Twenty Seven: Mourners

Dela had never been to a vigil before.

She wasn't entirely sure what to expect from one; in all of her experiences with the dead so far, they had already been...well, dead. She was a little apprehensive about visiting the dying. It felt almost more sensitive a task than dealing with the body. You couldn't hurt a body, and the family wasn't watching.

Because of the sensitive nature of the task, only one acolyte went to each vigil, and even then only with family consent, which meant that it could take months to be assigned to one. Dela's guide had surprised her at the morning meal, and she'd barely had time to scarf down the rest of her gruel and visit the chamber pot before she was climbing into a carriage. Now she sat in nervous silence opposite one of Maniel's priestesses, who had said her piece on how she was expected to behave and seemed content to pass the rest of the journey without talking.

If she was honest, she was glad to get out of the temple. Ever since she had got lost in the catacombs she had felt uneasy in her work, only feeling safe in the crowd of her class. She had had night terrors, too, of pursuers whose faces she could not see and whose souls had already fled. No matter how often she reminded herself that she had been safe in the temple for two years, that nothing had changed, that she'd stay safe as long as she never did it again, she woke up in sweats every night, searching for intruders.

The carriage stopped, interrupting her train of thought. The vigil they were attending was taking place in a small cottage near the candle factory; an old widow whose mind had wandered years ago, who had been cared for by her son for over a decade. It eased Dela a little, to know there wouldn't be very many family members there, but at the same time she was sad for the woman and wished she had more, if that would give her comfort.

She got out after the priestess and hovered at her side as she knocked on the door. A man opened it – the woman's son, Dela guessed – who looked older than his years. His pale eyes were red-rimmed.

"Thank you for coming," he said, in a voice that belied his grief. "I'm sorry there isn't much room."

The priestess laid a hand on the man's shoulder, her face picture-perfect understanding, and Dela marvelled at how it seemed to set the man at ease.

The house was small, but Dela had lived in tents and wagons all her life until she joined the temple, and she found it warm and cosy. A fire burned high in the grate, the evidence of a quiet life lying all around it; a pair of old boots, some washing laid out on the boards to dry, a bag of potato peelings. She didn't notice the person in the corner until they moved, and it took all her self-control not to jump and squeak in surprise.

"Kelians? Really?" the figure muttered, as the man who had opened the door set a kettle over the fire.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll mind your own dark-damned business," the man snapped in reply. "You know she believed. If you're going to make this hard, the door's over there."

The figure just grunted. It was a man, as far as Dela could tell, though he had covered himself up quite thoroughly. One of his legs, she noted, was missing at the knee.

The priestess handed her a candle, drawing her attention from the figure and reminding her of the task she was here to do. If the woman was perturbed by the exchange, she showed no sign, and Dela strove to follow suit. The figure in the corner made her uneasy, not least because he was wearing black and she couldn't see his features. But she could hardly shirk her duties because of her own personal fears.

They entered a darkened room through a door in the far wall. A candle burned low on the bedside, illuminating a frail figure among the mound of sheets and blankets. At first Dela thought they'd come too late, but then the woman moved in her sleep, a faint clicking coming from her throat, followed by a sigh. Knobbly thin fingers clutched at the blanket pulled up to her chin.

"She might...she might get confused." The son's voice cracked for the first time, but in the gloom Dela couldn't see his face very well. "Her mind's not...quite where it used to be."

"That's alright," the priestess said softly, taking the stool at the bedside. "We will try our best not to disturb her."

A series of thumping noises announced the arrival of the dark figure from the corner, followed by the abrupt dimming of light from the front room fire. The thumping came from a metal foot that he must have attached while she wasn't looking. He leaned against the doorway for a moment, and Dela thought she saw the gleam of an eye, a ridge of scarring beside a scowl, before he continued inside and took up the darkest corner of this room instead.

The priestess took up a low, resonant hum of prayer, her candle cradled in her lap. Dela didn't know the vigil chant, so she remained silent at the priestess's shoulder, feeling suddenly like she was on display and that one wrong move would mark her out as unfit to serve.

The atmosphere was strangely peaceful – calmer than Dela had been expecting. If the son cried, he hid it in the shadows as he sat on the end of the bed and took one frail hand in his. The woman appeared oblivious, sleeping on with a faint crease between her brows as if something troubled her. Dela wondered if she ever had moments of clarity where she worried about her son, or if they only visited her in sleep.

"Ar..." the woman whispered suddenly, and her voice trailed into a wheeze as her eyes fluttered. "Arlen."

The figure in the corner shifted, and then a voice that made Dela think of blades and dark alleys, that had been muffled before by fire-crackle, said, "I'm here."

"Come...sit with your brother."

The man on the bed stiffened. Dela schooled her surprise from her face, and she thought maybe the priestess did as well. There had been no mention of a second son in the family records that had been shown to the temple.

