The desert seemed to weep as Sirin’s body lay in front of Liam. Her face had been reconstructed with his magic, removing any trace of the branding or the dried blood of her blackened eyes. He’d even removed the strangulation marks from the rope. Healing her hyoid bone just as he had once healed Nyota’s. Now, she seemed at peace, with a flowing dress of yellow and an underblouse of blue.
Emir Efendi, Archbishop Judas, and the duke of Kheresh had made every luxury and honour available to Liam, but he’d refused them all, including any offered meetings. They had slain his mother. Sirin was guilty of many crimes, and if Liam had been in the duke’s shoes, he might have made the same choices. Except for one. He would have asked about her family and home. If only to make recovery of stolen goods possible. Or give her family some notice. Nothing major, just the bare minimum courtesy for another human being. Not six hours of torture and an irrevokable hanging.
A step her torturers obviously had skipped.
“Are you ready?” Asked Maya, resting her hands on Liam’s shoulders.
“No. But waiting won’t bring her back. It’s time to let her rest. Thaddeus, take care of her.”
“Yes sir.” Said the First Captain. “Owen, Velena,” Said Thaddeus, stomping his feet in tune with their names. “Let us begin.”
Under the blistering sun, a silent procession of a dozen paladins advanced across the water-rich expanse that comprised the Duke’s gardens, an island of magi-created moisture in the ocean of glass sand. The sweltering heat was tempered only by the chilling nature of their bitter duty. Clad in their runic armor, the honour guard took hold of Sirin’s dirge. Little more than a slab of summoned sandstone.
At Thaddeus’s command the dozen Paladins lifted in unison, their faces shadowed by grief and the relentless rays of the sun. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and incense, a medieval way of masking three day old decay.
As a company they advanced, slowly, methodically. Marching in unison despite their differences in size, age, and gender, for the fulminonimbus’ paladins accepted any who were strong. Slender Velena marched opposite of Owen’s bulk, with trailing paladins evening out the load. All were the highest paladins of their station, Velena for Fire, with her second Faelan, Owen for earth, with the four highest leveled earth magi under his command. Thaddeus had selected the others to represent water and light affinities, completing the circle of human magi. Together they passed through ancient palms and marble obelisks, ancient statues dedicated to the memory of green Kheresh, and as enduring as the stone they carried. One final barrier remained between Sirin and her tomb, seven men in black armor –representing the seven evil deities of the world– stood guard over an obsidian bridge and an artificial river of water.
“Who seeks passage into the memories of our descendants?” Asked the lead specter, his face obscured by a scowling visage of Hades.
“Lady Sirin, Mother of the Lightning Lord Tufan Biliam Alhusam seeks passage. She has earned her memory, and shall forever lay as a warning against decisive actions taken too swiftly, for had she been given ten minutes more, she may have prevented the downfall of houses and the deaths of fifty men.” Answered Thaddeus.
The lead specter shuddered, as if not expecting the answer, but stepped aside anyways –whether out of fear, or from some unseen signal from a hidden duke– Liam would never know. With their path cleared, the paladins gained entry into the Duke’s mortuary of remembrance.
Plate armored feet reached the stone tomb –a monolithic structure starkly out of place amidst the normally undulating dunes of Kheresh– they paused. This mausoleum, originally intended only for the Duke’s own lineage, now stood as a monument and a place to memorialize hard learned lessons. Duke Ansit’s statue stood foremost, a reminder to the time when sun, moon, and stars burned; triple cataclysms that melted the jungles of Kheresh to glass and saw their cities incinerated. The mausoleum’s entrance swallowed the paladins, its cool interior maintained by the artificial river flowing beneath a floor of quartz glass, a stark contrast to the scorching desert outside.
Liam’s eyes twinkled at the fancy cistern, wondering how many magi it took to fill, where it ran to and from. The duke probably had an outlet somewhere that drained into nearby wells, allowing him to water his people from the protection of his own home.
Carefully, with the precision of a practiced drill, the twelve paladins maneuvered Sirin through the hallowed passageway. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering as if the very stones mourned her passing, or maybe her life of sin. Inside, the air was cooler, imbued with an ancient, unspoken sanctity that seemed to hush even the faintest whisper of wind from the desert beyond.
Stillness filled the room, and the paladins halted a third of the way into the tomb. They pivoted, carrying Sirin into an empty alcove. At Thaddeus’ command they knelt in unison, laying her sandstone slab upon a monolith of quartz. Beneath her feet an inscription became visible, prepared by Thaddeus or the Duke himself, a warning to the future. It was surrounded by craven images of lilies and roses –complete with thorns stylized as blades of lightning– symbols of her legacy. In the void that followed, one could almost hear the echoes of a distant past, the walls whispering secrets of those who had come before. To ensure the sanctity of the moment, they each placed a single white rose upon her bosom, their petals stark against the somber blue.
White roses? Fancy… Where did they– Ah, they must have gotten those from the Emir… Thought Liam, considering burning the roses for a few seconds before deciding against it.
The Emir was the source of all Sirin’s woes, and thus had not been invited to her burial. Since he was the heartless bastard who disinherited Sirin, pushing her down the sequence of events that left her destitute, desperate, and ultimately dead. A crime Liam might never be able to forgive, but one last gift from father to daughter could be permitted. And something about burying Sirin with a bouquet of roses just felt right. Appropriate for the woman from another world, if only to honour the traditions of their ancestors. Liam had no doubt that grandma would agree, despite the circuitous path that led to a reincarnated soul inhabiting the body of his third mother.
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A heavy silence pervaded the chamber, each knight lost in his own thoughts, some thought this was too great an honour for a murderer, others felt it was too little. Yet they were united in loyalty to Lightning Lord Tufan Biliam Alhusam. To honor him, they stood in a silent vigil, their heads bowed in reverence, shadows cast long and mournful in the dim light.
