It was past dusk when the Festival began. The pyre had long since been built, the bodies piled fifteen feet high, freezing together solid under the light snow that'd begun to fall just past the brightest part of the day. But all the poor men, the fighters and the hedge mages and a smattering of riflemen, needed to wait for their commanders and their officers to arrive before they were allowed to honor their dead. And the commanders, as always, were late.
It had been a strange afternoon. Mirk had passed the first half of it chatting with Sean as he saw to the needs of the Irish company, the captain seated beside him on a fallen log as Mirk healed his men. After a time, Danu had joined him, which had made things easier. Mirk didn't know what made them more receptive to taking healing from her than him: that she was more familiar to them than he was, capable of speaking to them in their native tongue, or the fact that many of the men looked upon her with a sort of wistful regret. A good third of them had tried their luck with her before, she'd explained to Mirk in hushed tones in between patients. But Mordecai had set his sights on her more than a decade ago, and had been working hard ever since. Mirk knew full well, both from Danu's words and the occasional flickers of happiness that pressed against his mind whenever Mordecai wandered over to ask her a question about her preferences for this or that dish, that she found his energetic, playful charm more irresistible than any set of well-muscled shoulders or soulful eyes.
After the wounded had been seen to, Mirk had gone along with her to where the Easterners had set up camp in a nearby clearing to help prepare dishes for the anticipated feast. Both K'aekniv and Danu had been shocked by how much Mirk could help, though he left the trimming and stuffing of the various cuts of meat to them. He supposed it made sense — why would a noble son know how best to scrub potatoes and dice onions? But he'd done his time in the abbey's kitchens, the same as the other brothers and sisters. Father Jean had always been adamant that he never let other people do his work for him just because his family contributed more gold to the abbey's coffers than any other. In retrospect, Mirk understood why he’d been so adamant.
Then the interminable waiting for the commanders had begun.
The K'maneda's low-born fighting men assembled in the clearing before the unlit pyre by division, each group cut off from one another, though there was a bit of mingling between the divisions where men shared a common tongue. The Bavarians of the First and the Second stuck together, as did the English of the Fifth and Fourteenth. Everyone avoided the Easterners without exception, and the Irish too.
The only commander who’d come through the transporter in the pre-dawn hours and remained with the men until nightfall was Emir. Mirk considered joining him and seeking out his fellow healers, but ultimately decided against it. Mirk hadn't seen any other healers there yet, himself and Danu excepted. And the head of the Twentieth was in a black mood, sucking constantly on his pipe and avoiding everyone, though he kept a watchful eye out for arguments that could escalate to blows. If he hadn't been constrained by his rank, Mirk thought, Emir probably would have retreated up one of the countless pine trees surrounding the clearing to be alone with his thoughts. Even if he was only a half-angel, the impulse to seek the high ground was hard to overcome. Provided one wasn't tied so strongly to the Earth like he was.
Emir's mood lightened once the first of the other commanders arrived — an imposing dark-haired man in well-made but simple, functional clothing that’d seen hard use. He came alone, without the requisite crowd of high-born officers who’d purchased their command skulking along behind him. The men from the First straightened up and saluted him when he appeared at the end of the gloomy track connecting the transporter to the clearing, but he waved them off instantly. After pausing to exchange words with one of his low-born officers, he went to stand beside Emir close to the pyre.
The imposing man had a pipe of his own, though it wasn't thin and long like Emir's. Mirk wondered if they'd acquired the habit independently of each other, or had fallen into it together. Considering which group of fighters had saluted him, Mirk assumed the man had to be North, the First's commander. Mirk hadn't known that Emir was close to him. Or perhaps Emir was simply the least troublesome commander on offer that night. Mirk had learned over the past few months that it was never good to face things alone in the K’maneda, if it could be avoided.
More commanders arrived shortly thereafter, in twos and threes, all of them with gangs of officers trailing behind them. It made it difficult for Mirk to tell which division each of them belonged to. And he felt too awkward disturbing the strained silence that had fallen over the Easterners and the rest of the fighting men to ask Danu, who was standing beside Mordecai near the front of their group, to explain. Asking Genesis or K'aekniv was out of the question. Though Genesis was always silent and withdrawn, Mirk got the impression that it was due to his worsening mood that night more than it was his usual disdain for idle chatter. The lengthening shadows clustered close to him, rose and fell and curled with the unspoken fluctuations in his thoughts. K'aekniv was keeping a careful eye on him. Though he didn't turn down any of the communal bottles that were passed his way.
