Heroes Return (24 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The day was to be spent in mourning, both for those who had been lost while whaling and those who had died in the wind. The bodies had already been disposed of by their families; it was time to honor their characters. From what I understood of the rites, the morning was to be solemn, remembering what was lost. The afternoon was to be a little lighter, remembering the joy the deceased had brought to the community. In the evening, everyone would disperse into their own homes and sing to lull the world into acceptance of the loss of its members.

Everyone gathered in the early morning just beyond the gardens behind the manor. The sky was heavily overcast, turning gray, and there was a faint drizzle dampening hair and clothing. I would say that the weather matched the mood of the people, except it seemed truly sunny days were rare in Flown Raven.

A fire had been built on a large square of hammered copper set on the grass. Most of the others in attendance stood in a wide circle around the fire, so Taro and I followed suit. A man holding a wooden flute was standing near Fiona, and they were talking in low voices.

Dane was there, holding Stacin. Tarce and Radia stood near them. Daris was absent. That was no surprise to me. I rarely saw her, and her drunken bitterness would be a disastrous addition to the proceedings.

The Guards were there, too, and I couldn’t figure out why. Did they think spells were going to be cast during the funeral? Couldn’t they just let it rest for a day? Their presence stirred up a lot of resentment, and no one needed that.

Everyone spoke in low voices, even the children, and they didn’t speak much. I didn’t want to say a word if I didn’t have to. I was often clumsy with words, especially with strangers, and I was sure anything I said would do more harm than good.

Taro’s mother showed up. Of course she did. I was aware of Taro growing tense beside me, and I wished she would just die already. She was going to cause an argument in front of all these people—I just knew it.

Except she didn’t seem to spare a glance for Taro. She appeared much more interested in Fiona. She didn’t join the circle, and she had with her three women who carried unfamiliar rods, red in color and about the length of a man’s arm each. I wondered what that was about.

I directed my gaze away from them. This day was for the dead and those who mourned them. I would give them the attention they deserved.

Fiona had told me what would happen. These people who believed so much in ritual and magic had a rather simple ceremony for saying good-bye to their dead. Ritual, she said, created a distance between the dead and the living that was unhealthy. Grief could be more easily exercised through simplicity. I thought I might agree with her.

Four preadolescent children stood far outside the circle, one each at north, south, east and west. They represented those who had died, and were usually but not necessarily members of the families of the deceased. Each wore something belonging to the deceased, an article of clothing, a pendant or a handkerchief, and each carried an item of significance to the deceased, chosen by their families.

Fiona held a rattle that she shook every few moments. The flutist began to play a mournful, light tune. More people gathered. Fiona began to speed up the shaking of her rattle. A short time passed, and I believed just about everyone in the community was there. Fiona quickened her rattle until its ring was constant.

The four children ran up to the circle. That was the signal for everyone to clasp hands. I had Taro at my right and a stranger at my left who held my hand too tightly. Fiona stopped the rattle.

“Four lives have chosen to leave our home,” she announced. “We don’t wish them to leave.”

And that was our cue to prevent the youngsters from passing through into the circle. The children let themselves be held back, not ducking under the linked hands.

“But all lives must come to an end,” Fiona continued. “If they did not, we would not value them as we do. Holding on to these lives poisons us as we attempt to move forward, and insults the memories of our loved ones, by wasting the efforts they made on our behalf while they lived. And so we must release these lives.” She shook the rattle again, just once.

That was the signal to unclasp our hands and let the children through. Once they were all inside the circle, they each took a place around the fire at north, south, east and west.

“We bid farewell to Issa Cornwell,” said Fiona, and one of the children threw a doll into the fire. “We bid farewell to Darol Tensen.” Another child threw a smoking pipe. “We bid farewell to Jacob Ibuki.” The third child threw some kind of small tool I didn’t recognize into the fire. “We bid farewell to Eller Le Royer.” The final child threw in a small framed portrait.

Fiona then spent some time talking about the four deceased and their places in their families and communities. Jacob Ibuki had been an experienced whaler, always the best teacher for the young ones starting out. Eller Le Royer had hated whaling, but had done his best at it because of its importance to the community. Darol Tensen had had an acute sense of humor that everyone enjoyed. Fiona couldn’t say much about the child, though she mentioned that one of the girl’s first words was “bicci” for biscuit, and that she’d had an uncanny ability to escape almost every kind of confinement placed on her. Fiona was a good speaker and was able, even, to make people chuckle once in a while. I hadn’t been to many ceremonies honoring the dead, but this was one of the least oppressive I’d attended.

Fiona wrapped up her presentation by saying, “I invite others to celebrate the lives of the lost.”

And one after the other, individuals within the circle described the people they had lost. Some, in anticipation of this moment, had substantial speeches prepared. A few said nothing more than something like, “He was a good man, and I miss him,” which I found just as effective.

After a good many people spoke, there was a silence, and no new people volunteered to speak. That suggested to me that the solemn part of the occasion was over. It was time to move on to the celebratory part of the day.

Then the Dowager Duchess cleared her throat.

That couldn’t be good.

Everyone went still.

“Our community has lost four dearly beloved members within a few days,” she said, and I would have been surprised if she could have named any of those people before today. “This is a serious injury to all of us, an injury from which we can never fully recover.”

If she gave a serious damn about a single person who’d died, I’d eat my boots. If she didn’t care about her son, she couldn’t care about virtual strangers. Well, maybe she did; I was sure her priorities were pretty screwy. But I doubted she felt the slightest shred of emotion for these particular strangers.

“To lose so many at once is unprecedented in our community.”

Really? It seemed a dangerous place to live. The wind alone could kill people.

“These unprecedented deaths are part of a disturbing trend of bad luck that has been cursing Flown Raven.”