The final act of their ritual began as the eldest paladin stepped forward, his armor creaking with the weight of experience and a hundred battles survived. He uncorked a wine bottle, then tipped it, slowly pouring its contents over Sirin’s body, the liquid shimmering briefly before flowing around Sirin and off the slab, guided by his magic. A final symbol of Sirin’s souls crossing over the river styx.
Although Liam wondered if Taloc would allow a soul –so similar to his own– the peace of death.
Together the twelve paladins raised their right hand over Sirin’s corpse, and placed their left hand on the shoulder of the paladin in front of them. Mana coursed through the tomb, flowing as twenty five spells were cast one by one. Each spell was chanted by two paladins speaking their incantations in tune, always directly opposite each other. First the holy paladins purified her corpse, safeguarding it from decay and ‘erasing her past sins’, then the water paladins doused her body, a ‘cleansing’ practice thought to wash away malicious traces of Pandora’s ilk. Then Velena and her apprentice Faelan warmed the tomb, their flames driving off all moisture, another ‘cleansing’ practice thought to placate Hades' hunger for the souls of the living. And finally, together they returned to holy paladins for the twenty fifth spell. As a quorum they chanted in unison, the diverse affinity paladins channeling all mana into Thaddeus.
Liam held Maya’s hand, not hearing their words, shutting his eyes and ears as he sensed the mana flow. Quartz began to flow upward, growing into a statue of a smiling Sirin, holding Liam –knife ears and all– in her arms.
Golden mana hardened into physical citrine quartz, a rich yellow glass that immortalized Sirin’s corpse. Even in the hall of a Duke’s progenitors, she was breathtaking. Letters appeared in the statue’s base.
Here lies Sirin,
Forsaken daughter of Emir Efendi
Mother of Lightning Lord Tufan Biliam Alhusam
Slain by rash action
Avenged by her son
Entombed by the First Paladin of Kheresh
With their mission accomplished the tomb sighed with relief. One by one, the runic knights departed in precise order, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone, leaving behind the legacy of their devotion. The tomb, still guarded by the seven black specters, stood silent and immovable.
To face the searing desert once more, the paladins emerged, the blazing sun blinding after the tomb’s cool sanctity. The memory of their vigil clung to them like the persistent grains of sand, a reminder of duty fulfilled and a life honored with the utmost reverence.
Meanwhile Liam remained in the tomb, staring at the statue that was a lie.
Sirin never smiled.
Nor were there any blades tucked into her clothes.
But that wasn’t what held him captive in the tomb of his mother. No, his senses tingled at Thaddeus’s magic, at the melding of four affinities to crack the error of humanities’ understanding. The paladins had used their armor to cheat, channeling mana into their breastplates which stripped their innate affinities and allowed pure, unaffiliated mana to pass to Thaddeus. A fascinating trick of power.
Two palms touched the quartz tomb, and Liam took hold of the stone, bending its mana and siphoning it into himself. For he did not require runic armor to alter mana. The humans of this world misunderstood many things, but one truth became universally evident in that instant. Magic was powerful, and powerful magic was the foundation of all power in this world, moral, political, and philosophical. But power did not naturally propagate, just as crops could not grow in a swamp. Land needed to be cleared of trees and stumps, then prepared with the plows’ might before it could be planted and progenate.
Just as Liam’s body had been prepared for magic. In one yank of his soul, Liam ripped the lingering holy and earth mana out of the statue, drawing it into himself.
[Earth] increased to level 1
[Light] increased to level 1
[Water] increased to level 2
[Mana manipulation] at max level. [Mana Domination] acquired.
[Mana Domination] increased to level 1.
[Mana Domination] increased to level 2.
[Mana Domination] increased to level 3.
He nodded, familiar with this world’s leveling up system. Whatever rules Taloc had bent in bringing him here, had given him an unparalleled ability to acquire new skills. Representing an exponential increase in his ability to use magic.
“Thanks for showing me the way Taloc. I now see how the Lord Bishop’s spell failed, as well as my role in breaking his cast.” Said Liam, stooping to add a line below the Khereshi script.
With white roses to mark the failure of her father
Grandpa Wilson, the grandfather who had raised him in the modern world was the only grandfather Liam would ever recognize. A sentiment he entombed in stone. The material bowed to his will, shaping into a clean font with crisp edges. Satisfied, he continued lower on the grave, writing a passage in english.
‘Sirin, you were a vile, vicious murderer who killed and stole food to survive. But who am I to judge you. If our roles were reversed, we both would have perished. So thank you for keeping us alive, and for hardening my resolve beyond what my heart could have borne. Had I known the strength of your will, then my wife Nyota would still be in my arms.
I wish I knew your real name, but mine was William Wilson, then Baron William Ethan Green, and now Tufan Biliam Alhusam, your son.
My last wish is that you find peace and happiness in your next life, and with your next family.
May they be better kindred than I.’
It took him an hour to shape the quartz to his will, an exertion that resulted in [Earth] level 3. Early levels were always easier to acquire than higher ones.
His thoughts wandered, and Liam began to imagine Sirin standing before him, questioning why…
“Why bury me with honor? I was a terrible mother, an awful person who showed you no love or mercy.”
“Once upon a time, I would have thought that.”
“Would have?”
“You were a better match for this world than I am. Without your guidance I could never have put aside my high horse and found the strength of will to alter this world. In a way, you’ve given me the elixir, but not of life, you have granted the elixir of death.”
Such an exchange might have brought a half smile to Sirin’s lips.
Thank you Sirin. Thought Liam, rising from her grave and marching out of the tomb. There was a duke that demanded his attention, and slaves that needed to be altered. Though it would be safer to start with the paladins.