The commanders gathered around the front of the pyre in a second half-circle, each more or less close to their division, Mirk assumed, though the specialized divisions, the ones that involved a good deal of magecraft and training, had nearly no one in attendance that night besides their highest officers and commander. He'd noticed that morning that there were very few bodies from the Eleventh and Third mage brought to the pyre. It was beneath a noble mage, cast out of the guilds but not robbed of guild knowledge, to be burned along with the commoners.
Though he didn't know enough to match faces with names, Mirk could tell which of the commanders had to be nobles. They were the ones whose cloaks were closed with clasps made of gold and silver, who wore their swords on their backs rather than at their sides. Whose gestures, though marked by the roughness common to all K'maneda, bore the grace of having been trained in dancing and riding, even if those particular lessons had been long forgotten. The rest relied on their bulk and their magical auras to bully the other commanders into respecting them. Dauid was among this group, though Mirk noticed that he and his second stayed far away from Genesis and K'aekniv, instead favoring a group of fighters that had arrived shortly after the Irish company. Dauid had been through this all countless times before. He must have known what sort of mood the Festival put Genesis in.
Comrade Commander Margaret wasn't in attendance. Nor was Cyrus from the Tenth. And neither division had brought any bodies for the pyre.
The last of the commanders and their officers didn't arrive by the transporter and the road through the forest. Instead, they appeared together in the middle of the mass of officers closest to the pyre, their arrival marked by the bang of a teleportation spell. Four men in heavy black furs and velvets stitched with silver and leathers unmarred by use, flanked by their fellow officers. And accompanied by a half dozen djinn in their rough-spun, baggy black robes and their thick iron collars. The entire crowd snapped to attention, the low-born fighters saluting, the other commanders giving nods of varying degrees of deference. Mirk fumbled through a salute of his own, though he still hadn't mastered the crisp way the K'maneda custom was performed. K'aekniv had to smack Genesis in the ribs before he'd make a gesture even approaching a salute.
One of the men who'd just arrived had to be Ravensdale. Mirk was embarrassed to realize that he didn't have a clue which of the four commanders Ravensdale was, despite how many heated conversations he'd had with Genesis and the others about how to deal with him. Two djinn stayed close to the group, the rest fanning out at some unspoken signal to put themselves between the commanders and the fighting men at judicious intervals. Am-Gulat wasn't among them. Mirk wondered if that was a bad sign, or if he should be relieved.
After all the waiting, Mirk was surprised by how perfunctory the start of the ceremony was. There was no fanfare, no parade or ritual gestures beyond that one salute. Instead, one of the four newly arrived commanders stepped forward, the two djinn who'd remained with the group flanking him close on either side. Without any further introduction, the man began to speak into the hush that'd fallen over the fighters and their commanders, his smile tight and cold and his voice kept low so that everyone needed to hold still and lean close to hear him.
"Welcome, comrades, to the Festival of Shades. We gather each year on the third Sunday of February to honor the dead and see them off to better lives in the world beyond. This year is no different. Except, perhaps, for the number of dead."
The man who'd spoken up, who was still speaking, though Mirk had quit listening close enough to hear him, wasn't physically remarkable. He was of middling height and build, with close-cut dark hair and a bare face. Mirk could spot that he'd enchanted himself to look more handsome, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and altering the set of his jaw to make it more square and masculine. But it wasn't an exaggerated, obvious glamor. It was enough to make him better than most, but not enough to make him striking.
Everything about Ravensdale was average. Mirk had expected more from a man whose name was always spoken in hushed, frightened tones, or spat out with venom. And the others had mentioned that he invested a great deal of potential in changing his appearance. It was almost disheartening to see that the man he'd heard so much about was so...unremarkable.
But the longer Mirk studied him with his mind's eye rather than his physical ones, the more he felt there was something deeply wrong with the man. It was his magic, Mirk realized with a start, as one of the djinn flanking Ravensdale flinched and reached for his collar, though his fingers stopped just short of seizing on it. The cloud of magic surrounding Ravensdale's mind, cloaking his emotions, wasn't his own.
