The Pyre of Victory
Once upon another time, in a distant land of myth, Xian, leader of the Kyree in exile, lay dead upon the Altar of Peace. His polished armor shone under the rays of light streaming down through the clear panels at the top of the dome that towered above the floor of the magnificent hall. His rugged features, lined with age, faced that glorious space above him, his eyes closed in uncharacteristic tranquillity. His hands lay across his chest, resting on the hilt of his sword, its tip pointing toward his booted feet. His magnificent wings had been arranged with care so that they folded around his body as if in a comforting embrace. He was the picture of a life well lived now passing into long deserved rest.
Seven halls radiated from the Altar of Peace. The lords and ladies, kings and queens of each of the five original faery houses, stood in their respective expanses at precisely the appropriate distance, the quintessence of profoundly studied silence. Row upon row of mourners filled each of the halls, each successive row situated in strict ascending order of station behind their betters. Each held a candle whose flame burned brightly in the dim recesses. Each row was ordered, as was the faery way, precisely by rank of caste. The lowest castes, representatives of the Third Estate gatherers and laborers, sat at the back. The Second Estate artisans, craftsmen, and the trades were further forward. Before them all sat the First Estate, each also holding their candle and, appropriately, it was a far more elegant candle than those of the castes below them. Queen Tatyana of House Qestardis stood with the entourage of her house caste. Lord Phaeon of House Argentei, his golden hair shining under the light from the dome, stood opposite her and looked displeased that his candle was less ornate than Tatyana’s. He was surrounded by his personal honor guard, who also appeared displeased, but for them it was likely at the prospect of holding a candle rather than a sword. The Lady Milindral of House Mnemnoris, King Sithalian of Shivash, and even Queen Emaraud of far-off Vargonis; each had made their arduous and often dangerous way to attend the service and all held their own candle in homage to Xian.
From the sixth hall came a young Kyree man with raven hair and black wings. His own polished armor flashed in the columns of light as he stepped with reverence toward the altar.
Dwynwyn, Queen of the Dead, looked on from her own, seventh and final hallway. Her ranks were, no doubt, discomforting to all present, for they were ranks of the dead who wailed behind her in a gentle keening. She listened to the soft chorus of music welling through the hall, its mournful tones soaring through the space in honor of her onetime enemy. She gazed carefully on each face surrounding the altar. Each was a study in loss and compassion.
Masks, every one of them, Dwynwyn thought. Bad enough to have to deal with such lies in her visions these days, but to see such lies among the waking world was intolerable. It might have been a lovely funeral. It was a shame the entire proceedings here had less to do with honoring the life of her old nemesis than it did with taking advantage of a political opportunity.
The keening chorus of Dwynwyn’s dead silenced as the young Kyree mounted the steps to the great altar. He had a generally dark countenance and a small scar at the corner of his upper lip always gave him the appearance of a smirk. Still, he carried himself with an air of confidence despite the burdens he had been left to bear. He had objected to this charade more than any of them but, in the end, Dwynwyn had convinced him it was their only hope.
For now her hope extended only to the urgent desire that the young prince not say anything that would upset anyone.
The young winged man lifted his head to address the assembled royalty and their considerable number of servants present. “I am Djukan, son of Xian and Master of the Dunlar Kyree.”
Djukan paused. Dwynwyn held her breath.
“On behalf of my people, I thank you all for your . . . honoring my father in his passing.”
Dwynwyn closed her eyes, slowly letting out her breath.
“Many of you have traveled from far lands to honor my father, one of the greatest lords over the sky,” Djukan continued. “His deeds were those of epic song; for the Gods of Isthalos chose for him a time of woe and wonder. He sought the glory of the Greater Kyree Empire in its wholehearted service, but necessity drove him to a destiny across the courses of the seas and into lands of exile. His oath was to serve his emperor, and he fulfilled it by serving his people instead. He brought us to a land of strangers in search of a place where we could live, breathe, and find hope again.
“It is traditional among the Kyree to recount the great battles of our warrior dead . . .”
Dwynwyn blinked furiously. Please, Djukan, she thought. Not now! Say only what we agreed on!
