City of Demons (51 page)

A small group stood on the terrace in front of the Temple, broken up into pairs and trios, waiting for the procession to cross the plaza. Some were priests, awaiting the body, others were Mandarack's remaining relatives. And there were four others. Garet stood with Salick at the edge of the terrace. Dorict and Marick stood a little ways off, rubbing their red noses and taking what comfort they could in each other's company.

“They'll be here in a moment,” Salick said. She held a long, white cloth folded over her arm. Behind her, the Temple bell sounded the first of the many booming notes that it would give voice to that day.

Garet waited for the vibrations to end before he spoke. “Why don't they speak, or sing, or shout?” he asked, nodding towards the crowds still coming through the centre bridge gate.

“The bell speaks for all of us,” Salick replied. She hugged the cloth to her and leaned against his shoulder. Tears flowed down her cheeks, tears that had never really stopped over the last two days.

Garet had found her crying over the body of her Master when he returned with Banerict to the gymnasium. The physician, who had been paralyzed by the powerful fear the Caller Demon finally broadcast, had roused himself at the creature's death and was helping the injured Duelist to the infirmary when Garet found him. Garet had borrowed the physician's tools to remove the Caller's jewel, for as Andarack had predicted it had still been broadcasting fear. With the jewel secured in the silkstone box, Banerict was able to enter the gymnasium to assist the Banes. Together, they had laid Mandarack's body in the cold air of the infirmary's garden. They had covered him with a blanket and left him to be watched over by Salick and by more and more returning Banes. Even when Relict had finally forced her to rest in the infirmary, she had cried silently in her fitful sleep. In the confusion and meetings that followed, he had seen little of her until this morning.

Now she wiped the tears away and stood straighter as the procession advanced. It was a heartbreakingly clear winter day, the sky a cutting blue and the wind gusting cold across the open plaza. Salick's hair, released from its braids for the funeral, whipped out and across his face, covering him for moment in warmth. He did not move.

She did. Turning to face him, Salick asked, “Where did you go? After, I mean.”

“I had to report to the new Hallmaster,” he replied. “Master Branet was chosen as soon as they all assembled in the Records room. Relict nominated him. Then Andarack and the King were sent for, and I had to tell it all again.” He yawned, hiding his open mouth behind his hand. “Andarack wanted to examine the Caller's jewel. It was incredibly large, twice the size of a Shrieker's jewel, but it was,” he paused to search for the word, “normal again. No worse than any other dead demon's.” He shook his head, and then yawned again.

Salick bit down to stop an echoing yawn. “I want to rest so much when this is done,” she said wistfully. “I feel such a need to do nothing but think and remember for a long, long time.” She pulled back the whipping strands of hair from her eyes to watch the procession. “There's Trax,” she said, pointing.

Garet looked. The King was indeed there, far across the plaza. He walked just in front of the bier carrying Mandarack's body. In golden robes and a bejewelled baldric, the short, muscular figure drew all eyes as he set the pace for the Banes and Lords behind him. But no crown sat on his head, and no sword rested in the jewelled sheath at his hip. Out of respect for the man he escorted to the Temple, Trax carried only one symbol of authority this day. Across his outstretched arms lay Mandarack's red and black sash.

“He honours us,” Garet said.

Salick nodded reluctantly. “I suppose he does, but it still rankles, him being part of this. I will never trust him!”

In the two days since the Caller's destruction, only one other demon had been caught within the city walls, a small Rat Demon that was easily dispatched by the now-frequent patrols. Hopeful that things were finally returning to normal, the people of Shirath had emerged like bright-winged butterflies from their homes, ready to build and repair, to buy and sell, to celebrate and mourn. Every citizen who could walk or be carried had travelled across the three bridges early this morning to take part in the funeral march.

The procession had stopped half-way across the plaza. The guild leaders and minor aristocrats met them in a folding line of purple and silver. They pushed gently between the Banes and Lords holding the bier to touch the black cloth draped over Mandarack's body. The King's face was somber as he led the pallbearers at a slower pace to accommodate the greater crowd. That crowd now flowed up behind them, engulfing the bier and filling every space between the gates and the Temple's terraced walls.

Garet and Salick stepped aside as priests moved around the raised area at the head of the ramp, brass censors swinging back and forth in their grips, the smoke giving a brief scent of burning herbs before the breeze blew it away. The purification of the terrace complete, the priests replaced the censors in ornate cages on the posts supporting the cylindrical bell. As it sounded again, a priest, his robe just a shade of blue darker than the winter sky above, opened his arms and chanted.

