Eva
The moon hung high in the sky, though darkness had not fully descended on us yet. The red glint of dusk set in, enhanced by the torches lining the pathway to Erina’s pyre. It had taken the guards all day to prepare, gathering wood and erecting the large platform to my father’s exact specifications. He’d taken control of this task while I’d been gone, poring over every detail to ensure its perfection.
The pyre stood in the middle of a stone circle sunken into the earth. Each ring of earth was smaller than the next, providing ample visibility of the ceremony. The sea roared just beyond the circle, the perfect backdrop for a tragic moment in time.
I kept my head trained forward as I stepped out of the palace by my father’s side. Erina laid upon a beautiful white wood plank engraved with prayers to the gods. The same one, I realized, had been in the preparation chamber. Draped over her body was a thin blue veil, her pale skin shimmering underneath the glow of the moon and the flickering light surrounding us.
Matthew, Kalen, Luka, and Trystan were entrusted with carrying her to the pyre. My father and I would walk behind them. Though uncustomary, both of us had insisted Briar walk near us in the processional, given all she had done for my sister and me throughout our lives. She’d been a mother to both of us, even if Erina and I were grown by the time we had lost ours. Briar held her head proudly, even though I saw her bottom lip quiver.
My father was dressed in a black suit fitted with silver regalia, the same he’d worn for our mother’s procession. The Helian crest was emblazoned on the back of his cloak, the silver thread coming to life as the wind blew through it. A small bronze crown sat atop his head, no bigger than a circlet. My father had protested as Briar sat it upon him, but she had insisted.
While my father’s crown was subtle, mine had been anything but. He and Briar had planned this on purpose, a sign of the change to come to my role. It was a perfect circle, held in place by many pins that made my skull numb. Spindles of glittering deep blue and brilliant white jewels winked as they wound around one another, the silver of the band blending in seamlessly. And at the front, my favorite part, was a small charm of a black raven with its wings spread. It hung above it from the apex of the crown; the moonstone changing colors with the light.
It had been created for me specifically. Even Matthew had been involved, giving his design input in those precious days after we’d been reunited. It had brought tears to my eyes when they revealed it to me, the beautiful creation lying deep in a mahogany box inlaid with plush velvet. Both my father and Matthew had pressed a kiss to my cheek as Briar took the crown and gently laid it atop my head, fastening it quickly with deft skill.
The air was thick and cold, but I was thankful the rain had abated entirely. My father reached out to squeeze my hand before steeling his face into a blank canvas. It didn’t stop the unshed tears shining in his eyes, or the one I watched slip down his face and disappear into his beard.
Matthew and Trystan led the way, both gripping the golden handles of the board that held Erina’s body, while Luka and Kalen held the end near her head. I’d never seen all four men as quiet or gentle as they were when approaching her. Trystan said nothing before hoisting his grip onto his shoulder, but I would never forget that last lingering look he gave her. One full of yearning and whispered promises, of fading laughter and a fractured future.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard the shout of attention from one sentry as the processional moved out of the courtyard. The beating of footsteps kept me centered, the steady thrum pounding in time with my heart. It was a struggle to keep my emotions in check, a flush of anger creeping into my blood, but then I heard an ethereal voice from up ahead, and I faltered.
As we cleared the gate, my eyes scanned the crowd that had gathered to join us on our journey. Somewhere, a woman had begun to sing. It was in the old tongue, the ancient language known by few, but I recognized the song instantly. My mother sang it to Erina and I as children. It was hauntingly beautiful, the type of melody that imprinted itself on your soul.
I remembered my father humming it the night my mother’s pyre was lit, and the way he held mine and Erina’s hands as we walked down the quiet corridors afterward. He escorted us back to the palace, but when he had started to leave, we begged him to stay with us. Instead, he took us to my mother’s personal parlor. It was a place she liked to go when she had a problem she needed to sort out, or a quiet place to snuggle up and read next to the fireplace. Small impressions of her personality were scattered around the room. Everything from knick knacks purchased during her and my father’s travels, a collection of throw pillows she had sewn during her pregnancy, and a fine set of china that had been given as a wedding gift—one she’d told me a million times she despised, but would be poor form to give away—was displayed proudly. A book lay face up on the small table near her upholstered chaise, a soft amber colored blanket over the arm. I had no doubt it was one of the many romance books she talked so much about.
