Luminous

2 - The Pearly Bridge

Rulers from across Meriton insist on coming to pay their last respects to Lord Amplevale, such that it was a full fortnight after his cremation when his ashes were finally interred. Half went to nourish an apricot sapling, newly planted in the Grove of Guardians alongside those bearing the headstones of his forefathers. The remaining half would later be taken deep into the bowels of the Zarel Pass, where an ancient tree stood sentry across the passageway between the two warring lands, and scattered.

The tree was said to connect Neverend Heights and the Black Lake, the very bridge souls judged by Fyr to be faithful would cross to join Freda in her caldera, and the great shield protecting Latakia from Nostra's invading army. Spreading the ashes of Lords Amplevale there would lend their strength to the tree, so they may fulfill their duty even in death.

Simon sat before his father's grave, staring at his reflection in the copper urn. He knew he was waiting, but he didn't know what for. Of course, as Lord Amplevale, he had his agenda for the day, the week, the months and years to come, but there was nothing on it he desired to experience, nothing worth leaving this numb stretch between two realities and truly, irrevocably losing Father for. Coris and Christopher had handled the cremation, the ceremony, the day-to-day running of the fortress, the drought investigation, even stowing Mother away in house arrest to await his verdict, but they were also heirs, with their people to return to. He didn't have forever to stew.

Footsteps crunched towards him, scattering birds feasting on fallen apricots. A hem of Hadrian Red fluttered at the corner of his eye. He couldn't even muster a sardonic smile.

"They say you know the Scriptures by heart. Does it say anywhere how long it takes to judge a soul?"

A brief pause, before Coris answered, "No."

Simon knew his cousin enough to believe him. Sighing, he examined the ground between his boots. A heavy knot lodged in his guts, as if he'd swallowed a dragon eye.

"Think he's down there?"

"Eh?"

Simon snorted and thrust his chin upwards at the sky.

"She's the foremother of dragons. Think she'd let a dragon-killer join his victims in paradise?"

"If the fault lies with anyone, it's with us Hadrians and Hilds." Coris caught on at last. Simon turned and met his solemn gray eyes as they narrowed. "Your father, your grandfather, your great-grandfathers—they did what they believe was right. They did what we told them to, what Mirra herself told them to, for six hundred years."

Coris's logic was solid as ever, but there was no knowing if Freda—Mirra—would see the same. If only Father had more time to repent, to amend, to pardon more than just Flindel.

"I could've saved him, saved them both." He clenched his trembling hands. "If I hadn't dawdled, I could've—"

"You couldn't," Coris cut in, his voice sharp. "She's been poisoning him since the last Mining Ban vote in March, Simon. A few days wouldn't have made a difference."

Again, Coris was right, but Simon wished he weren't. He'd returned to Amplevale, three dragons in tow, to Serulda lounging on the throne, Father bedridden, Mother and Serella already headed to the capital. Serulda then had him carted off to jail. The dragons managed to evade capture by pretending to be simple guards, and discreetly investigated the drought on their own, but all attempts to send word were intercepted by Serulda.

Yet, it was worse to have naught to regret, so he scoured with a finer comb. Perhaps he could've tried harder to send word, could've tried harder to escape, could've knocked Serulda to her senses somehow. If only he were wiser, knew Amplevale better. If only he were here more.