CHAPTER NINETEEN

The season of grief, speechless, the hour of mourning, forever.

On the seventeenth day of the month of Elru the Lion, in the Year of the Lion—five days after the death of King Evarris of the empire—Dursoris dos Evarro edos Yta was placed in a cedar wood box on the wide, white plain of warm ashes and, beneath a summer sun, immolated and returned to the memories of the gods. Wine was poured. Gongs were struck. Prayers were lifted; breasts were beaten. Against the curved azure sky flecked with white clouds, Sim the Moon yet glowed and birds wheeled and floated—perpetrators.

O fears profound, cauterizing memories! O pain boundless, shrinking full life to a whisper of shadows! O death of king, death of prince, death of empire! O torments waiting, tears unflowing, flames unlit, passions unspent! O clay, O clay, O journey of sins! O Children of Empire, misbegotten of the gods, gratuitous—you have sown vengeance’s crimes, you shall reap long trails of ashes watered with tears, nurtured with agonies! O uncounted years, travails are upon you! The serpent has suckled at the lamb, the sword has cleaved the dove, the wine is bitter with blood! O gods, die with us, do not survive us!

Yta—alone on the plain, long after dusk. Alone with the torches on poles—alone with the long parade of sorrows, the tired procession of crimes. No debasement, no humiliation, no confusion enough to purge the endless, unending end.

* * * *

O gods, die with us, do not survive us!

O crimes, where are your promises?

O mother’s sins, find a door in the ruins!

* * * *

Deep, where unending pain causes an end to pain—low, where the ceaseless cries reduce themselves to whispers—soft, where torment finds knowledge.…

In the Hall of Darkness, where there is no light, no light, no light…

…a light will grow…

…to make the darkness darker still.…

* * * *

Uncoil, serpent!

Rise, furrowed seeds!

Carry back in echoes, all sounds raised!

Return, Life, to the womb your grave, cradle of fears!

Come, Death, with laughter, no shouts.

Come, Death, with the friendly sorrow.

Come, Death, with no blood, no ache of years.

Come, Death, laughing, to wrap up my soul, cleanse

my eyes, caress me with the lover’s touch, last

Friend.…

* * * *

Yta, alone on the plain of warm ashes, visited by Death, as the cold closes in, as the night revolves down in promise:

“You have known me all your life, and though my guises are many, my masks myriad, my purposes are uniform. Touch my fingers of bone—yes—breathe the ashes of my mouth, come into my closet and reproach no one, gaze upon the stars—you are immortal. Time waits here, with me—and no crimes exist.…”

* * * *

Yta, escorted by slow, silent guards, sentinels as grim as heartbreaks, led the somber procession back into the city, to the palace. Yta, the uncomforted. Yta, prepared at last, resolved at last, to return herself to Mother Hea’s mercy.

And may the gods reduce the golden crown to golden ashes.…