Death and the Emperor

Book 1 Chapter VII: Legal Problems

"Contrariwise," continued Tweedledee, "if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic." -- Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There

Death was conspicuous by her absence for the rest of the day. Kilan began to think she was deliberately ignoring him so he wouldn't be able to ask Sorőwe's advice. Then, at last, she deigned to appear. She didn't even bother to approach him directly, oh no. He only became aware of her presence when the distant sounds of a tastaft[1] being played drifted from the room that had once been Varan's.

At first he thought it was Varan's ghost. He promptly dismissed this thought as nonsense. Death had assured him that there were no such things as ghosts.

"Sometimes some of the Reapers get bored and decide to have some fun at mortals' expense," she had said. "Sometimes mortals simply imagine they see what they want to see. But once I take a soul, it can never come back to the Land of the Living unless I allow it to."

Assuming she had been telling the truth, something he had come to doubt in light of recent events, whatever he was hearing was not caused by a ghost. So, what was it? Særnor was the only other person in the family who played the tastaft, and he never went near Varan's former rooms. To the best of Kilan's knowledge, the rooms hadn't been disturbed since Varan's marriage.

The playing continued. It didn't have a discernible tune; it sounded more as if someone was idly plucking at the strings in no particular order. Kilan listened, his head on one side. Had one of his younger siblings found their way into Varan's room?

At last his curiosity got the better of him. He made his way down the corridor separating his room from Varan's and tried the door. It opened, to his surprise; he thought Arásy had locked it after... well, after.

Dust sheets covered all the furniture in the room. An empty vase sat on the middle of a sheet-shrouded coffee table. He couldn't understand how it had been left there when the servants were taking away his sister's belongings. Had it simply been forgotten?

The tastaft stood in a corner by the window. The evening sunlight wormed its way through the blinds that covered the window and sent beams of light across the room, plunging the corner into shadow. If he squinted, Kilan could make out a dark shape standing over the tastaft. He took a step forward, and realised who it was.

He looked at Death. She looked at him. Her fingers continued to dance over the strings.

All the insults and accusations he had wanted to throw at her had suddenly vanished and all he felt was a sense of great tiredness.

"I called you," he said, unable to think of how else to begin.

Death nodded once, never taking her eyes off him. She regarded him as if he was a skittish horse that would bolt if she made the slightest move. "I heard."

"You didn't answer."

"No." She didn't say it as if she was sorry. Nor did she try to offer any explanation.

What was he supposed to say in a situation like this? Take me to see my great-grandmother twenty times removed so she can tell me if I need a divorce from the anthropomorphic personification who I really shouldn't love and who I'm probably not legally married to anyway?

"I apologise, I suppose." Death spoke as if the words physically pained her.

"For what?"

"For..." She waved a hand as if to encompass the entire mess they were in, "everything. For marrying you without making sure you were proposing to me."