Neit snorts, “That was Lugh’s idea. He’s pretty taken with your protégée. Having seen her for myself, I can see why. He was going to try to regenerate all three of them himself, but we managed to talk him out of that. It’s going to take long enough with the three of us working on it. It would take longer if Lugh were to try it alone, either by having to split his focus between three of them or by having to do them one at a time.”
“Why would you tell her that you couldn’t bless her more than she already had been?” Morrighu asks.
“I didn’t tell her that,” Neit frowns, “I said that to Lugh and not out loud either. She shouldn’t have been able to hear it.”
“I know she hears me well enough,” Morrighu shrugs, “Even when she was dying, she heard me clearly, but why would you say that about her in the first place?”
“Because when I went to bless her,” Neit shrugs, “some other war god already had. She’s topped out in every attribute she needs, and the ones that would be detrimental are either missing or already fully suppressed. Any ideas on which god she’s been around?”
“Quite a few, apparently,” Morrighu sighs, “And not just war gods either. When the Renunciates were godless, they were courted by numerous gods from various pantheons. Even the ever-reclusive Junga came to them with an offer.”
“When you say a great many,” Neit asks, “How many do you mean?”
When I asked her about it,” Morrighu explains, “She gave me more than a dozen names and said she knew she was leaving some out. War gods weren’t just courting them, you know, but also gods of revenge and murder. Many or maybe even all of them likely blessed them as part of their efforts to get them to convert.”
Despite himself, Neit lets out a low whistle. “That explains why she can hear us so clearly,” Neit nods, “With so many gods trying to win them as devotees, one of the gods must have made sure that they could be heard so that the Renunciates would understand the offer to convert.”
“The names that she remembers are all quite powerful,” Morrighu agrees, “Even if none of them are from our pantheon. Odin, Bellona, Fenrir, Ares, Bast, Edmus, Junga, Idros, to name a few.”
“Mother Danu,” Neit swears, “That old bastard Odin and even that twat Ares. How did they know of the Cymry and the Renunciates, and we did not?”
“Because he hid them from all the rest of us,” Morrighu shrugs, “and hid them well. I only discovered her when she was at her most desperate, praying to any god who would listen for help in defeating him. Had I found them sooner, they might not have gone into that battle godless.”
“They rejected all the others,” Neit shrugs, “What makes you think they’d have accepted you?”
“Something she said when we were talking about all this,” Morrighu explains, “That if a god of anything other than war or vengeance had come to see them, they might have accepted that offer. She felt like the war gods wanted them to convert so that they could die in battle and be trapped in an afterlife of constant fighting. The gods of vengeance and murder were more upfront about the price of their help, but it still involved ties that would bind them even after death. It’s where a lot of her attitude about gods in general comes from.”
“You know my thoughts on the afterlife of my devotees,” Neit sighs, “I consider the afterlife to be a rest well-earned so that they might have accepted me, as well had I known to make an offer for them.”
Growling a bit, Neit slams a fist into the couch cushion. “May he suffer for eternity. Now I curse him,” Neit frowns. “She’s right that his demise should have been slower and far more painful as just payment for what he’s done. It is a shame that they chose him over any of the rest of us. What a people to have created and nurtured. I wonder if I can call their remnants together and reforge them into what they were.”
“It might be possible,” Morrighu speculates, “but I think it might require her active participation in it. When I was in Lugh’s Hall looking for the two who had been hanging around there, I assumed her form briefly to get their attention. Every soul there recognized her and treated her with the utmost respect. She had said that if any of the boys had lived, she would have wed them and called all the surviving Cymry to her banner. She didn’t seem to be concerned about any of them not flocking to it. There are other aspects to it, though, that might not sit so well with you since you share my distaste for necromancy. To find out how they did some of the things that they did, like the tattoo ink, you may be forced to call up the dead.”
“That does give me some pause,” Neit grumbles, “and all the more reason to curse him again.”
Emlyn sits staring distractedly at the wall and lightly fingering the book of catechisms when Vanya arrives with her afternoon snack and round of potions. “What has you so down this afternoon?” Vanya asks as she sets the tray down.
Sighing heavily, Emlyn eyes Vanya sadly, “The Goddess was here with two of my former companions.”
“Surely that’s good news,” Vanya says brightly, “She’s found them and they’re safe now.”
“That part is good news. I’m worried about the other three that are still missing,” Emlyn frowns, “Lugh hasn’t recorded any of them passing through the Hall of Judgement, and no one seems to know what’s become of them. Two of them died on the Soul’s Path while we were attempting to free ourselves from that asshat. I fear for them greatly because they’d have gone to his domain, since we were still bound when they died. I’m worried that he’s done something with them to keep them from the Path and that they’ll never see an afterlife.”
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“You won’t like to hear this,” Vanya says matter-of-factly, “but that’s a problem for another day. Right now, you have one job. That job is to get stronger so that you can take your oaths and join the Four. If you become one of the Four, you’ll be sent all over. Your odds of finding them increase significantly. The Goddess is already looking for them, and if you’re looking as well, then it makes it more likely that you’ll find them.”
Sighing, Emlyn scrubs her face with her hands, “You’re right. I didn’t expect this to be so hard. Dian made me promise to live long enough and live well enough for the five of them, as well as myself. Moping like this certainly isn’t living up to that promise.”
“It’s still a bit fresh,” Vanya chides her, “and you should grieve for them. They were your friends.”
“What are the funeral customs like here?” Emlyn asks, “Our people would normally raise a funeral monument, either over the grave or, if the body was lost, over an empty coffin.”