If he hadn't once been filled with djinn potential himself, Mirk wasn't certain he would have recognized it. All of the magic surrounding Ravensdale was air-based, ordered, flowing seamlessly into the perpetual breeze that ghosted about that forest at the edge of the world. But every so often, Mirk caught glimpses of a different element in it: water that fluttered on the currents of air like the softly falling snow, or earth that called out to his own magic, albeit more weakly than a true earth mage's did. And there was a hint of chaos in it that didn't belong there, a glimmer of something that wasn't djinn. Though the chaos might not have been Ravensdale’s true magic slipping through his haze of djinn potential either.
The longer Ravensdale spoke, the harder it was for Mirk to keep his mind fixed on him. While he'd been ignoring his speech, Genesis hadn't. Whatever Ravensdale had to say about those who'd passed that year was troubling Genesis deeply. Mirk couldn't see the commander's face, but he could tell from the stiffness in his shoulders and the tense way his arms hung at his sides that he was furious. That and the shadows that had drifted closer to Genesis over the course of Ravensdale's speech were so thick and dark that Mirk was surprised no one else could hear their hissing. Or maybe they could. K'aekniv was on high alert, in any case, his feathers standing on end and his body tensed in a way different from Genesis's. The half-angel ready to step in if things got out of hand.
Mirk made himself focus back on Ravensdale's words, to see if he was close to concluding. He wasn't. Instead, he'd shifted to a different purpose: honoring the living rather than the dead.
"Before we help our comrades pass, I'd like to take this opportunity to congratulate those among us who've worked the hardest and sacrificed the most to make this year a success," Ravensdale said, turning to face the ranks of commanders arrayed before the unlit funeral pyre. The djinn moved with him, facing outward toward the low-born fighting men, a warning that no one should be so foolish as to try to take a shot at the Comrade while his back was turned. "The highest honors, of course, have to go to Ksyr of the Fourteenth. Your tireless efforts to go beyond mere duty are apparent to everyone gathered here tonight. To you, I bow especially," Ravensdale concluded, with a stiff bow to one of the other commanders, a gesture that bore none of the grace of noble training.
"A fucking S'kanyk, of course," one of the Easterners nearest Mirk muttered. He'd scared up a translation charm since that afternoon — the hushed voice bore the hallmark ringing of being run through it.
"Should have killed them all when we had the chance."
"There's time yet."
The man Ravensdale had bowed to didn't look any happier about it than the men of the Seventh. He was a tall, grave man, who wore his hair in the traditional K'maneda fashion, long and held back with a plain tie that didn't match the fine silver stitching on his well-tailored overcoat. He only gave the slightest of nods in response to Ravensdale's rigid bow, refusing to meet his superior's gaze for more than a second before he went back to gazing out at the crowd with a bored air.
It took Mirk a moment to match his name with the gossip he'd heard about him. Ksyr S'kanyk, commander of the Fourteenth Infantry, brother to a man Genesis and the oldest of the Easterners had murdered over something that'd been done to them as children. They'd been in a wary truce ever since Ravensdale had returned to the City, their hatred of each other held in check by their shared resentment towards Ravensdale. Mirk did his best to commit the man's cold, rounded features to memory as Ravensdale moved on, strolling along before the commanders with his hands held behind his back, his djinn mirroring his every move.
"And then there's Comrade Lorenz. Your men have always been some of our best fighters. And you've maintained your reputation well this year. Your loyalty and dedication is, as always, beyond reproach," Ravensdale said, rewarding another man with a shallower bow. Unlike Ksyr, Lorenz returned the gesture, a wide grin spreading across his face beneath an oiled and curled mustache. He was, much like Fatima's ladies had said, a small, soft, weaselly sort of man. Ordinarily, Mirk wasn't one to judge on appearances, but the pain Lorenz had caused by carving his mark into Joan's chest was still fresh in his memory. He felt justified in that judgment, though he knew he shouldn't have.
Ravensdale didn't linger on Lorenz long. Next he seized on one of the men he'd arrived with, a portly man who was wearing mages’ robes underneath his velvet cloak. He'd had them tailored to make himself look wider about the shoulders and narrower in the hips. "Of course, without our mages to support our fighters, all our contracts would fail. You've done good work this year, Paul. Despite working at a disadvantage, as is sadly so often the case."
