Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Fifty Five: Suspicions

Eril's official funeral was a sorry affair for a man of his status. With the ceremony forced inside by the dark, only a handful of people could fit into the chapel to pay their respects, and a traditional open pyre was out of the question at this time of year. Instead, his cremation was overseen by the heads of the Houses, the leaders of the city guilds, and a small number of senior priests. The corridors outside were lined with the house's acolytes and lower-ranking clergy. Harkenn himself was present, but only Nova accompanied him, and she had been consigned to the back of the chapel to keep an eye on the baron Ethred.

Eril lay at the front of the chapel under of a cloth-of-gold funeral shroud. The huge bejewelled star which usually sat in the foyer of the temple had been moved into the chapel for the ceremony, and broad wax candles burned in the alcoves lining the walls. The pews were filled with attendees dressed in black and gold, all except for Yddris, who stood near the door in unbroken black. The Unspoken had slipped inside at the last moment. One minute he hadn't been there, and the next minute Nova had happened to glance that way, he had materialised there like a shadow.

Nova hated funerals almost as much as Yddris seemed to. It was only her supervising guard that prevented her from clinging to the corners of the room in the same way; if the demon hunter took just one step to the right, he'd be outside.

Orthanian funerals were famously long-winded, and the officiator was still deep in conversation with a couple of other priests, showing no sign of starting any time soon. The atmosphere was odd. It didn't feel like somebody had died, only that something tiresome and solemn had to be dealt with, like taxes or rationing.

She hated it. Caelumese funerals were gorgeous affairs, overflowing with light and flowers and gratitude for their time with the deceased. She had only ever been to one as a young child for her own father, but even that didn't tarnish the memory. It was a celebration as much as a send-off; not a grim administrative task.

She knew she wasn't being fair; when the dark season lifted there would be a festival in Eril's honour, but she was tired from nights of examining evidence and enduring Jeorge's endless rambling, and it was the last place in the world she wanted to be.

Her lip curled at the thought of Jeorge, even though she had determined before she left the castle that she would make the most of the opportunity not to think about him. His answers to Harkenn's questions had seemed to satisfy the lord enough to allow him some measure of freedom, to her displeasure. His infected leg had become worse since Nova had last seen him, but he wasn't of high enough status to receive a bed and the attention of the castle physician; he had a makeshift cot in the kitchen which he could barely move from, and he had been using the chance to drive Nova insane. It was only a small comfort that Grace found him just as annoying - when she was there, that was. To make things all worse Grace wasn't there very often. Whatever task Kerrin had given her kept her away for most of the day, and when she did come back they couldn't speak freely because Nerahardt was always watching them.

She ground her teeth and pulled her attention back to what she was supposed to be doing; watching Ethred. She wasn't privy to a lot of the city meetings Harkenn had held to try and contain the spread of fear at the death, but she got the distinct impression Ethred hadn't been helping matters.

The baron sat in the front pew. He hadn't repeated his blasphemous fashion faux pas from the night Eril was discovered, but he was wearing more gold than black and even from behind looked impatient for proceedings to be over. As she watched, he got up from the pew and sidled up to the officiator, murmured something in his ear, and turned around to go back to his seat. He caught Nova watching him and nodded. His aura mocked her with its mirth, and only she could see it.

The officiating priest moved to the dais. The low murmur of conversation in the chapel ceased as he cleared his throat and began to recite the scripture by heart. Behind him, two other priests walked slowly to the back of the chapel, where thick, floor-to-ceiling curtains hung. They stood on either side of the curtains and laid their hands one over the other in front of them; the indoor pyre was behind, a contraption built into the stone and fed by acolytes shovelling coal at the back wall of the chapel, and a steady stream of air from outside fed through a flue system in the wall. The curtain moved gently in the air flow, dragging along the ground.