State of Sorrow (Untitled #1)(21)
The hope died a swift, cruel death when she saw her father’s valet outside his doors, wringing his hands as he waited for her.
“Miss Ventaxis…” He paused and looked at her. “I don’t think the chancellor is going to make the ceremony this year. I don’t know where it came from, I thought…”
She didn’t reply, and moved past him, opening the doors herself.
Sorrow found Harun face down in a pile of Lamentia powder. He’d sniffed so much of it he was in a stupor, incoherent and drooping, his eyes streaming tears that were tinged red. Sorrow stared at him, at the mess, and then swept the Lamentia to the floor, creating a toxic cloud that she had to back away from.
The chancellor protested feebly as she destroyed the pile, and she turned on him, her jumble of emotions honing itself into one clear, bright feeling.
“Your son would have been twenty-one today,” she leant over and hissed at Harun. “And I’m glad he’s dead, because it means he doesn’t have to see you like this.”
Harun didn’t look at her. Instead he laid his head back on the table and closed his eyes.
“Enjoy today, Father. Tomorrow, things will be different.”
Without another word she left him there.
“My father won’t be joining us,” Sorrow said to Charon as she levelled with him in the hall. “And I’ve changed my mind. Find a clerk now, and have the papers drawn up ready for when we return later. Let’s get this over with.”
She left him and Irris staring after her as she marched through the doors to the palace, to where her carriage was waiting.
The Bridge Again
The journey, from the capital city of Istevar to the bridge in the North Marches, took around four hours, so Sorrow settled in to seethe her way through it. Irris read beside her; Charon sat opposite, going through papers, a rug over his legs, despite the heat.
Sorrow didn’t say a word throughout, not even when they changed carriages, her mouth set in a line, her fingers tapping at her thigh until she could climb back into her seat and stew over her father some more. The temperature wasn’t helping her mood, either; by midday, under the high sun, the bridge would be unbearable. All traces of yesterday’s rain had vanished, sucked down by the greedy earth, leaving the world exactly as it had been before.
Sorrow shuffled to the window and pushed the curtain aside, hoping to entice a breeze into the stuffy carriage. When she couldn’t find one, she shot a look at Charon, and, when sure he was absorbed by his work, looked out of the window. The homes they passed appeared abandoned, though she knew they weren’t. They all had an air of neglect, evident in the scuffed paintwork, the missing tiles on roofs. Weeds grew in gardens, strangling pathways; fragments of old plant pots jutted out of the soil, and vines crept untempered along the sides of the houses.
The temples were sadder still, the gold paint that once gilded them faded and peeled away, columns crumbling to dust under the relentless sun. Though never overly religious since the fall of the monarchy, the Rhannish had always attended the Graces’ temples at holidays, and for personal celebrations, her grandmother had said. But now, of course, there was nothing to be thankful for. Nothing to celebrate. Weddings and funerals took place quietly in homes and were dealt with swiftly and efficiently.
As for the Rhannish themselves…
Her grandmother had told her that once the crowds had thronged these roads during the midwinter and midsummer festivals, even during the war. There had been music and singing, hot wine and cold beer. People had kissed openly, laughed loudly.
The crowd today was thin, and silent. The people were reedy and spare, bones jutting above necklines and in cheeks. They stood stock-still under the sun as though it couldn’t burn them, couldn’t warm them, watching the procession of carriages with blank faces. Their clothes were shabby and faded, the blacks paled to charcoal, and Sorrow looked down at her own dress, newly dyed and midnight dark. There was no embroidery on the tunics of the people, no onyx and hematite in their ears or at their throats. When Sorrow made eye contact, they held it steadily, offering no sign of greeting, or even acknowledgement. It made her uneasy. She tried to remember the year before; had it been like this then?
Last year her grandmother had led the mourning when Harun had been incapable, though she’d told Sorrow her father was simply ill. Sorrow had stood with Irris and Charon throughout the ceremony. She couldn’t remember the people. She realized then she’d never thought of them, at least as anything other than a distant mass. Behind the walls of the Winter Palace, they hadn’t felt real to her. Here, today, they felt very real.
She looked back at them, watching the Decorum Ward pacing up and down the streets. And as the crowd turned their eyes on them, the hatred obvious, Sorrow’s worries grew. How on Laethea could she fix this?
Charon cleared his throat, and Sorrow leant back, allowing the curtain to fall into place, ashamed of how relieved she was to be hidden from view once more.
“You know what you need to do? At the bridge?” he asked.
“I think so. Step in the gum, take the doll, and climb halfway up. Address the people; Irris will come and remove my veil, so I don’t fall off the side. Then I go to the apex, say a final prayer, and throw the doll in.”
She hadn’t meant to sound flippant, but Irris snorted, and Charon’s expression darkened. “Don’t toss it in, for the Graces’ sake, Sorrow. You need to show some respect.”