1 Soul Bound
1.2 Taking Control
1.2.2 An Awakening Epiphany
1.2.2.33 Joining the wake
By the time they got to shore it was quite dark, and the shadows her skin cast made the ruined buildings of Basso seem spooky. She hoped there were not more assassins lurking. She couldn’t be a more obvious target if she painted a red bull’s eye on her back. It made her think about assassins stalking her in arlife.
Kafana: {Sys, can I ask you something?}
System: [Yes, Kafana.]
Kafana: {Because I’ve become famous playing Soul Bound, and have opposed those who’ve made arlife money from player killing, I’m now in danger in arlife. I’m afraid they’re going to use the records the game has kept of everything I’ve said and done to look for patterns they can match against big databases about arlife identities, in order to track me down and hurt me and my friends. Is there any way I can express a preference for having the records XperiSense keeps about me deleted or at least tightly restricted on who can access them?}
System: [I’m not sure, Kafana. That’s a very unusual situation. It will probably require a human to make a decision. I can’t delete them, but I can request a ruling and temporarily restrict access pending receiving one. Would you like me to?]
Kafana: {Yes, please! I wish you could give me a hug. Right now, I need a big sister to look after me.}
Vittoria told her that the internment of Antonio’s body would take place out at the Necropolis, but that the wake would be being held in the Aia, a little way south of the orphanage. The Aia used to be an agricultural village, with cottages, barns and pens for animals until it had been engulfed by the expanding borders of the city. It still retained much of its rural characteristics, with its own mayor and folks who formed their own strong community. There was a traditional bond between it and the orphanage, formed in the days when the orphans had needed flowers to sell at the Stadia and the farmers had shown them how to convert abandoned gardens into neat rows of fertile flowerbeds.
She switched to party chat.
Kafana: {I’m nearly at the wake. Any of you guys around?}
Bungo: {I’m with the monks, practicing using my new shield and ‘gust of wind’. In game it is night time and the auction isn’t until morning, so I don’t think the others will be on for another couple of hours, arlife time. By the way, thanks for the level-up. I take it removing the curse went ok?}
She checked on her map. Bungo was at the Necropolis, and most of the rest of the vessels were at the Sanctum, but Vessel-Bulgaria was at the Wake. She thought about Bungo’s question. She’d had fun removing the curse, but she didn’t know quite what the implications were. Would Cov resent Mor wanting a presence in Torello?
Kafana: {Yeah, it went ok.}
Bungo: {I can hear something in your voice. You’re hiding something, aren’t you?}
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Kafana: {Have fun with the ghouls. I’ll think of you when I’m sitting back, sipping wine and eating fine delicacies at the party.}
Bungo: {Kafana!}
They made it safely to the cobbled yard where the wake was being held. Vittoria went over to the group of older orphans attending, who’d been particular friends of Antonio and were there to support Nicolo. Kafana joined Omobono over by the coffin, where he was talking to a wiry man wearing battered armour and a red sash, who looked to be in his early 60s.
Omobono: “Kafana, this is Melafon, the night guard from the Orphanage. He’s the Fidelis. He’s been telling me about the local customs.”
Kafana: “Pleased to meet you. I’m just sorry about the circumstances. Don’t let me interrupt, I’d like to know more as well.”
Melafon gave her a slow arthritic nod, but his eyes were keen as they evaluated her.
Melafon: “The mechanics are simple. When someone dies, a vigil is kept to see if their corporeal pattern is strong enough to allow them to respawn in the sanctum. If it isn’t, a wake is arranged where their friends will eat and sing together, listen to tales and say any last words they have. It is a time for unity and healing. After that, the body is carried in a procession to the White Gondola, where the farewell happens. From there, only the Fidelis and the undertakers accompany the body.”
Omobono: “Does the Fidelis do nothing besides accompany the body?”
Melafon: “The Fidelis ought to be a mighty warrior, leading the procession in a threat display, so any necromancers will be scared away by the number and strength of the deceased’s friends. There will be horns and drums and wild dancing. Rich folk have been known to hire hundreds of professionals to boost their funeral parades. But originally? The Fidelis is the ‘last friend’. In the event of a necromancer trying to claim the body, the sword isn’t for trying to slay the mage. The sword is so the Fidelis can dismember the body, making it unusable.”
Omobono: “I do not envy you the role.”
Melafon looked weary.
Melafon: “We’ve had to say farewell to far too many this year. But I don’t begrudge a bit of lost sleep. Antonio was a scamp, always running with a rough crowd. But he was fiercely loyal to his brother and those who followed him. He’ll be missed.”
As he spoke, a youth she vaguely remembered from the Vecci encampment came up. He leaned down to the coffin and whispered something, then took what looked like the dried head of a teasel, dipped it in a pot of pungent oil and laid it carefully in a wide basket woven of cypress leaves.
Kafana: “What are those?”
Melafon: “They are offerings to Rac, that he may record the whispered words in his book of secrets when he writes the tale of Antonio’s life story, keeping the memory of him bright through all the aeons yet to come. Some say the whispered words are to grant closure to restless spirits, that they don’t stay to haunt. Mostly, though, it is for the living; a chance to release their grief in private, so they can let go properly when The Farewell comes. If you knew Antonio, you should come back later and say the words you need to say to him. But first you must sing along with the others. We gather together so that none need bear the bitterness of loss alone.”
They took their leave of Melafon and circled the courtyard. One of the cottages had a table outside with drinks, and she paid a silver ducato for a mug of apple cider. There were nearly 100 people, most young, and she was surprised at the variety of the singing. Antonio, it seemed, had gotten around, and there were groups present from every part of Basso, each with a different cultural heritage. The ones who knew a song joined in on the words, but even those who didn’t would hum along when a chorus repeated itself.
She wasn’t going to be able to use her purple mind gem to share songs to people much longer, if she accepted Wellington’s offer to tell her about Flavio. She could do something magical here, but should she?