The portly man returned Ravensdale's slight bow with an equally slight nod — he seemed profoundly uncomfortable, the same as the other mage, who was as tall and spindly as Paul was wide and solid. Ravensdale ignored the other mage, instead giving the last remaining man in the group that had arrived along with him an offhanded pat on the shoulder. He was as middling as Ravensdale, though there was a certain eager liveliness in his eyes that Ravensdale lacked, and he wore his hair long in the traditional K'maneda style, like Kysr of the Fourteenth. "And you've done the same, of course, Casyn. Our strategy would be impossible without your impeccable coordination."
Ravensdale gave the compliment in an offhand way, one tMirk could tell was entirely disingenuous without help from his empathy. But Casyn beamed and nodded nevertheless, preening like a child who'd been told he'd done well on his lessons by his strictest tutor. Suddenly, all of the pent up frustration and bitterness he'd felt from Margaret was understandable. Having a husband who was so focused on praise that he couldn't spot the insult in a backhanded compliment had to be unbearable for a woman as keen and intelligent as Margaret. Not to mention the way Casyn was intent on keeping his chest puffed out and his shoulders squared as Ravensdale moved along, while the two mages beside him were rightly chagrined.
"And last, but certainly not least...there is Comrade Commander North."
Despite all his confidence and the djinn at his back, Ravensdale was smart enough not to get too close to North, giving the imposing, surly man his kudos at a judicious distance. Though Emir kept his eyes away from Ravensdale, his arms folded and fingers ticking like he was desperate to get back to the solace of his pipe, North returned Ravensdale's cold smile with a scowl.
Ravensdale was undeterred by it, continuing with his hands folded primly on his stomach and leaning back on his heels. There was a certain deliberateness in that pose that was as menacing as North's scowl. Everyone gathered around the pyre knew those small, unblemished hands just above Ravensdale's belt were capable of more bloodshed with a flick of a finger than a whole company bristling with swords and rifles. "Your willingness to take on the most difficult contracts and to assist other divisions in need is commendable. And is greatly appreciated, along with your perceptiveness and tact."
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There was a long, heavy silence. But eventually even North cracked, giving Ravensdale a curt nod as he fixed his gaze back on his men out in the crowd. Ravensdale smirked to himself as he turned to face the low-born fighting men as well, satisfied with how that year's accolades and dressing-downs had been received. Now that his commanders had been handled, there was only the rabble to be dealt with. As an afterthought.
"But we've all worked hard this year, haven't we? Things are changing, gentlemen. For the better. The guilds are investing all their gold into business and nothing into protecting what they've grown. And beyond our realm, mages from rim to rim have begun to realize that the K'maneda is the most reliable fighting force on offer. Far more reliable than their own people, in any case.
“The K'maneda is impartial. Dependable. There to do work, not settle ancient scores. Both the guilds and the off-realm mages need us to keep their enterprises afloat. Because of that, I think we can all expect that the coming decades will bring us and the City prosperity beyond measure. These men did not die in vain," Ravensdale concluded, with a vague, off-hand gesture at the pile of bodies looming behind him. "They died so that we can all have a better life."
If Genesis's chaotic aura hadn't been so impenetrable, every person with empathy in attendance would have been left clutching their heads from the force of his rage. But Mirk didn't need to feel his emotions, or even see his face to be able to tell he was seething. It was in a dozen small things: his precisely balanced posture, the one he shifted into the instant before a fight began, the involuntary twitching of his fingers at his sides, reflexively wishing for a knife or a sword. The way the shadows near him all warped and curled, eager to rip the object of Genesis's scorn to pieces at the slightest hint of permission. Genesis's precise, unforgiving control only wavered for a second. But it was enough, Mirk thought, for anyone who'd been watching to know that the true threat to Ravensdale's power didn't lie among the commanders gathered around the pyre.
The leaden hopelessness of the other low-born fighters, the fatigue and the emptiness that had hung above them all like an invisible storm cloud all afternoon, was unaffected by Ravensdale's words. They'd probably heard better speeches over the years, and worse ones too. None of it mattered. None of it did anything to take away the crushing weight of the bodies stacked like cordwood behind Ravensdale. Mirk wished one of the Easterners would be kind enough to pass him a bottle. But they'd all fallen still over the last few minutes, sinking into their own thoughts as they mostly ignored the Comrade and stared up at the unlit pyre behind him instead.
Ravensdale paused for an appropriate minute or two to honor the dead. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the group of commanders and officers who had teleported in alongside him and his djinn. "Comrade Lieutenant Commander Elijah. Will you do the honors?"