“This we have done in private, for they are our tales alone. His burden, too, is ours to take up alone, and we shall do so for the greater glory of the Kyree, and to honor the life-struggle of my father. I thank you again, for myself and my people, for your honoring him this day.”
Dwynwyn closed her eyes in relief. Djukan would behave. She held her breath, knowing that what was coming next was the first step down a long and uncertain road.
“Now,” Djukan said, “we shall proceed with the cremation.”
Dwynwyn’s eyes flashed open. A wave of anxious murmuring rose from the assembly. Several voices, perhaps more practiced in being heard, cut like clarions through the noise.
“A what?” Lord Phaeon bellowed. “You mean right here? Now?”
A low murmur rose in the halls.
“We must,” Djukan answered gruffly, motioning several of his lieutenants forward. Each carried large bundles of bound sticks. “We must have his bones for his Joining with the Ancestors. It’s the final part of the ceremony. What do you think all the candles are for?”
“Barbaric!” Queen Emaraud intoned with her deepest disdain. “This is the Hall of Peace and I shall not stand silent against such desecration!”
The murmur grew louder, punctuated by several shouts of disgust.
Lady Milindral sputtered. “We’re supposed to be putting this creature to rest, not roasting him.”
“It is our way,” Djukan said loudly over the crowd, clearly losing patience with the delay. The lieutenants were piling the sticks around the alabaster altar as he spoke.
“Burn him if you will,” King Sithalian chirped in his high tenor voice, “it matters little to me, but have the courtesy to take him out in the woods where you don’t have to force us to participate.”
Suddenly, Lord Phaeon surged forward, his guards flanking him on either side. Their wings carried them quickly across the short intervening space as, with swords suddenly drawn, they surrounded the altar. Phaeon pulled Djukan forcefully away, the young Kyree flipping forward and rolling across the polished floor.
Phaeon drew his own sword. “This is territory of the faery and I will not allow some backward Famadorian ritual to despoil it!”
Djukan, using the momentum from Phaeon’s throw, rolled to his feet in a single deft motion, his own sword in his hand. “You dare spit on our traditions? You’ll pay for that insult in blood!”
“Good”—Phaeon smiled with bared teeth—“then at least if there is to be barbarity, let there be some sport in it!”
Dwynwyn closed her eyes—the wingless man was somehow there in her mind—gathering in the burning petals . . .
The rising noise of the crowd suddenly hushed. The flames of each of the candles lifted from their wicks and drifted over the heads of the astonished crowd. Increasing in speed, the tiny flames flew over the heads of Phaeon and Djukan, whose eyes were locked on each other as they prepared to strike, became aware of the fire gathering into a spinning whirlpool blaze over the altar. Phaeon’s guards became aware, too, from the heat on the backs of their necks. They turned and then stepped slowly back from the altar.
In an instant, the whirling inferno collapsed downward, engulfing the altar and Xian on it. It burned with a hot, consuming fury, driving Phaeon back as well, though the faery lord still kept his distance from Djukan. With a white brilliance, the fire raged about the body, igniting the sticks and consuming them as well.
Then in a flash, the flames vanished as quickly as they had come. Only a small pile of blackened ashes remained. The smoke from the conflagration hung in a thin, horrible pall over the seven halls.
Dwynwyn strode forward, climbing the few steps up to the altar, and stood defiantly over Xian’s burned remains. “Put your swords away,” she commanded. “It is done.”
“What right have you to interfere?” Lord Phaeon demanded, his wings fluttering angrily.
“I am the Queen of the Dead,” she answered quickly. “This is my home and I have a right to govern my domain as I see fit. These are the traditions of the Kyree and I will have them honored in my house.”
“I have not yet had satisfaction for that bird’s insult,” Phaeon yelled, pointing his sword at Djukan.
Djukan raised his own sword, ready to take up where they had left off.
“I have given you your satisfaction, Lord Phaeon, and it will be sufficient for you,” Dwynwyn replied. “Or perhaps, Lord Phaeon, you feel these proceedings are unworthy of the attention of your house?”
