Swift
She had boarded the Sea Swift in darkness. The mate had conducted her to her cabin, though she had barely seen it, barely seen anything at all so tired had she been. There had been the sound of a man quietly singing in the night, words that she did not understand. She had stumbled on the stairs that led below the darkened deck, and was grateful for the mate’s help. The burning had been much harder than she expected, and it had started late, when she was already tired and the weakness of her injury was overcoming her will to be strong.
She remembered every minute of it, and knew that it would not leave her for the rest of her life. The wood had been stacked and dressed with flammable oil. It was not a huge pyre, and Todric’s body had been placed no more than shoulder high and she could see his face in profile. She had insisted that he be dressed in his finest clothes and that his face be uncovered. He had faced everything that life had offered him, and she saw no reason why he should not be bare faced in death.
They had given her the torch to light the pyre, and that was the hardest thing. Up until that point Todric had still been alive, somewhere inside her. As she approached the body it had borrowed the torch’s ruddy warmth, and looked merely asleep. She had to fight the urge to reach out and shake him, to wake him from this offensive and untimely sleep.
And she had wept. For the first time since waking back in the tent she had allowed herself the luxury of grief. They had all stood in silence, under the cold stars, and watched her. There were more people than she had expected. The drovers, of course, but there were people from the Sea Swift, merchants who had greeted them in the street, and she even recognised the landlord of the Red Sail, hands folded and head bowed, standing among the others in the light of stars and torches.
So she had stood, for the moment unable to move, weeping before her brother’s body, and she had sensed a presence at her side. It was Kendric. He had stepped softly out from the assembly and stood quietly beside her.
“If you cannot…” he whispered.
The words had been enough, and she had nodded, oddly grateful to him for his subtlety, his ability to do just the smallest thing at the right time. It was not what she had expected of him. After all, he was a drover, a man who sat on the bench of a wagon for a living. She stepped forwards and pushed the torch into the wood near the base of the pyre. It burned swiftly, flaring upwards and sideways as it sought out the oil. She had stepped back and watched, forced herself to watch as the flames consumed her brother. She had expected this to be the hardest part, but it was not, in the end. As she watched the pyre burn she had grown calm, almost serene. Perhaps it was exhaustion.
When the fire had died she had given Kendric his instructions; to take the wagons and the trade goods back to East Scar, to tell her father all that had happened here, and that she had travelled on to Samara by ship to seek out the murderer. She gave him a letter that briefly stated the facts so that her father would see the words in her own hand. Kendric had not wanted to do as she wished. He argued that he should go with her, that she would need help.
“Kendric,” she had said to him. “You must do this for me because you are the one that I trust to do it. Take Todric’s bones to my father. It is a cargo of grief that I cannot carry. Do this one thing for me.”
He was unable to refuse her, and so she went to the ship and he began to organise the wagons to depart in the morning. She looked back once at the sound of his voice, surprised that it sounded angry as he shouted orders to the other drovers, and saw that he was looking in her direction, silhouetted against the torches and the embers of the fire. He seemed to have grown larger. She saw him turn away and walk towards the tents. The way that he walked reminded her of Todric, of his ease and
She had boarded the Sea Swift in darkness. The mate had conducted her to her cabin, though she had barely seen it, barely seen anything at all so tired had she been. There had been the sound of a man quietly singing in the night, words that she did not understand. She had stumbled on the stairs that led below the darkened deck, and was grateful for the mate’s help. The burning had been much harder than she expected, and it had started late, when she was already tired and the weakness of her injury was overcoming her will to be strong.
She remembered every minute of it, and knew that it would not leave her for the rest of her life. The wood had been stacked and dressed with flammable oil. It was not a huge pyre, and Todric’s body had been placed no more than shoulder high and she could see his face in profile. She had insisted that he be dressed in his finest clothes and that his face be uncovered. He had faced everything that life had offered him, and she saw no reason why he should not be bare faced in death.
They had given her the torch to light the pyre, and that was the hardest thing. Up until that point Todric had still been alive, somewhere inside her. As she approached the body it had borrowed the torch’s ruddy warmth, and looked merely asleep. She had to fight the urge to reach out and shake him, to wake him from this offensive and untimely sleep.
And she had wept. For the first time since waking back in the tent she had allowed herself the luxury of grief. They had all stood in silence, under the cold stars, and watched her. There were more people than she had expected. The drovers, of course, but there were people from the Sea Swift, merchants who had greeted them in the street, and she even recognised the landlord of the Red Sail, hands folded and head bowed, standing among the others in the light of stars and torches.
So she had stood, for the moment unable to move, weeping before her brother’s body, and she had sensed a presence at her side. It was Kendric. He had stepped softly out from the assembly and stood quietly beside her.
“If you cannot…” he whispered.
The words had been enough, and she had nodded, oddly grateful to him for his subtlety, his ability to do just the smallest thing at the right time. It was not what she had expected of him. After all, he was a drover, a man who sat on the bench of a wagon for a living. She stepped forwards and pushed the torch into the wood near the base of the pyre. It burned swiftly, flaring upwards and sideways as it sought out the oil. She had stepped back and watched, forced herself to watch as the flames consumed her brother. She had expected this to be the hardest part, but it was not, in the end. As she watched the pyre burn she had grown calm, almost serene. Perhaps it was exhaustion.
When the fire had died she had given Kendric his instructions; to take the wagons and the trade goods back to East Scar, to tell her father all that had happened here, and that she had travelled on to Samara by ship to seek out the murderer. She gave him a letter that briefly stated the facts so that her father would see the words in her own hand. Kendric had not wanted to do as she wished. He argued that he should go with her, that she would need help.
“Kendric,” she had said to him. “You must do this for me because you are the one that I trust to do it. Take Todric’s bones to my father. It is a cargo of grief that I cannot carry. Do this one thing for me.”
He was unable to refuse her, and so she went to the ship and he began to organise the wagons to depart in the morning. She looked back once at the sound of his voice, surprised that it sounded angry as he shouted orders to the other drovers, and saw that he was looking in her direction, silhouetted against the torches and the embers of the fire. He seemed to have grown larger. She saw him turn away and walk towards the tents. The way that he walked reminded her of Todric, of his ease and
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