Nightsworn | The Whispering Wall #2

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.