Kesh Naan had given her wisdom. Nendawen had given her new birth. But the old Hweilan still haunted her. These flames would not only send away her mother’s body but also the teary-eyed little-girl inside Hweilan. And it was time to lay that ghost to rest.
Hweilan turned the red knife in her hand and set the pommel near the oil-smeared branch. An ingenious bit of practicality. The iron hoop at the knife’s pommel encircled a flint stone. Hweilan knew from Gleed’s study of her other knife that it was more than steel, but it still flashed when she swiped the blade against the flint. A bright blue spark filled Hweilan’s nose with a metallic smell, like air after a lightning strike. The first didn’t catch, nor the second. But on the third hard strike, a shower of sparks crackled over the glistening edge of the branch. The oil ignited with a snap! and bright orange flames soon spread throughout the bed of wood. Hweilan stood, sheathed her knives, and picked up the ghost stick.
That was when she heard the first cry-a raucous caw that rang clear even over the wind and the growing roar of the flames. She looked up in time to see a raven alight on the rim of the Cauldron between two hobgoblin warriors. The nearest raised his spear to shoo it away, but the warrior next to him caught his arm and pointed up.
More ravens were coming down. Dozens of them. Hundreds. The sky was already dark with them, and more were soaring up and over the mountain. They settled on every available perch between the gathered warriors and on the cliffs above. Some even settled on the helmets of the hobgoblins themselves, who peered out from under them with wide eyes but did nothing to dislodge the visitors. Not a single bird settled within the Cauldron itself.
The three Damarans stood with their mouths hanging open, and both Jaden and Valsun made protective signs on their body. Rhan had the bright-eyed eager look of a hungry tiger eyeing the sheep. The Razor Heart champion drew the Greatsword of Impiltur, held it over his head, and roared. Every raven on the hill-those settled and those still circling above-cawed in unison, over and over, a harsh barrage of cries.
The fire had already burned away the burial cloth, and Hweilan could hear the flesh sizzling. The reek of it washed over her, and the wound in her hand pulsed with pain, as if reminding her of the word burned there-
She carries death in her right hand.
Hweilan raised the ghost stick and began the song. She sang it loud and in the tongue of her mother’s people, much as Lendri had first taught it to her.
Flames of this world, bear this flame to our ancestors.