My mother had been a romantic at heart, claiming the love she and my father shared was one that would be remembered for ages. I used to laugh at her, thinking it was silly. Looking back now, I realized how right she was.
I had never met two people who loved each other more, and now that I had tasted but a fraction of that love, I knew what my father must have experienced when that bond was cut short.
We each had taken up a spot in her room, basking in her presence until the morning came and we needed to return to war. But that song had stayed with me, playing over in my mind until it was committed to memory.
One by one, each person we passed picked up the song until it enveloped us. Many in the crowd held tall white candles, an offering of peace for my sister. The experience was overwhelming. Briar’s hand grasped mine tightly, as if she knew what was running through my mind. The symphony of voices rose, the feel of magic strumming through the air between our bodies. I followed my instinct, opening my mouth and letting the words flow out of me as if they were always meant to.
It didn’t matter that I was not a skilled singer, because I sang from my heart. I let every emotion that threatened to spill over violently pour through the words of the music instead. To my utter surprise, my father joined in next. As I looked at him, I noticed the tears freely falling down his face. He made no move to wipe them away, but instead, joined his hand with mine and Briar’s as the pyre came into sight.
Once the pyre had been built, it was blessed and warded against anyone who may wish ill will upon the dead. It was improper to step inside the circle until the ceremony. With the song still spilling forth from the crowd, the processional crossed the threshold, and I felt the wards buzz against my skin. They tingled, almost caressing in their touch, seeking any hints of malice in the hearts of those who dared cross the line.
I didn’t want to admit I was worried the wards would not find me worthy, that they would throw me out of the circle for the resentment I harbored against those who did this to my sister. Instead, they almost breathed a sigh of relief as we settled down the steps and stood along the half wall separating us from the last circle housing the pyre.
Matthew, Trystan, Kalen, and Luka carried Erina carefully, all of them working together to lift her to the very top. Each of them placed a soft touch atop her hands, but Trystan bent down and skimmed his lips across her forehead, whispering words none of us could hear. As he turned to face me, I noticed his tears. Matthew lay a hand across his back, guiding him to where we stood.
As the men stepped behind the half-wall, Matthew sliding in beside me, a priestess stepped forward. She was clothed in robes the color of the palest sunrise. Her hood rested atop the crown of her head, where I noticed the faint gleaming circlet she wore peeking out from underneath. As she raised her hands above her head, she tipped her chin to the sky. Words flew from her mouth, but I hardly paid attention to what she was saying.
I never considered myself an overtly religious person. I’d attended the temple as a girl, going through the motions as any dutiful daughter would. I had reverence for the gods and goddesses, I respected the bounties they had given to our world and what they represented, but I’d never felt the need to sit in a building and pray. If they were really out there, then they would hear her prayers regardless of where she said them.
The priestess met my eyes and gave a small, polite nod before beckoning me and my father forward. The crowd sat in silence, the only sound coming from the crackling flame and the roar of the sea as we reached the pyre.
“You may now light the pyre and send your daughter on her last journey,” the priestess said in a soft voice. “I can feel her soul, trapped within her vessel. She longs to be free and go into the veil.” She stepped out of the way, stretching out her hand. “Set her free.”
I felt my hands tremble as I grew closer to the pyre. The words the priestess had spoken rattled me. Had my sister truly been trapped? Was such a thing even possible? And if it was, had my being away made matters worse for her?
As if my father could sense the war raging inside my head, he clasped my hand and wrapped it around the handle of the golden torch. “Together,” he said.
And so, together, we lit the kindling on the bottom level and watched it travel along the structure to the small area just beneath her body. My father stepped back, away from the heat, but I was unmovable as I let the heat of the flames wash over my body. Guilt pooled in the bottom of my stomach, placing the blame of this moment on my heart.
She was dead because of me. Because I had been so lost in my despair that I couldn’t see how much help I truly needed. And because, on that day, I’d been foolish enough to believe Lachlan wouldn’t hurt Erina if I let him go. Gods, I should have killed him. At least, if Erina had still died, Lachlan would have been gone as well. But now, we were in a dangerous position, and I had brought that upon us.
Feeling Matthew’s presence at my back, I remained still, focusing on the burn of the flames. His hand slid down my arm, entwining his fingers with mine. I savored the way he centered me, bringing me back to this moment and keeping me anchored instead of letting my mind wander as it had been doing since I returned this morning.