“We might erect a statue,” Vanya says slowly, “if the person was truly heroic, but mostly we have family burials with crypts.”
Thinking carefully for a moment, “What do these crypts look like?” “Like a small house made of stone with bronze doors and niches inside to hold the coffins.” “Are they decorated at all?” Emlyn asks.
“Oh yes,” Vanya agrees, “Family symbols, urns for flowers and incense, and the like. Some are real works of art. When you can walk better, I can show you, if you like.”
“That might be helpful,” Emlyn agrees.
“Now, here’s your next round of potions,” Vanya says, “And I got some pudding from the kitchen to take away the taste. And then you can tell me how the dress for the mid-winter ball is coming.” Taking a deep breath and holding it, Emlyn carefully uncorks a potion and downs it quickly.
As the blue nimbus rolls through her, she sighs, “That one seems stronger.”
“I’ve been tinkering with the formula,” Vanya confirms, “In fact, we’ve started experimenting with all the formulas. Some of the new ones are big improvements over the old formulations. Others are just easier to make or use less expensive ingredients. I can’t think why no one’s bothered to try this before. We’ve all been mindlessly following the recipes we received from our grandmothers. Three fistfuls of oak moss, a pinch of salt, and a strip of willow bark boiled up with the right spell, and that’s been our formula for healing potions for who knows how long. Your idea to try adding woad to Davilla’s mix gave us the idea to start looking at how we’re formulating everything. We’ve even come up with some new potions. Davilla’s working on one she calls “Armor in a bottle”. It doesn’t last very long, yet, but you can take a sword strike without damaging yourself.”
“My people use woad for all kinds of things,” Emlyn shrugs, “including a lot of home remedies for everything from bumps and scrapes to infections. When we used it for dye or ink, we often fermented or pickled the leaves first, since that gave a better result, depending on the color we wanted. If my Nana were here, she could tell you more about it. I know the basics of dyeing cloth with it because it's part of the traditional wedding preparations. I helped my older sister dye her dress.”
“What kind of colors can you get?” Vanya asks, “Usually, you can only get one or maybe two from something.”
“Pinks, purples, greens, and several shades of blue are possible. Different stones, ground and added to the dye pot, help to produce the different colors.”
“That is unusual,” Vanya agrees, “to get so many from the same plant.”
“I’m glad that it helped everyone,” Emlyn says, “It lets me feel like I contribute at least a little.”
“We’ll keep working,” Vanya nods, “You’ll get there. How’s it going with the plate?”
Emlyn rolls her eyes, “I can barely stand up with it on, but just standing up and taking a few steps has already made me stronger. I won’t be running up the wall any time soon, but if I keep working, maybe I can dance at the Midwinter Ball.”
“Let me know when Milvara has your dress ready to try on,” Vanya grins, “I can’t wait to see it.”
“I’m interested in attending a ball,” Emlyn grins, “for once in my life. I can attend without worrying about who I’ll offend if I don’t dance with their churlish or inept son. I cannot tell you how many times my mama yelled at me for coming home with dirty slippers when it was from some imbecile who kept stepping on my feet.”
“My experience,” Vanya grins, “is that generally anyone good with a sword is at least an adequate dancer. It seems to go with the territory, so to speak.”
“There’s a certain amount of overlap in the skills,” Emlyn agrees, “General coordination, an awareness of how you’re moving about the objects and people in the room, and an awareness of the rhythms of moving with another person. However, none of that means that they can keep time with the music, as my toes can attest. Why didn’t their parents make them take dance lessons or make them take the dance lessons seriously?”
Frowning, Emlyn looks at Vanya, “Does the temple have a dance instructor?”
“Yes,” Vanya says, “As a matter of fact, we do, and I suppose that we should arrange for you to consult with him.”
“I think I’ve just gotten a new activity,” Emlyn sighs, “I wonder if this means I can cut back a bit on the catechism. If they hadn’t been so pedantic about forcing me to learn who decided what at which convocation, I’d be done by now.”
Chuckling, Vanya sighs, “Your new clothes seem to suit you.”
“Milvara’s done a wonderful job,” Emlyn agrees, “Having proper clothing seems to make all the difference. I get far more respect when I have to interact with people dressed like this than I did in the lost-bin cast-offs. I’m looking forward to meeting Benger’s family.”
“The two of you seem to get on well,” Vanya grins, “despite the rough start you had.”
“He reminds me of my second oldest brother quite a bit,” Emlyn explains, “Not in how he looks, but in the way that he thinks and some of the things that he says.”
Chewing on her lip, Vanya makes her way to Ember’s office. “He’s signing requisitions,” Ulwin says, “Go on in.” Ember is still dealing with a multitude of paperwork, duty rosters, supplies, and the myriad details required to keep everyone fed, clothed, and housed. He looks up and sees Vanya and motions for her to come in.
“I wanted to come see you,” Vanya says, “She’s asking about funeral customs here. I think she means to raise some monument to her fallen friends.”
“That might help her with her grief,” Ember says, “but it could also put her in terrible danger. Perhaps if we were to locate it elsewhere.”
“You might want to talk to her about it,” Vanya suggests, “I think she’s planning to do something so stylized that no one would recognize it, unless they were also Cymry, in which case she’d probably want them to find her. She was asking if our mausoleums have symbols and things on them.”
“If there’s not an actual name,” Ember says thoughtfully, “That could work. Let her assuage her grief, give her a place to go where she feels she can commune with them, and not put her at risk. We’ll have to see what she comes up with.”
What should Emlyn do to honor her fallen friends?