Mirk hadn't noticed Elijah hidden among the crowd of other officers. He stepped forward at Ravensdale's command, shuffling up close beside the pyre. Even if Elijah had been standing at the front, Mirk might not have recognized him. All of his characteristic exuberance, his implacable curiosity and excitement, was missing that night. Instead, Elijah looked more like a boy who'd somehow gotten mixed up in men's business and was being scolded for it, in a set of subdued black mages’ robes and a cloak that were both far too big for his slight frame. He only summoned the nerve to look up at the pile of dead for an instant before he let his head fall. He lifted his hand, calling to his magic.
It was a simple bit of magic, feeling and power and instinct rather than the meticulously crafted spells Mirk knew Elijah savored. Flames spread from Elijah's hand in a circle around the pile of bodies, then sucked inward toward it in one fluid motion, setting the pyre ablaze.
Mirk braced for the sick, meaty odor of charred flesh. But it never came. He hadn't seen Elijah cast any second component to the spell, something that would have blunted the stench. It must have been set beforehand, while the pyre was still being built, and the touch of the flames had activated it.
Like Elijah, Mirk could only bear to look closely at the pyre for a moment. Though the spell bore none of the hallmarks of Elijah's elaborate spellcraft, he'd still chosen what sort of fire to call to carefully. The flames burned so bright and pure that they looked like something pulled forth by ordered light magic, honeyed and gleaming gold, rather than the dark, chaotic sort of fire Elijah usually leaned on. It was hard to see the burning bodies past them. After the moment had passed, Mirk shifted his attention back to Elijah. He still hadn't lifted his head, both of his arms hanging limply at his sides. It was difficult to pick out through the haze of melancholy that filled the clearing in place of smoke, but Mirk was just close enough to the mage to sense the regret in him. It was the same sick feeling that had filled Mirk when he'd first seen the tower of bodies completed.
The fact that Ravensdale gave Elijah an approving pat on the shoulder as he walked past on his way toward the track through the forest only made the feeling of regret deepen. And the gesture put a note of fear in Elijah, the desperate panic of a trapped animal. But the fire mage followed after Ravensdale nevertheless, the same as the other commanders. Ravensdale hadn't insisted on pomp for his entrance, but he did for his exit. Without speaking, the crowd of shivering fighters stepped aside to clear a path for Ravensdale and the other commanders, saluting them as they passed.
Most of the commanders left with Ravensdale. There were only three exceptions. Kysr, the commander of the Fourteenth, stopped to speak some encouraging words to his officers before leaving along with the majority of the fighting men from his division. Then there was only Emir and North left watching the bodies burn. Both of them had produced their pipes from their pockets the instant Ravensdale was out of sight. Mirk focused on them rather than on the pyre, studying their postures for lack of any emotions to feel.
They were mirrors of each other, two sides of the same coin. North’s scowl had deepened now that Ravensdale was gone, while Emir’s expression had hardened into the cold mask of a man who’d been taught by angels how best to show disdain. They both stewed in their annoyance as they stared up at the pyre. Then the moment was over and North knocked Emir in the shoulder, jerking his head at the crowd of fighting men. The two commanders filed back down the track without speaking, neither to each other, nor to any of the men who saluted them as they passed.
With a communal exhale, life came back to the crowd of low-born fighting men. Bottles were pulled out of coats along with pipes, as old friends smacked each other in the side with admonitions not to be so serious. Most of the men followed their commanders' examples, heading off back down the track through the woods to the transporter and more hospitable lodging. But a portion of the crowd — the lowest of the low-borns, who had no families to go back to and no spare gold to throw at the City's legion of eager innkeepers — headed off toward the second clearing instead. To celebrate having survived another year in the forest alongside the dead.
The Easterners lingered near the pyre for a few minutes, to pay some additional tribute to their own dead that they'd cobbled together from their various customs. It mostly involved passing around a single bottle of a better liquor, a tiny measure poured out onto the ground between each sip. Mordecai and Danu were the first to leave the glow of the burning funeral pyre, huddled together and discussing in low tones what had yet to be done to prepare for the feast. But Danu's call from the second clearing a moment later that some kind of roast was done got the other men moving fast. Mirk was soon alone in the clearing, aside from K'aekniv and Genesis.