Oh no. Muttering began among many in the crowd. I was furious with the Dowager. This was supposed to be a time to soothe grief. She was using the occasion to stir up ill will against Fiona.

I wished I was an articulate, persuasive speaker. Then I might be able to shut the woman up in a way that would discredit her before the others. I looked at Fiona, but she didn’t appear prepared to speak to defend herself, her expression blank.

“I know many of you have been feeling you have been left to fend for yourselves, and you would be right.”

How would she know? She didn’t see how Fiona spent her days.

“The titleholder has not been whaling, as is the tradition of every titleholder in Flown Raven.”

Taro’s brother went whaling? I found that difficult to believe. I didn’t know much about him, and I had never met him, but I found it hard to accept that the man who had apparently spent his days drinking and whoring cared much about tradition when it might inconvenience him. Nor did I believe that if it were such a tradition, Fiona wouldn’t do it. She took her responsibilities seriously.

“The fishing has been depleted. Crops are not looking as healthy as they have in past years. Whales have not come as close to shores. And the titleholder has done nothing.”

And what, realistically, could Fiona do about such things?

“There has been an increase in criminal activity in the area. Our very own Pair”—hey, we were not hers—“were robbed not far from here. Thieves are breaking into homes. There has been no reaction from the titleholder. And when the titleholder learned of the tampering of the wind rock that caused the deaths of two people, she did nothing.”

The Dowager had agreed with the decision to leave the rock without a gate, but one would never know it by the look of baffled indignation on her face. And the very people for whom Fiona had made that decision, so that they would have access to the rock considered so important to them, began to look angry.

“The disintegration of your lives has been going on for more than two years,” the Dowager continued. “With no signs of abatement. How long are you to be expected to bear this?”

“Aye!” shouted a tall, stocky man. “This was a prosperous area, once.”

“And it can be again,” the Dowager added. “If the land and the sea are properly managed.”

I really couldn’t believe she was doing this in front of all these people.

“The elders among you may be aware that Flown Raven has a unique custom, called retesting. It has not been performed for decades, but it is still a valid and legitimate custom.”

Oh, lords. I had read about this sort of thing in history texts. This was bad.

“A titleholder may be called to face retesting every two years by any resident of Flown Raven,” said the Dowager. “Should the titleholder refuse or fail the retesting, the title becomes free to be assumed by a more worthy person.”

Son of a bitch.

“The Duchess has been the titleholder for more than two years, and has never undergone any retesting. Does anyone wish to call a retesting?”

“I do,” a man called out, a big, strapping man I remembered seeing before. He was a whaler, I thought.

“James,” Fiona said in protest. I guessed she’d thought he liked her.

He looked her in the eye, not a trace of shame about him. I expected him to say something to justify his behavior, explain why he was doing this. Apparently he didn’t feel the need. Probably the Dowager had told him to keep his words few in number.

I wondered what the Dowager had promised him to have him do this.

“You’ll lose your residency if you lose the retest, you know that,” Fiona warned him.

“I won’t lose.”

Damn it, this wasn’t right. Being a titleholder had nothing to do with fighting. If there were going to be things like retesting, it should focus on things that mattered, knowledge of the law or the ability to fish or something like that. Why was fighting always supposed to be the solution to everything?

Fiona was going to lose to this man. There was no doubt about it. Could she really lose the title because of it? Did that mean pressure would be placed on Taro to seek the title? Was that what the Dowager had meant when she’d spoken of ways to free up the title?

I didn’t want to go through that again.

“Wind Watcher,” the Dowager called. “It is your task to judge the retest. You will be objective.”

“I know my responsibilities,” Radia responded calmly.

The Dowager gestured. Her servants moved away from the crowd and, with the rods they carried, created a circle on the ground. It didn’t look big enough to hold a proper fight.

“I will return,” Fiona said loudly. “I must change my attire.” She was dressed in a dark purple gown with a wide skirt and wide sleeves. She would drown in that in a fight.

“You are not to leave the field of the retest once it has been called,” the Dowager objected. “Wind Watcher?”

“That is the tradition,” Radia admitted with obvious reluctance.

“Fine,” said Fiona with an angry edge to her voice. She spoke quietly to her lady’s maid, who was standing behind her. Frances looked shocked, then moved forward and began to unlace the back of Fiona’s dress.

And before us all, the Duchess of Westsea stripped down to her undergarments and her bare feet. On top of that, she ripped up the sides of her shift so her legs were perfectly free.

I noticed that most of the men didn’t know where to look. They were sneaking glances at their titleholder, of course, but seemed unable to look at her for more than a moment. Even James seemed discomforted. In less serious circumstances, I would find that hilarious.

Fiona pushed her blond braid over her shoulder and strode over to the circle, where she stood and waited.

This was stupid and barbaric. I didn’t want to watch it, but I feared walking away might imply I didn’t respect Fiona.

Did this sort of thing happen in High Scape? I’d never heard of such a thing. But then, Flown Raven was kind of remote. Maybe old traditions had lingered.

James lumbered over, but without the confidence Fiona exuded. I wondered if things were already deviating from what he’d expected. Maybe he’d expected her to try to get out of it. Did that mean he didn’t know she’d been practicing with Dane? Was that possible? I assumed that servants gossiped about their employers, and there was no way the servants didn’t know about Fiona and Dane’s fighting l essons.

All the mourners shifted over to surround the circle. Was their grief forgotten because of this spectacle? Why had none of them spoken up on Fiona’s behalf?

Why had none of her family? Dane looked furious, his lips pressed hard together. Tarce looked shocked, a surprisingly honest expression. Neither defended Fiona.

Perhaps they felt that doing so would undermine Fiona’s authority in some way.