Lord Phaeon blinked but held otherwise perfectly still.
“Each of the other Houses of the Fae has come to pay honor to this fallen warrior of the Kyree,” Dwynwyn said easily, her voice echoing down the seven halls. “Would you—alone—refuse to do so?”
Lord Phaeon held his place for a moment, then slowly knelt down before the altar, lowering his sword. “No, Dwynwyn, I would not.” He bowed his head as he knelt. “House Argentei has come far, indeed, to honor this great warrior.”
Each of the rulers from the other houses, seeing Lord Phaeon kneel, quickly did likewise, murmuring their own phrases of honor and condolence. As their leaders knelt, each rank of caste behind them knelt as well. A wave of rumbling washed down each hall as row after row fell to their knees.
Dwynwyn sighed. It was all so predictably embarrassing. She turned to Xian’s son, still standing astonished with his sword in hand. “Lord Djukan, here are the bones of your father. What must we do next to honor him in your traditions?”
“Oh, yes,” Djukan replied suddenly, “we shall depart. The spirits of our fathers will not be at peace until their bones join those of their ancestors in Mount Isthalos. I, and a few of our number, shall endeavor to take them back to our homeland and put them to rest.”
“But your empire was destroyed,” Dwynwyn said, tilting her head to one side. “You cannot go back.”
Djukan nodded and continued. “It has been many years. Perhaps things have changed. Perhaps all the Kyree may be able to return to our ancestral home. If we return, then we shall know.”
Phaeon looked up from where he knelt. “The Kyree—might leave?”
“It would depend on the success of our quest.” Djukan nodded sagely. “But—yes, it is possible. To return to our homeland has always been our greatest wish.”
“Then, perhaps, from these ashes may come new life for your people,” Dwynwyn intoned. She hoped their words did not sound as rehearsed to their audience as they sounded to her. “The House of Sharajentei—the Kingdom of the Dead—pledges itself to support you in this noble quest. I shall send five of our most talented Seekers to accompany your party and whatever provisions you should require.”
“On behalf of the Kyree,” Djukan said with a deep bow, “we would be most glad to accept your offer.”
“Wait!” King Sithalian fluttered up from where he knelt. “The House of Shivash also supports this noble effort and offers twenty of its strongest laborers to help you bear the supplies for such a journey.”
“Craftsmen!” Lady Milindral called out. “House Mnemnoris shall show its honor for Xian’s quest with fifty of its expert craftsmen and the supplies and the laborers to support them as well!”
“Now just a moment!” Djukan said, hastily putting his sword back in its scabbard.
“What good are tradesmen in a dangerous world!” Lord Phaeon was recovering quickly from his previous embarrassment. “The Kyree understand that above all else. Warriors! House Argentei supplies one hundred warriors to the quest!”
Djukan shook his head, holding his palms up in front of him, gesturing for them to stop. “It’s not what we—”
“One hundred?” Queen Emaraud sniffed. “House Vargonis offers two hundred!”
“Five hundred!” Lord Phaeon shot back.
“Five thousand!” shouted King Sithalian.
“No!” Djukan quieted them. “It’s an expedition! If I show up on the borders of my homeland with five thousand warriors, we are no longer a quest—we’re an invasion! All I want to do is honor my father in the way he would wish to be honored—and perhaps to find a way home for my people.”
“Then we shall honor your father as well.” Dwynwyn nodded. It all hangs on this, she thought. “May I make a suggestion?”
The lords and ladies of all the Fae turned toward her.
“Let each house send one—and only one—representative in support of this quest,” she said sagely. “Let them be the best and the brightest from our houses. Let them represent us in honoring our fallen neighbor and friend.”
The lords and ladies, queens and kings of the First Estate all nodded their consent. None would be represented more than another and the great balance between the houses would stand.
Dwynwyn glanced over at Queen Tatyana of House Qestardis. Of all the masters of the Fae houses, she alone had not uttered a single word.
It had been ugly and disorderly—two things that faeries detest—and nearly upset entirely by Lord Phaeon, but in the end, Dwynwyn knew, it had turned out exactly as she had planned.