The half-angel had one of his thick, giant arms wrapped tight around Genesis's shoulders, talking to him in a low voice that Mirk couldn't pick words out of over the snapping and popping of the flames eating away at that year's dead. Genesis was tense from having K'aekniv so close, but he didn't attempt to throw K'aekniv off either, like he usually did when the half-angel tried to catch him in embrace. K'aekniv refused to release Genesis until the commander gave him a single, grudging pat on the back in return. Laughing, K'aekniv gave Genesis a good-natured smack of a kiss on the cheek, releasing him and stepping away before Genesis could collect himself enough to backhand him in the face.
K'aekniv's found Mirk lingering in the shadows near the treeline as he headed off after the rest of his men, a sympathetic smile coming onto his face as he fished a bottle out of the inside pocket of his greatcoat. "It gets better," the half-angel said, after pulling the bottle's cork from its mouth with his teeth and spitting it aside. "The first year, it's the worst for everyone. Come have a drink with us, eh? You've done your duty."
Mirk returned K'aekniv's smile as best he could, accepting his own drink from the bottle K'aekniv offered him. "I know, but..." Unwillingly, he found himself glancing over at Genesis.
K'aekniv sighed as he took the bottle back from him. "You should leave him alone, Mirgosha. He's always in a shit mood after this. At least until someone can sneak some drink into him. Then it's really a good time. Come with us until then."
He supposed K'aekniv would best know how to handle whatever dark mood the ceremony had thrown Genesis into. He’d been the one who'd managed all of Genesis's oddities for the last twenty-some years, after all. But Mirk couldn't force himself to leave Genesis alone with the dead.
Mirk shrugged, pulling his cloak tight around himself and swallowing down hard the aftertaste of the Easterners' pungent home-brew liquor. "Methinks having someone to listen might make him feel a little better though, non?"
Shooting him an incredulous look, K'aekniv snorted. "You want to listen to him yell about the old K'maneda for hours? Go ahead. Me, I've heard it all twenty times already. When you get sick of it, you know where to find us. But I'll make sure they save you some food. A man who'll put up with his bullshit deserves something a little special." The half-angel reached out and ruffled Mirk's hair as he trudged past him toward the second clearing, humming one of his old songs to himself as he went.
Which left Mirk alone with Genesis. The still-burning dead aside.
He went to Genesis cautiously, eyeing the shadows still gathered thick around him. They ignored Mirk as he approached, too fixed on whatever mood Genesis was sunk in to pay him any heed. The commander's expression was as blank as ever, his eyes locked on the flames. They'd gone black.
There was nothing he could say that'd comfort him, Mirk knew. So he settled for an apology instead. "I'm sorry, messire. I can see why you dislike him so much now. Or, at least I understand a little more than I did before."
Genesis was silent for a long time before he finally spat out a response. "The dead deserve the proper rights. Not this...farce. Cayet, all of it. All of them."
For a moment, Mirk thought Genesis had adopted the Easterners' favorite curse — everything was shit to them, from the weather to the food to the boots they got twice a year from the Supply Corps. But there was something different in the word, in the way Genesis hurled it like a dagger through his teeth. It had to be from his native language, the one no one understood other than him. "What does that mean?"
"It is not a word...in itself. It is everything c'ayet is not."
Mirk sighed. The second word sounded a little like the first, only with a snapping click at its front rather than a hiss. "I'm afraid I don't remember that one either, messire."
"C'ayet is...complex. It is an approach to life. A perspective. A...philosophy, perhaps. Akin to your religion. But there are no gods in c'ayet. C'ayet serves no one and nothing. C'ayet never bows."
That didn't surprise Mirk. And it explained why all the commanders' bows and nods to one another had bothered Genesis so much. "Methinks I must not be a very good K'maneda, then."
Genesis considered this for a time, before finally breaking his unblinking stare at the fire and looking down at Mirk. The darkness had cleared from his eyes. A good sign, though the shadows were still stirring restlessly about both their knees. "C'ayet, like all things, is a choice. One can be K'maneda without accepting c'ayet. However, there are certain things that are...too cayet not to invoke a consequence," he concluded, with a sharp gesture in the direction of the burning pyre.
K'aekniv was right. Genesis was in one of his strange moods, fixated on ideas no one had the context to understand. When Genesis became vague like that, he could sink down into that vagueness and brood on things for hours. Mirk tried to think up something more concrete to direct Genesis toward. "How is the ceremony supposed to go?" he asked.
"It is...involved. Without every K'maneda present and without the...efforts of all the commanders, it is incomplete."
"Oh. Well..."
