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Chapter 39

Omand’s unnatural storm had brought with it a rain that had helped quell the many fires that had broken out across the city. After a life of so much evil, at least his death had granted that inadvertent blessing.

Ashok had returned to the fallen tower to find that the Sons of the Black Sword were still guarding the body of their beloved prophet. They had wrapped Thera in a sheet and moved her beneath a stable’s roof to keep her out of the rain. He had commanded them to leave him be and they had reluctantly obeyed. Then he had remained there next to her waiting for the rain to stop.

It was a foolish, naïve hope, but when the others were gone, he had uncovered her face to be sure it was really her. It was truly Thera. There had been no mistake. The gods had not pulled some elaborate trick on him. They had only tricked the demons.

His body ached and the Heart of the Mountain was too spent to answer, but the shard remained, and it saw to it that he would live and heal. But the hurt he felt went far deeper than cracked bone and torn tissues. There was no magic that could salve this pain. Perhaps a wizard could take his memories away, like Kule had stolen his childhood, but Ashok would rather die than forget Thera.

He slept by her side.

After a time, the rain had stopped, and Ashok began to gather wood.

Throughout the morning, he built the funeral pyre. Each time one of the faithful approached to offer their assistance, he commanded them to go away. He wasn’t cruel to them, but this was his duty. Alone. As his father had been a cremator in this city, so would his son.

He wore two swords as he worked, for he had taken Khartalvar from Devedas. He didn’t know why he’d been compelled to do so, but no one had tried to stop him.

By the afternoon the pile of wood in the middle of the garden was of sufficient size. Most of the lumber he’d dragged from inside the ruins had still been dry, so it should burn well, and to be certain he drenched it all in oil he’d taken from a barrel that had never gotten poured into a defensive trench.

Then Ashok went back into the stable to speak with Thera one last time.

He did not know what to say.

The Law said there was no beyond, no ghosts, but to hell with the Law. Its words were dust to him now. Keta had sworn to him that there was a land for the honored dead. That had to be true, because he could not bear it to be otherwise.

So Ashok challenged the gods. “Forgotten, if there is any justice in you at all, you will reward this woman for all that she has done for you. She carried the weight of your Voice. She always did what she thought was right, no matter how much it hurt her. In return you burned her hands and let her die.” His voice cracked. “You must make this right in the next life, or else you are no better than the Law. I beg you, let Thera know peace. Then when the shard finally lets me die, I can be reunited with her in the land of the dead. Until then, I will try to live as she would have me live, so that I may be worthy. If you deny her from me, I will find a way to overthrow the heavens, and find her myself.”

After delivering his ultimatum, a cold autumn wind blew golden leaves through the stable. The leaves circled about, before settling atop Thera’s sheet. He would take that as a sign that the Forgotten had agreed to their pact. “Thank you.”

After a time, the man without fear summoned the courage to speak to his wife for the last time in this world.

“Thera, it was my duty to protect you. I tried…I failed…but I never believed we’d make it so far. You accomplished so much. The demons are all gone. Your people…our people…safe. You bought freedom for the believers. You turned non-people into whole men. Where they’ll go without you, I don’t know. Where I’ll go without you…I don’t know that either. But I think I will live as you had me live before, protecting those who can’t protect themselves. You gave me purpose when all I wanted was to walk into the sea. You sent me to war. You collected those without hope. Out there somewhere are more people you would have helped…if only you’d had more time. I couldn’t protect you, but I will protect your dream.”

Ashok did not make promises lightly. For a man of honor, saying a thing would be done should be sufficient, but for this he would make a new vow.

“I will always love you. I will find you again. This I swear.”

Gently, he picked up her body and carried her outside.

A great crowd had gathered in the garden, waiting.

They were of every caste and none at all. Of every status, from the lowliest fish-eater to even the Thakoor of Great House Vadal himself, come to pay respects to the prophet who’d died protecting his city.

Ashok carried Thera past the Sons of the Black Sword, who’d followed her across the entire continent and fought in her name. They loved her as much as Ashok had, only he’d known the woman, while they’d only known the idea. He carried her past the foreigners of Fortress, past representatives of every great house, and the Capitol, past workers and warriors, and many silently crying casteless—who, because of Thera and Devedas’ bargain, actually had the right to be here. Ashok saw Jagdish at the head of a delegation of Vadal warriors, and at his command, they all saluted in unison. Behind the Vadal was a palanquin, from which Bhadramunda, son of Harta, nodded his respect, because if not for these outsiders, his house would have fallen. Even mighty Protectors were present to pay their respects to someone they’d considered a criminal. And in their shadow stood a humble casteless girl holding a baby, whom she had named after her hero.

He carried Thera to the top of the pyre and carefully set her down. Then he sparked the oil-soaked kindling with the fire starter given to him by another dead friend and walked away as the fire ignited.

As the blaze spread, Ashok looked out over the solemn crowd and recalled something that Master Mindarin had once told him after a battle as they’d watched the corpse fires burn.

We honor the dead so the survivors remember to live.


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Framed