Kastan stood behind Andrej with her arms around his chest. His head was bowed, his hands wrapped tightly around her forearms. His breath held a tiny shake buried within it, and she felt a few stray drops hit her wrist where his silent tears had fallen. Still, he was holding up far better than she’d feared he might. Grief was natural, especially in a situation like this. Debilitating grief was apt to get all involved hurt, if not outright killed for their trouble, at least until the battle was ended.
Rákos had slipped sideways minutes earlier. Andrej had been with him, as had Kastan, much to Olga’s obvious, if silent, consternation. Now, far earlier than was the custom, Rákos would be brought down to the crypts and laid to a hasty rest. He would be left there until the battle’s end. When the hourglass had been righted again, and there was time, Kastan had assured the boy that they would give him a proper ceremony. For now, this would have to do. Leaving the dead man in Edmund’s command tent was both unkind and unwise. The dead left out in the open ran the risk of making the living ill or calling Skolf’s vermin out from their hidden holes. Questions of health be damned, leaving him out in the open like a sack of old meal would have been a sign of utter disrespect. It would also have been monstrously cruel to Andrej.
She watched as Hajvarr moved the body onto a bier. When Radek had done his best to arrange Rákos’s limbs in as natural a semblance of sleep as he could, Hajvarr looked to Andrej.
“It’s time,” he said, and said no more.
Andrej gave Kastan’s arms a brief, tight squeeze, then released her, nodding.
Hajvarr gestured to Pavel, the baker’s son and his new… page? Protégé? Armsman. We’ll call him Hajvarr’s armsman until something else presents itself. The big lad drew in a breath to steady himself, and both he and Hajvarr took the ends of the bier in hand, lifting it and beginning to move toward the back of the tent.
As Rákos’s sad form disappeared through the canvas, she and Andrej had a moment alone. She stepped back, turning him to face her. He was pliable, offering no resistance. She leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his brow, then smoothed back his blond waves.
He gave a weak, little laugh, then looked up at her through glassy eyes. “I don’t…” He blinked, causing a few tears to carve their way down his face. “I don’t know what to do now.”
She drew him in, trying to comfort him—to reassure him. “I told you. I have you. You’ll have a place with I and mine for as long as you want. You belong—”
He gently withdrew, smiling and blushing as he met her eyes. “I know, Lady. I know, and…” he shook his head. “I’m grateful, truly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. My father wanted us to join the scouts, but I’d rather stay with…” He bowed his head. “I’d rather stay where I am.”
He was thinking of Fetinba; she knew. The idea made her smile. “If not that, then what?”
Andrej cast an eye toward the entrance to the residence. “I’ve never been to a funerary rite, lady. And Rákos never talked about death, save that if he told me to, I should either run or hide. That if he was felled, I shouldn’t go after whoever felled him. I don’t know … what I’m meant to do now.”
She nodded, making an ah sound. “We’ll walk down together. Radek will say a few words from the old rites… Normally we’d all speak a word about his life and wish his shadow well. But…”
“But there isn’t time with a battle raging outside.” He cocked his head toward the door, listening to the sounds of men dying, people screaming, and the omnipresent storm. “They aren’t being carried down to be given the old rites. They’re fighting and dying—some of them, anyway. We should be out there doing what we can… So, no. No words.”
She nodded, smiling as she again smoothed back his hair. “You remind me of Caros at your age. He was far too serious and would see far too much horror far too soon.”
He blushed again. “Your brother is a great man. If I’m anything like him, then … I’ll count…” His voice cut off. He burst into tears so rapidly and with such power that he collapsed to his knees, shaking. Kastan dropped down and embraced him once more, rocking him back and forth as he wept.
When the worst of it had passed, she helped him to his feet. The pair of them turned toward the back wall. Hajvarr’s red hound sat there staring at them. As they approached, she whimpered far back in her throat, standing up to meet them.
Andrej grinned, stroking her head and scratching behind her ears. She licked his face, then tried to put her head beneath his chin, causing him to laugh.
