Normally she would never venture this far into Gridania, but the tunnel she had found on the Thanalan border had led her steadily northward, relying on the shifting air currents and the nearly imperceptible change in her footsteps’ echoes to keep her on the right path. No living Duskwight had walked these halls in a hundred years or more, but something—Hydaelyn?—urged her onwards. She’d paused periodically to map out her path; now she stood in front of an ancient Gelmorran altar, staring at the carefully incised serpent-and-ghostmaw sigil and the dried offerings, and imagined the looks on the de Nevelles’ faces.
A heartbeat. A fire, burning under the earth.
Slowly, she took her glove off and put her hand on the cold stone.
Stone chisel, a steady tap-tap-tap, and wide, weathered hands. The man who holds the tools is older, perhaps her father’s age, with skin the color of basalt; he looks kind but a little tired, and his long ears droop. Gently, he smooths the stone dust away. “There. All finished.”
“Father, are you still working on that?” A young woman, long ears bedecked with rough topaz, stands in the doorway. In the dim light, her robes and eyes gleam gold.
The craftsman stands up, smiling at her. “I’ve finally finished. Your grandmother has a grave worthy of her at last, don’t you think?”
She is silent, eyes thoughtfully downcast. “I think she would be proud—but she would scold you, Father, you know you’re supposed to be resting. Your lungs—”
“Bah!” It’s so like Ritanelle’s father that she feels something clench painfully in her chest. The old man laughs, reaching out to sling an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “I’ve many years yet to see you rule, child. Come, ‘tis time for your coronation.”
The same altar, but different now—glowing flora has been coaxed to grow along the walls and spill from every crack in the stone, bathing the room in a dozen different colors. The walls are set with mosaics of pale mica and shining gemstones, glittering where they catch the light. This is is still a tomb, but the living have built it into something more.
She hears the approaching footsteps before the procession rounds the corner. Six strong men carry one stone coffin; their faces are masked, but in the Echo grief rolls off them in waves. As they set their burden down in front of the altar, an old woman with a wreath of ghostmaws comes forward. Her robes are a black so dark they seemed to absorb the light; her bare feet make no sound.
“Gods above and gods below, hear me! Today we lay to rest Queen Glastinelle—she who was strong and wise and glorious, she who was a light in the darkness. We call upon you to consecrate her rest, that she may sleep with her ancestors’ clay.”
Is it her imagination, or are the flowers glowing a bit brighter? Either way, the old woman seems satisfied; a faint smile flits across her face as she turns to the pallbearers. One of them is trying to still his shuddering ears, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. “There is time to mourn later. Now, we dance to remember her life, as she would have wanted.”
As the men file out, music begins to play in the room beyond. Even the first faltering notes, underlaid by steady drums, make her want to dance.
The flowers are dead, and the room that should have been full of mourners paying respects or telling their ancestors all the things they were missing is nearly empty. Its only occupant is a young man standing at a dusty niche, gloved hand resting on the stone. Even through his skin’s natural gray tint, he looks unhealthy and exhausted. His voice is a whisper, such that she has to strain to hear it. “…Grandfather, it’s getting worse. The fighting—gods below, yesterday Seuma accused the conjurers of lying to our faces and one of their bodyguards drew his blade, it took three of us to stop it. Every day, more of our people leave, and I—I do not know what can stop them. Please.” She watches as he crumples to his knees, resting his forehead on his grandfather’s tomb. “Tell me what to do.”
Someone is coming; the young man’s fear spikes cold through her before stilling, for the newcomer looks so much like him that they must be brothers. His clothes are different, though—whites and pale creams, shades that have never been popular in Gelmorra as they don’t last long underground. He’s carrying a heavy rucksack and a long blade at his belt, and his voice is hard. “I came to tell you I’m leaving.”
His brother—she thinks of him as the mourner—scrambles to his feet, staring incredulously at him. “You promised us! You love this city!”
“This city?” There’s a hand on his sword now. “This pit in the ground? The elementals will help us build a new one!”
The mourner reaches out a hand, beseeching, but his ears are pinned back in anger. “How could you abandon us?! Our people, our heritage—do they mean nothing to you?!” Betrayal pulses through her—a son/a brother/my brother/uncle to my children, how could you?
He takes a step backwards, shaking his head. “The conjurers tell us such wonders—the elementals are offering us so much, brother!”
Gloved hands grab for his brother’s arm, and his voice trembles. “They offer you chains! The cup they give you is poison—as sure as an adder’s fangs! And you’re going to drink from it?”
He wrenches away, eyes wild and furious. “I’m going to be free!”
A drawn sword. A cry of pain. Blood splattering the stone.
The young man stares silently down at his brother’s corpse for a long while before turning and walking away. There’s no one stopping him from leaving now.
Dust again, bones long since crumbled. A diremite skitters over the stone, mandibles clicking. It is the most interesting thing the altar has seen in two hundred years.
She surfaced slowly, head pounding in time with her heartbeat. At some point she’d crumpled to lean against the stone; the cold of it helped a little, but it didn’t calm her racing heart. My city, she thought, and then My people. Love, honor, betrayal, abandonment—these things are mine too. Thank you, Hydaelyn, for letting me see I am a daughter of the deep earth.
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