In a rustle of leather and the squeak of metal, the other figure – Arlen – shrugged away from the wall. He settled very gently on the bed beside the other man, and took the second frail hand as it crept out from under the sheets. He removed a glove to do so, revealing hands marked all over with thin scars and calluses. The first son's hands were rough all over, and red-raw, with the occasional burn scar. Dela suspected he worked in the factory, and she would have put money that he spent a good many hours stripping cord for cheap wicks. Arlen's hands were long-fingered and slim, appropriate for delicate work, whereas his brother's were strong and muscled with hard use.

The man's insistence on covering up was starting to look more than a little suspect.

She winced as the candle burned too close to her fingers and readjusted her grip. As the light wavered she sensed Arlen glance at her, and looked up just as he was looking away again. She was startled to find that one of his eyes was damaged – milky white and facing a different direction to his other.

The priestess gave her a warning look as the light settled, and Dela offered an apologetic one in response. She kept her hands at the base of the candle as the priestess resumed her low prayer; the woman in the bed appeared to have fallen back into her uneasy sleep.

A low whistle interrupted the peace, rising in pitch – the kettle. The woman's son startled and started to get up, but Dela said quickly, "I'll get it."

The priestess nodded her approval and took the candle from her hands. Feeling a little glow inside, Dela went back out into the orange brightness of the next room and carefully removed the kettle from over the fire. She set a thin linen pouch of leaves in each cup, already set out on the table before they'd arrived, and used a cloth to steady the kettle as she poured. Steam rose around her, and she lost herself in the task for a little while, in the crackle of the fire and the bubble and splash of water. It was almost possible to forget the thick air of grief in the next room until she passed through the doorway and entered it again, like breaking through a skin.

She took two cups to the sons first, feeling it was proper.

"Thank you," the first said. His face was hard with exhaustion, but his smile was warm. Dela liked him already. "What's your name?"

"Deladrina," she murmured with a small curtsey. "I go by Dela."

"You Varthian?" Arlen said behind her, making her jump, and the first man glared.

"Ignore him." He took the cup with his free hand, and the other rubbed gently at his mother's withered fingers. "He's never had any manners. My name is Darin."

It was impossible to ignore Arlen, but she tried. She didn't want to betray anything, it wasn't proper – she could answer her name, as the family had asked, but explaining her life story to strangers was not the role of any Kelian, especially not at a deathbed vigil. So it was with some trepidation that she turned around to hand Arlen a drink, and was relieved to see that her mentor's disapproving expression was directed at him, not Dela.

"I know a Varthian or two," Arlen said, taking the cup roughly from her grip. Dela suspected he did not know Varthians who had parted from the goddess gracefully, as she had. There was disappointment, but not punishment, attached to leaving the tribe to pursue another faith, but some did so in order to blemish Varthi's name, to live sinfully and excuse it with claims of her blessing. She probably knew the names of these people already, and they would not have happy associations.

Arlen snorted, and she guessed some of her distaste had shown on her face. A wicked grin of yellowed teeth showed itself under the hood as he raised his cup in acknowledgement.

At least he thanked me, Dela thought, as she tried not to look like she hurried back out into the other room. She brought in a third cup for the priestess, who finally smiled at her.

"You may have one as well, Dela."

"Thank you, miss."

She returned to the front room and poured herself a cup. While it was steeping, she took the chance to clear her thoughts and return to her centre. Arlen had flustered her, and she didn't want to go back inside without a firm hold on her emotions again. It occurred to her, fleetingly, that maybe Arlen was the temple intruder, but straight away dismissed the idea as ridiculous. All kinds of people wore garb like that – Unspoken included – and while Arlen didn't seem like someone worthy of a single speck of trust, she had seen the intruder running. Arlen still had the gait of someone who wasn't used to his missing limb yet; he could barely walk, let alone run.

She returned to the room feeling somewhat reassured. Now she'd ruled him out, he didn't seem so intimidating.

Warm cup in one hand and candle in the other, she resumed her vigil beside the priestess. Neither Darin nor Arlen looked up as she entered. Exchanging a glance with the priestess confirmed her suspicions; they were close.

The low hum of prayer filled the room again. Darin joined in with a few broken sentences that he knew, and Dela did the same, only silently. She didn't want to look like she didn't know her own training.

Her legs were numb and aching from standing when the room changed. There was no obvious signal, no definitive moment, but something in the air shifted. The woman stirred, opened her eyes. Her loose grip on her sons' hands tightened.

"I need you...to look after each other," she whispered, voice hoarse but more lucid than it had been before. "Promise."

"Promise, Ma," Darin whispered. Dela swallowed the lump in her throat. She was supposed to be here, but felt like she shouldn't be. At the same time, she knew this would be one of the moments she looked back on for the rest of her life.

"Promise," Arlen grunted, as if the word had been dragged from him.

