With a soft thud, the coffin landed on the cavern floor. Using Geomancy to grasp at the wood, she pulled it from the stone bed and set it aside. Now accustomed to the weight and the feel of the rocks overhead, Morrígan plugged the hole she made with little effort.
I’ll be ready for the Academy in just a few more weeks, but I’m already on my way to becoming a master.
Once she had finished fixing the ceiling, Morrígan turned her magic to the coffin and cracked open the lid in a flurry of splinters. She was used to the reek of decaying flesh, but the scents of perfumed ointments and salves took her by surprise. The woman inside had both hands crossed on her chest, with a tiny gold chain wrapped between her fingers. On the end of the chain hung the three interweaving circles of the Trinity, flat on the silk fabric of her burial gown. Morrígan wondered if Mrs. Mhurichú had made the dress herself, recalling that her own mother was dressed almost identically for her funeral.
The plains of Tierna Meall must be a confusing place, with everyone dressed in the same white gowns and black suits.
Morrígan sat beside the coffin, waiting for her uncle to return. She placed a hand on Mrs. Mhurichú’s forehead. The undertakers had done a great job making her seem alive and warm, but one cold touch was all it took to remind Morrígan that the woman was dead. A thick layer of makeup did well to cover her wrinkles, adding colour to otherwise pale cheeks. The skin around her lips tightened into a crooked smile, but Morrígan paid it no mind. In her research, she learned that people in larger cities usually weren’t buried until a day or two after they died. Although no Necromancy was involved, it was customary to “wake” the dead by bringing them back to their old homes, where family and friends would stay up all night with them, drinking and singing to celebrate their life. Taigdh had once attended a wake for his grandfather in Point Grey, and he insisted that over the course of the night, the dead man’s smile slowly grew wider and wider as festivities continued around him.
Although Taigdh was adamant that this was a sign his grandfather was enjoying their company, Morrígan knew from her work that this was simply the result of the tightening of muscles and skin after death.
“Morrígan, how did it go?”
Yarlaith the White appeared out of the darkness, a Pyromancer’s torch in his hands. He seemed wearier and paler than usual.
“It was easy,” she said. “Do you need help with the corpse?”
Yarlaith smiled. “No, you’ve done enough. I’ll look after her from here. But I have a quick errand for you to run instead.”
Leaving the burial chamber, they followed the eastern tunnel towards the underground lake, guided by Yarlaith’s torch. Morrígan shied her eyes away from the light as they walked.
They came to what looked like a dead end to the unfamiliar eye, but Yarlaith raised a hand and pulled at the false wall, removing the rocks and stones that blocked the path. Most of the entrances to the lake had been carefully hidden this way, but any good Geomancer would be able to spot a fake wall in a second.
This is all that lies between us and a burning stake.
There was no need for Yarlaith to light another torch as they walked towards the lake. Several rays of sunshine glared through the ceiling, dancing on the surface of the dark, still water.
Another false wall blocked the entrance to the workshop, and it too fell with a sweep of Yarlaith’s hand. As the rocks crumbled, the familiar scent of rotting flesh and festering blood drifted through Morrígan’s nostrils. The nearest wooden table had been scrubbed clean in preparation for the arrival of Mrs. Mhurichú.
“The colonel asked me to lend a few supplies and potions to the battalion,” said Yarlaith as he shuffled across the chamber, his white cloak trailing along the blood-splattered ground behind him. “He may have some of the best ’mancers in the kingdom, but only half of them have any basic experience with alchemy. This isn’t the first time he’s asked me, you know.”
Still fuming, he opened a small chest on a wooden shelf above the alchemy lab. Morrígan glanced inside to see other scattered ingredients and vials of fresh blood potions. Beside these was a little cloth satchel, tied shut with brown string. Yarlaith took this and handed it to Morrígan. It was heavier than it looked.
“Where will I find him?” she asked, placing the satchel inside her beadhbh cloak. “At The Bear?”
“Yes, maybe. If not, you can just leave it with whoever’s in. Now, I better get our next set of experiments ready.” The old man turned to leave, but Morrígan had one more question.
“Yarlaith, what am I supposed to say if someone asks why I wasn’t at the funeral?”