The wind slapped at the two Banes again. The last group of notables had touched the pall draping the bier, and the procession resumed its slow progress. Trax glittered at its head. Salick and Garet paused in their conversation, taken by the way the swaying, bright mass of citizens parted to let the King and pallbearers through.

The bier paused at the entrance to the only straight path through the Temple gardens. A pair of priests joined Trax, ceremoniously taking his elbows to escort him to the ramp leading up to the Temples. Salick and Garet waited on the terrace. Their part in the ceremony would not come until later.

The procession slowed again, allowing the pallbearers more time to carry the bier up the incline. The two Banes moved back, merging with the small knot of relatives holding strips of blue or white cloth.

Salick turned towards him. “I can't imagine my life without him, Garet. I know he freed me from a life of anger and resentment. He gave me a greater purpose.”

Garet reached across and drew the yellow strands away from her eyes. “I know, Salick. He did the same for me. He saved me from...”

He didn't want to finish his thought, but Salick's eyes, pleading for any distraction from the grief approaching them, forced him to continue.

“He saved me from the life of a dreamer who never left his dreams to live a real life. And that would have been the best I could have hoped for.”

“What would have been the worst?” she asked.

“To become a man like my father,” he answered. There, he had said it.

“Never,” Salick said, taking his arm in hers. “If there was even the smallest chance of that, the Master would have left you in that pesthole. No, Garet, he knew your quality, and he knew that men like you would be needed—especially now.”

He knew she had given him a great gift with these words, greater than he deserved, perhaps, but for a gift, one must give a gift—truth for truth.

“I thank you, Salick. But I could never match him. The best I can hope for is to be someone the Master would have respected. Someone like you.”

He felt her shiver against his shoulder. He slipped his arm out of hers and put it around her waist, holding her until she was still.

“But whatever I become, I'll never be my father's son— you saved me from that,” he said. “You, the Master, Marick and Dorict. You gave me this new life.” He took his other hand and traced the small, crescent-shaped scar on her cheek. He had several scars to match it on his own body. “A dangerous life, perhaps, but I wouldn't trade it, even if I could make those old dreams come true.”

Salick leaned against him, the tears coming again.

An old woman turned and shushed them fiercely. The bier had reached the top of the ramp and the King was passing in glory before them.

Salick, ashamed, stiffened and took a deep breath to control herself. A priest came up behind them and laid a kindly hand on Salick's shoulder.

“Don't worry, Bane,” he said. “The dead are listening to other things now, other voices. Let your tears flow as they will. You are not the only one crying in the city today.” He led her and Garet, along with the small knot of relatives, around the temple to wait on the other side of the pillars while the Hallmaster's body was lifted from the bier and carried under the dome to lie on the cold, marble tiles. He then left them to listen to the chants of the inner priests. Lord Andarack came forward and knelt by the head of the corpse and opened the unseeing eyes. The words of the priests seemed to echo back from the dome until the terrace rang with a harmony of prayers. For many minutes the chanting continued, and then, at some signal Garet missed, it ended on a single, soaring note.

Salick clutched the cloth in her hands and backed into Garet.

“I can't do it,” she said, her voice rising.

The woman who had shushed them earlier was twisting a strip of blue cloth nervously around her fingers.

He took hold of Salick's shoulders. “You can,” he told her. “I'll be there with you.”

She took a tentative step forward and looked back to see if he had indeed followed. The relatives came after, murmuring prayers and holding their strips of cloth. With uncertain steps and great love, Mandarack's people came forward to dress his body for its last journey.

Later, there would be the fire, and the smoke rising, and many sleepless nights. But as Garet looked up to the bright patterns laid out on the ceiling above them, he knew there would also be life and love, danger and friendship. His bare feet touched the ground of his city, Shirath on the Two Banks, and the stars of Heaven shone down on his bare head.

Photo by Karen Holland

Kevin Harkness
is a Vancouver writer who has just finished a third career as a high-school teacher. His first two careers: industrial 911 operator and late-blooming university student, were nowhere near as dangerous and exciting as teaching Grade 10s the mysteries of grammar and the joys of To Kill a Mockingbird. He also taught Mandarin Chinese— but that's another story. Outside of family and friends, he has three passions: a guitar he can't really play, martial arts of any kind from karate to fencing, and reading really good stories.