Kastan walked on, leaving him in Štít’s red hands. Or paws, I suppose. Stepping down into the residence, she saw Olga standing there with her arms folded. In her hands were two items—a metal scroll case and Edmund’s žezlo. This latter was the rod of county rulership. They were present for official ceremonies, whenever possible. This one was made of steel, by the looks of it, with the reddish-gold seal of the county’s ruling house atop its head.
Olga met her eyes and stepped forward. Her voice was the same implacable iron as ever. If the woman knew how to laugh, Kastan had certainly never heard it.
“This never leaves you, Excellency. Not in the bath. Not in the jakes. It joins you in bed, should we be lucky enough to see beds again. Am I understood?”
“You are, Mistress.” Understood and awfully haughty, she thought but did not say. “I know how important the žezlo is. No fear.”
“You do not, but we shall remedy that. Among other things, the seal on its crown is the master seal of the county. With it, all official writs may be marked with the legal and registered chop of the county throne. With it, other seals and signet rings may be made.”
Kastan arched her brows and nodded. Olga was correct. She had not known that.
“Also, it was this I was speaking of.” She proffered the scroll case. It looked like it might be made of actual silver. “This contains the proof of your claim to the throne, as well as Edmund’s own signet ring. Paper is never fireproof, as they say, but within these papers lay the indelible legal proof of your claim to the county throne. Until your investiture, this must never leave you. Once that happy day comes to pass, you can have it interred in a vault as you see fit.”
Kastan’s eyes went wide, then narrowed in thought. An instant later she’d grown pale. Andrej’s boots and Štít’s clicking claws brought her back to the moment at hand. “To that end, Mistress…”
Olga nodded. “Yes, Excellency. Sad that your first act will be a funerary rite, albeit a short one. Still—there’s a thing I need to show you at the place of honor … where Hajvarr, I have no doubt, is taking your hunter.”
Kastan saw Andrej stiffen at that choice of words, but that was all. She also saw that he’d taken back his archery gear, as well as his father’s bow, which he held in his bare left hand.
The three of them—four if they counted Hajvarr’s Karmínové Srdce—moved to the small entry hall at the back of the residence. A moment later, they’d passed through the broad wooden door, and entered the catacombs. Štít led them, presumably following her master’s scent.
I must remember to thank Hajvarr. Leaving her behind was a subtle kindness most folk wouldn’t have thought of, let alone bothered with.
At that moment, the hound stopped, bushed out her fur, and began to growl in a tone that froze Kastan’s blood.
Andrej stepped in front of the women. His father’s bow in hand, he drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it into place against the bowstring. She saw his own bow had been artfully placed against his back, looping around his quiver. Grinning, she plucked it free and selected one of his arrows. “I’ll just borrow yours,” said she.
Whether Andrej had heard her or not was left in doubt. A vast, bruise-colored fog came ripping into the hall. The sound was ear-shattering, as if a hundred horses were screaming beneath the vaulted ceilings of an enclosed stone stable, and she was stood in its center.
The crimson heart howled. The sound was full, haunting, and bright amidst the monstrous engine of noise the impossible storm was making… And Kastan felt suddenly calm. Inexplicably, unmistakably unafraid.
The silver and purple storm winked out, taking the hellish sound with it, and all light save one. The lantern nearest them was somehow still burning bright. Her ears were ringing, though she knew she hadn’t gone deaf. The tag end of the red hound’s howl was proof enough on that score.
She’d drawn breath, meaning to ask if everyone was alright, but the sound caught in her throat.
Thud… thud… thud…
The sickly pale violet of an unnatural dawn began somewhere down the hall. It summoned, unbidden, a memory of late nights around low fires. A memory of Sigdemane at Haluz Věže—a time where only the oldest stories had been told by the very drunk or the very mad.
It’s familiar, but… Hells why do I know this? No… no, not the hells. No, something about Havoc’s Horn, I think. Something about swords and… and a dying man’s tears
She shuddered at the memory, though she’d no idea why.
Nothing moved up ahead, save that creeping stain of witchlight.
Thump… thump… thump… Crack!
The sound of a hammer breaking through stone rolled toward them. Rising slowly behind that fearful knell, there were growls… whispers… voices…