Her uncle turned and shrugged. “Well, everyone in the village was there today. But to be honest, I doubt anyone noticed you were gone.”
***
The villagers were still gathered around outside the chapel as Morrígan approached. At the gates, Taigdh and Daithí the Blessed tried to comfort an inconsolable Sorcha. She certainly didn’t look as pretty as usual. Mottled streaks of makeup ran down her face as she cried, her cheeks blotched red from rubbing away tears. A black silk dress tailored to hug her hips and bosom hung loosely over her legs.
I wonder if her mother made that dress knowing it would be worn to her own funeral.
Nobody noticed Morrígan as she passed, the sound of her shuffling beadhbh feathers drowned out by Sorcha’s barrage of sobs.
I didn’t cry that much when Mother died, and I even saw it happen with my own eyes!
Morrígan was tempted to catch Taigdh’s attention but decided against it. She’d be wasting her time repeating platitudes to poor Sorcha, who had probably already heard them all already.
Oh, she’s in a better place now. You’re mother’s happy up there, in the clouds, in Tierna Meall with all the other dead folk.
Morrígan kicked at a loose stone in the curve of the road as it turned into the Square. With a subtle pull of Geomancy, the stone changed direction mid-air and hurdled over the blooming bushes that surrounded the chapel.
Oh, you’ll be reunited someday, so don’t cry now.
Morrígan looked back at the chapel.
Sure, what’s the point in living, when there’s an eternity of paradise ahead of us?
A mixed group of battlemages marched by the inn. The six men nodded curtly at Morrígan, and she responded by shrugging her hips in a half-bothered curtsy. She watched as the soldiers left, their cloaks flowing lazily in the evening breeze: two reds, two blues, a green, and a grey. She paused to imagine which colour she’d be wearing once she graduated from the Academy.
She pictured herself returning to Roseán, clad in the colours of a fully trained mage, as the door to The Bear and the Beadhbh swung open.
It wasn’t the absence of the mural behind the bar that struck her first, nor was it that the rows of arms and armour that had replaced Padraig’s wooden kegs. It was the absolute emptiness of the building that caused her to gasp. Even on slow days, there had always been at least a few people in the inn, but now there was no one. All of the tables and chairs had been removed, along with the wooden-framed paintings that once hung on the wall. The whole place seemed much more spacious than before, and Morrígan walked slowly across the plain wooden floors, taking in every detail of the strange, new environment.
“Hello?” she called, her voice bouncing back as an echo upon the walls. “Is anybody there?”
A panicked voice responded from behind the bar.
“Help! Help They won’t let me go!”
Fear rushed through her veins. In a heartbeat, she vaulted over the bar and darted into the back room. With a kick, the door swung open, revealing two men; a bald, thickset battlemage dressed in blue, and a Simian, with both hands chained to the wall.
“Help! Please! He’s torturing me!”
“I told you to shut up!” The Hydromancer punched the Simian in the ribs; he turned towards Morrígan. “Don’t listen to a word he says, ma’am. He’s a spy for the dissidents.”
The Simian rattled his irons. “I told you, I’m not! There’s been a mistake. I’m just a cartographer working for the Triad!”
The mage sneered. “Working for the Silverback, more like.”
“The Silverback is the Triad now, you dumb boar! I’ve been mapping these areas my whole life, and this is the first time I’ve ever had any hassle from your lot!”
“This is the first time you’ve been a prisoner of war.”
With rolling eyes, the Simian moaned. “How many times do I have tell you? There. Is. No. War!”
An abrupt guffaw escaped the mage’s lips. “So why has the Silverback sent the Triad’s elk cavalry out to scout the Clifflands? Why has he locked the gates of Penance to all arms-trade with the Strongholds?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And neither do you!”
This only elicited a blank stare from the mage. From where the cuffs had bruised and grazed the Simian’s wrists, Morrígan could tell that he had been there for quite a while. His fur was brown, but dark enough to appear black in the dim light of the inn. The whites of his eyes stood out in the darkness, and both were fixated on Morrígan.
He recognises me, she realised with a shock. He’s the one from the caves!