After a moment, Genesis sighed, drawing his sword from his back in one fluid, uncannily quick motion. "But. There is a...small thing that can improve this...attempt."
"Would it make you feel better?"
"My feelings are irrelevant. There is a...certain honor due to the dead."
"I see..."
"Burning alone was not the...preferred method of disposal. Chaos magic was always used along with it. To be certain they are returned entirely to dust."
"For you are dust, and to dust you will return," Mirk mumbled to himself, unable to keep from smiling wistfully to himself.
"I am not familiar with that expression," Genesis said, dismissively, as he held his sword out in front of himself with both hands, point down. The shadows curled around the blade, eager to finally have a task to attend to. Just like Genesis.
"Methinks you should recognize it, messire. The Book of Genesis."
Genesis only frowned.
"Maybe we aren't so different after all," Mirk said. "God aside."
"You religion appears to have infinite interpretations. The…intent of your papist overseers aside."
Mirk shrugged and nodded. "Like you always say, messire, everyone always has a choice. God never tells us His plans. And you can work against grace if you try. Even if you're a bishop."
Genesis shook his head, refocusing on his sword. Mirk was glad. The last thing he wanted was to get sucked into a theological debate with the commander, one that would undoubtedly leave them both more frustrated and confused than better off for it. Genesis said a few words in his harsh, clicking and snapping mother tongue. The shadows crept outward from the point of his sword, completely encircling the pyre like the dark mirror of Elijah's fire that had come before. The pyre dimmed, every tendril of flame intertwined with a curl of shadow, dancing across the backs of the dead together.
His words shifted to English as Genesis drove the point of his sword into the frozen ground. "No chains to bind us, no masters to serve. Resist, and be free."
Then he stepped back from the sword, making a sharp, cutting gesture that was half salute and half wave over its hilt. The clearing went dark, just for a moment. Afterwards, only fire remained within the pyre.
Before he could think better of it, Mirk crossed himself. Thankfully, Genesis was too preoccupied with his makeshift ritual to notice. Once the shadows had released the sword's blade, Genesis pulled it out of the ground and returned it to the sheath on his back. "Do you feel better now, Genesis?" Mirk asked.
"I have...done what I can."
"Then why not come back with Niv and the rest? They're having a party for Danu and Mordecai's engagement. It'd be nice if you stopped by to congratulate them." Mirk paused, looking back over his shoulder into the woods, at the cheerful glow of several fires that'd been lit in the second clearing shining through the trees. Somehow, the glow from those fires was much warmer than the light cast by the funeral pyre. "I helped put everything together. There should be a few foods you can have without getting sick."
"...every day...another excuse for some miserable...folk celebration..." Genesis grumbled to himself. With a final, long look at the topmost bodies stacked atop the pyre, Genesis turned away from it.
"They just like to have a good time. And can you really blame them? It's been a hard year for everyone, methinks. Mordecai really would be happy to know you approve of his engagement. He respects you, you know. All of them do."
"I have no opinion on his choice of marriage partner. Though it would be beneficial to have another person keeping him from doing...inadvisable things. I am tired of having to...extricate him from the guild authorities."
Mirk laughed. "I know Danu. She'll take care of him. You know how healers can be."
"Extremely...persistent," Genesis said flatly, as he stalked off toward the second clearing with the air of a man doomed to the gallows.
"Only with the most stubborn patients," Mirk countered, following after him.
He tried his best to keep up with Genesis, but the snow that'd been packed down into ice by hundreds of feet was slick. Mirk stumbled and slid as he chased after Genesis, and he braced himself for ending up flat on his back for what felt like the tenth time that day. To his surprise, before he could either find his balance or go tumbling backwards, he found himself being dragged upright and steadied by a hand on his shoulder. In an instant, faster than Mirk could track with his eyes, Genesis had come to his aid.
Mirk laughed awkwardly as he continued onward, shuffling that time to lessen his chances of falling. "Ah, I didn't mean to be an inconvenience, messire..."
"A matter of practicality. If you...become incapacitated, there will be no one to heal the Easterners once the fighting bouts begin. I assume the other healers will be...occupied elsewhere."
As always, Genesis had a rational explanation for all his actions. There was no room in him for sentimentality, for frivolousness. But the fact that he kept a steadying hand on his shoulder all the way to the second clearing made a spark of warmth ignite in Mirk’s chest for the first time that evening.