"My lord…?" said Boran.
"This place is sac red to the K nights of Ondrahar," said Guric. He took a deep breath of the mountain air and let it out in a great plume that turned to frost before it hit the ground. The snowstorm had blown over, the clouds had broken, and the air was almost painfully cold.
Argalath walked over and bowed before Guric. "Well met, my lord," he said.
"All is ready?" said Guric.
"It is."
"And she…?"
"My servants have tended her well, my lord. Soon, you shall have her back."
Guric thought that at those words a feeling of profound relief would have flooded him. He'd done so much to come to this moment. But now that it was done, all he could feel was dark apprehension.
Argalath cleared his throat. "My lord, the sacrifice…?"
"On its way," said Guric.
"Very good, my lord," said Argalath. He bowed again and returned to his acolytes.
"My lord," said Boran, his voice pitched not to carry. "What sacrifice?"
Guric swallowed hard, then turned to his men. "I… I need a few moments. You men, go back down and help the others with their burden."
The four guards bowed-Boran with a frown-then turned and disappeared back into the tunnel. Once the glow of their torchlight was gone, Guric walked over to Argalath and his acolytes. Closer, he could see their tracks in the snow, and the bundle they had laid in the very middle of the basin. Guric approached, slowly at first, but gaining speed so that when he fell to his knees before the shroud, he slid in the snow. Five years in the frozen ground had made the outer layers of the linen wrappings deteriorate. The runes written on them had faded to bruiselike splotches. Guric reached forward, reverently, and touched the shroud. The weakened fabric crumbled beneath his touch, but beneath, the linen seemed almost new, barely even stained from its burial. Wrapped in thick linens and bound with braided ribbons, it was still obvious what lay within. The head lay back, turned slightly to the side. Guric swallowed hard. She used to lie that way when in deep sleep. He remembered lying there, watching her as the lamp burned low, the low flame off the red tapestries of their chamber making her pale skin seem warm and soft, like summer sunset through thin clouds.
Guric tore his gaze from the bundle and looked to Argalath. He knew four of Argalath's acolytes-three Creel and one Qu'ima, the oldest of them no more than twenty. But two he didn't recognize. They wore the same robes of swiftstag hides and had shaved all but the topknot of their hair. But they had the bearing and hard build of seasoned warriors.
Argalath stepped to the side and presented them. "Durel and Gued. My acolytes."
"I don't know them."
"They begin their disciplines tonight, my lord."
Guric grunted. He'd been with Argalath long enough to recognize that more was going on here.
"Your spells worked?" said Guric.
"Perfectly, my lord," said Argalath behind him. "She has not changed since the day we put her in the ground."
"I…" Guric gulped, part of him recoiling at what he was about to do. He hadn't seen his wife in five years, except in memory. "I must see her."
"The outer wrappings must be removed for the rite," said Argalath. "If you will stand back, I will have my man remove the linens. He is most skilled with a blade."
"No!" Guric looked up at Argalath. "No one touches her but me."
Argalath closed his eyes and bowed. "As you wish, my lord. But I urge utmost caution. Cut away layer by layer. We must not damage the-"
"I know!" Guric drew the dagger from the sheath at his belt, then peeled off his gloves with his teeth. His hands were trembling, and not from the cold.
Using only his thumb and one finger, he gently peeled up the top layer of linen, set his blade under it, and pushed upward, slicing through the cloth. Rather than going layer by layer down the length of the shroud, he pressed into the lower layers with his fingers, pulled the cloth up and well away from the treasure beneath, and cut away all the upper layers, peeling them back like the pages of a book. Layer by layer he cut, his heart hammering faster with each layer. After five layers, the thick cloth was completely dry, and he thought he could still smell a faint waft of the burial oils.
That sudden scent brought the memory back, stronger and more vivid than he had experienced in years. Even in the depths of his grief, he had not allowed others to handle Valia's corpse in those final moments. After Argalath had performed the rituals to preserve his wife's body and the servants lowered her into the grave, Guric had ordered everyone away. He had filled in the hole himself. Every last grain of soil and the rocks over it. In the moment when the black soil covered the last glimpse of the linen shroud, Guric's grief had almost overwhelmed him. Even his thirst for vengeance-no, for justice-had not been enough. It had been the promise of Argalath's words that held him.
I can bring her back. I can give her back to you.
Guric breathed in the scent and kept cutting away, layer by layer, until he could feel something beneath the cloth. Hard and unyielding. Cold. Dead. Nothing in that touch held any hint of life. Guric's gorge rose, and he had to force himself to lift that final layer, pierce it with his dagger, and cut it away.
Silk. The finest silk. Guric knew the wine red cloth had three layers, joined by intricate embroidery. The gown in which his wife had been wrapped in her shroud. Guric knew it because he had been the one to put it on her. Part of him longed to touch it, to feel the flesh beneath, but another part of him recoiled in horror at the thought, knowing that the flesh was cold, heavy, and lifeless.
Guric swallowed and took in deep breaths through his nose.
"Are you well, my lord?" said Argalath.
He couldn't respond.
Argalath knelt on the other side of the shroud and said, "Shall I do the rest, my lord?"
"No," said Guric, with much more force than he'd intended. "Make your preparations, Argalath. I do this alone. No one touches her but me."
When Guric peeled back the last scrap of shroud, Valia lay before him, her wrists bound by red ribbon under her breasts. A gold scarf-it looked off-white in the reflected moonlight, but Guric knew it was gold, for he'd chosen it himself, almost five years ago-had been wrapped around her eyes to keep them closed. Above the fabric, strands of her hair wafted in the breeze off the mountain. Her flesh was pale as the snow around her, and just as cold. Her lips were gray and lifeless. That they were slightly parted was the worst of all. He could see the rim of her teeth, and even in the dim light he could see the tip of her tongue, cold and colorless like a slug creeping out of a crevice. There was nothing of the softness and warmth he remembered. The sight revolted Guric, but he could not look away.
"Lord Guric," said Argalath, and Guric realized that his counselor stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, shaking him. How long had he been there?" Your men return with the sacrifice. Be strong, my lord. Soon now, you shall have your reward. But now your men must see their lord, commanding and sure. Be strong."
Guric looked up. He saw the red hue of torchlight flickering on the snow. He turned.
Boran, his five other personal guards, the closest Guric had to friends, and five other soldiers whose names he did not even know were coming out of the stone doorway. His personal guard and one other bore torches. The other four carried a man between them-taller than any of them, but bound at wrists and knees so that he had to be carried. Soran. Tough leather ropes at elbows and wrists bound his arms behind his back, and a stick was wedged in his jaws and bound with a thick strap to keep him quiet. He wasn't struggling, but the men carrying him panted from the exertion of carrying the large man up thousands of steps.