While he watched, each of his brothers had other chores to complete. Narits received visitors, then ushered them one by one into the chamber where Jeddrin’s body lay. Meddthal organized the household for the reception that would follow the funeral, and Tamir organized the funeral itself. Ferran had given them those assignments. No one had argued.
As the day wore on and he took his turn at his own assignment—reviewing the status of his father’s governance—servants brought meals he ate, out of necessity, but did not really taste. He knew his father had insisted on the need for nobles to work, but he had not realized how much of the work of managing Andressat and its outlying lands his father had done personally.
He ate the last meal of the day with his brothers in the room where the body lay—it could not be left alone—and nodded his approval of what they had accomplished. “We are ready for the burial, then, thanks to you. How one manages alone—how our father managed—I do not know.”
“And how stands Andressat as a whole?” asked Narits. “I know he had been concerned about the costs of governing the South Marches.”
“Solvent and whole, thanks to him, and may we do as well now that it is up to us.”
“Indeed,” Narits said.
“Do you remember, Ferran, the time you told him you were not going to spend one more morning in the library? You must have been ten or so.”
Ferran grinned. “I do indeed. As I recall, I spent that entire day copying lists and wishing I could do it standing up.”
“I was in awe,” Meddthal said. “Arguing with him? Amazing. But seeing the result saved me the trouble of trying it myself.”
They shared memories for a while … times with their father, with their mother, with both. The candles around Jeddrin’s body burned bright, flames standing up straight, without a flutter. At last Ferran said, “I need to stay with him tonight—go, sleep, and I’ll sleep tomorrow, after—after it’s done.”
When they had left, he sat by the body and began the old Song of Death his father had taught him. It was in the language of Aare, which he had been forced to learn, as had they all, though none could speak it but themselves.
The candle flames stirred. He sang on, the near drone of the song fitting his mood, fitting death itself.
There is a lord above all lords
And a death below all deaths
Go to the highest lord, to the court of that one
And be free of death, but never return,
Or lie in restful sleep, safe from harm
Far below, below the deepest death
And never return.
This night decide, before the death is done,
While still the spirit has will enough
Make that choice, make it soon,
For the sand runs through the glass
And candles shorten and daylight ends the night
Come, spirit, make that choice
So this body may be laid in honor
Where it should be laid
Then never return.
The cloth over his father’s body quivered like the quivering candle flames. It lifted over his mouth, and Ferran quickly folded back the cloth. Out of Jeddrin’s mouth came the spirit, a pale wraith of Jeddrin, shivering, trembling … and then it steadied.
“Son?” The voice was softer than a whisper, the merest touch of sound on Ferran’s ear.
“Ferran, Father. Death came suddenly, but not from an enemy.”
“I choose light.” The wraith leaned to a candle flame, and at once the candle burned brighter, a clear white light bright as summer sun, and the wraith was gone. But in the silence, inside Ferran’s head, his father’s voice said one more thing:
“I leave you my magery.”
“What magery?”
No answer came.
Chapter Two
Valdaire, Aarenis
Aesil M’dierra’s nephew Poldin, beginning his second year as a squire in that company, rode over to the Fox Company winter quarters at least thrice in a fiveday. Everyone in Valdaire knew the boy had spent more than a quarter year with Fox Company. Golden Company and Fox Company had long been strong supporters of the Mercenary Guild Agreement, and their commanders were friends. This explained the trips back and forth.
So though the omnipresent spies noted the boy making yet another trip to Fox Company, this time on one of his aunt’s chargers, it meant nothing more to any of them than that Aesil M’dierra’s horse needed exercise and the boy was thought skilled enough to ride it in city traffic. Poldin, for his part, paid attention to other horsemen and pedestrians both, alert for someone who might want to grab a rein or cut it. He found the potential for danger exciting.
“Morning, Squire,” the Fox Company gate guard said. “That’s your commander’s horse, isn’t it?”