"I'm off to find your father," the woman murmured. Darin had told the temple that his mother frequently lived in the past, but Dela had a feeling this wasn't it. "I'm sure...he'll be out in the fields...waiting. Always in those fields..."

"I'm sure he will, Ma." Darin brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead and kissed her hand. "Say hello for me."

A faint smile in her withered cheeks. Her chest rose and fell under the covers, rose and fell.

It didn't rise again.

Darin slowly lowered his forehead to the hand he was holding. Arlen appeared to have frozen.

The priestess got to her feet and began performing the rites to keep the soul anchored until the body could be prepared. She used a bronze temple lantern, lighting it with her vigil candle, to fill the room with a warm glow. Dela blew out her flame so that it didn't compete with the lantern's light, and in the draft realised her cheeks were wet. Angry at her own slip, she wiped them dry with the sleeve of her robe. Her chest was tight. She had expected this to be sad, but she hadn't expected that it would be so difficult to watch.

"Deladrina, the shrouds, please."

She went back out into the front room, feeling oddly like the heat from the fire didn't touch her. The shrouds were folded in one corner. She also found an incense burner, gently smouldering on a shelf beside the fire, and picked that up as well.

Loud knocking announced Arlen's arrival just before she turned around. When she did gather the courage, she found him back in the chair beside the fire, staring into it with his stick clasped between his knees.

"Don't buy into the washy Kelian stuff," he muttered. "Don't bother including me."

"You're Nict," she said, not making it a question because she knew she was right. Kiel and Nict had never got along well.

"Good guess," Arlen muttered. "Don't you have a job to do?"

She remembered the shroud and incense in her hands and hurried into the next room without a second glance.

"Set one there," the priestess whispered, taking the shrouds from her and pointed to the bedside stand. "We will not move her before the family is ready."

She folded the shrouds smaller and placed them gently on the end of the bed. Then she got down on her knees beside it and bowed her head in contemplation. Dela did the same.

She recited all the prayers she had learned in her studies so far, wondering if the woman's soul knew they were there, or if she was still capable of hearing them. She hoped so, hoped it gave Darin some measure of comfort. The man hadn't lifted his head, still gripped her hands like it might bring her back.

"I knew it was going to happen," he whispered, almost to himself, what must have been over an hour later. The incense had burned itself to a stub in its jar and the lantern light had diminished, burnishing the room with orange light. The priestess shifted beside her, and then got up and crossed the room, but Dela stayed where she was. She hadn't been told to move, and a small part of her she tried not to acknowledge was, for the first time, fearful of looking upon death. "I've been expecting it, but..."

"Expectation does not diminish pain," the priestess said, "and it does not do to berate yourself for feeling it. Dela, please set another kettle over the fire. I will take it from here."

Dela knew what came next – the rituals she had witnessed had happened at the temple, from quick or unexpected or unknown deaths, but it was the same for all. She didn't need to observe it, but she almost wished she could, because she did not know how to handle the grief of others. She supposed it was a part of her calling, to which a vigil visit was any acolyte's first introduction, but she felt herself flustered and confused instead of calm and collected as she was supposed to.

She went back out into the main room, found Arlen where she had left him. He glowered into the opposite corner, gaze not shifting even as she crept around him, refilling the kettle from the pail near the door and replacing the brewed tea leaves in their pouches with new ones. He only looked up when Darin shuffled into the room, put his back against the wall, and slid to the floor. His pale eyes were red-rimmed but his cheeks were dry.

She didn't take a cup for herself this time, and didn't think she could swallow it even if she had. The vacant gaze on Darin's face and the anger on Arlen's unnerved her, until she was driven back into the bedroom, just as the priestess was replacing the light inside the lantern and preparing to leave.

"It is natural, Dela," she said, smiling gently. The black-wrapped body on the bed was a third presence in the conversation. "You will learn how to handle it with time."

She waited in the carriage as the two temple hands who had travelled down with them carried the body to the hearse cart that drove behind them. Through the thin door, she caught snatches of her mentor's conversation with the Darin, but the wind had got up and most of it was snatched away. She craned her neck, pushing the curtain back a little to see the sky better. The first violet cracks of dim daylight should have been showing by then, but all she saw was darkness, shot through with faint grey. There would be rain today, and behind those angry clouds there would be storms brewing.

She couldn't stifle a yawn as the priestess climbed back into the carriage beside her, but turned quickly away from the window to do so, since both men had come to the door to see them off. Arlen's face was invisible in this light, but her fading thoughts of storms regained life and colour when she glanced at him, then looked away again.

"He has secrets," the priestess murmured. "Beware of a man with that many secrets, Deladrina. Not all of them will be harmless."

She looked at her mentor. "How can you tell?"

"Can you not?" The priestess's lips thinned. "For tonight, he is a mourner, and we do not judge mourners."

But as the carriage started away again up the road, she couldn't shake the feeling that Arlen was still judging her.