Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

The City of the Dead

Chapter 14 – The City of the Dead

Urzahil started walking, turning at random, too upset to notice his surroundings. He needed to talk to someone, but he couldn't bear to be around people just yet. He followed the back streets and didn't look up until the lane came to a stop against a low wall.

He looked up. The Dome of the Temple stood before him. He must have approached the compound from the back, because the City of the Dead was right before him.

He climbed over the wall and dropped to the other side. He'd only ever come here by the main gate, so it took him a little while to get oriented. The grounds were well cared for, suggesting wealth.

He searched for a few minutes before he found the Lintoron tomb. Against the iron door, there was an arrangement, not of wildflowers, it was too late in the year for that, but evergreen leaves with winter berries and rose hips, the last vestige of autumn. A stem had fallen loose from the arrangement and lay on the ground. He picked it up. It was fresh, it must have been left within the last two or three days. Lady Lintoron? Although so many people cared about his father, it could have been anyone.

He sat on the lid of a sarcophagus on the neighbor's plot. The afternoon sun had warmed the stone; it was warm under his legs. There had been frost on the ground that morning, but in the sun and the still air, he could still remember the summer. He swung his legs back and forth, his heels hitting the side of the sarcophagus.

He thought of his father inside the tomb, lying on a slab in his best court clothes. He'd worn them to the Yule banquet last winter solstice. The robe was green, with gold embroidery. He probably would have worn it again this year, had he lived.

"I'm not in school anymore, Father."

Urzahil pulled the stem of grass apart, rolling pieces between his fingers and letting the bits fall away.

"Ever since you left us, I've been so lost."

The air was still. A thrush scolded in the distance.

"I don't know what to do. I've worked harder than I've ever worked in my life, but it's not enough. It's like swimming against a riptide. I'm so tired, I can't do it anymore."

He thought about the other slab in the tomb, how nice it would be to lie beside his father when the time came. Perhaps if he'd joined the skirmish with the others, he'd be there now. As an illegitimate son, was he even entitled to lie in the Lintoron tomb? He wasn't sure.

"There's something else. I'm not in the nobility anymore. Maybe I never was. You and I weren't realistic about the circumstances of my birth, we pretended it didn't make any difference."

He pulled off another part of the plant, and a thistledown seed floated away on an unfelt draft of air.

But who said a bastard couldn't be a nobleman? Noble meant admirable, exalted, possessing an exceptional character.

His father had been a noble man, that's what they said at the funeral. They told how he died defended a tenant farmer who couldn't bring his bride home because the frontier where his farm was had become too dangerous. There must have been countless other instances where his father looked after others. He brought money to a young widow whose husband had been washed overboard in a storm. He took in a two-year old whose mother had died of a fever, even though he risked shame in the eyes of the neighbors and worse from his wife.

Would Urzahil have done anything that placed himself in danger, or even made him uncomfortable? He knew that he would not. Nobility had always meant privilege: fine clothes, a grand house, servants to look after him, not having to do manual labor, the feeling of smugness that accompanied high rank. Those things didn't confer nobility, they were privileges, and they were supposed to be earned.

Urzahil had been trying to understand how he fell out of the nobility. With a twist of his gut, he realized he'd never been noble. He'd always thought he was just like is father. What had his father been like? Courteous, selfless, brave. What was he like? A spoiled, sheltered youth who expected others to take care of him. Shame washed over him, his cheeks, his whole face, even the backs of his eyes burned with it.

"I don't even know who I am anymore. I look like you, but I'm not you."

He couldn't give his father a tomb, but he could try to be a living memorial to him. In the future, he would try to be more like his father.

"I will never be brave or skilled in arms, but I can pledge myself in service to those who are."

He dropped the ruined stem onto the ground and dusted off his hands. His old life was gone. He grieved the loss of it, then squared his shoulders. Whatever came next was up to him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

By the time the Sign of the Boiling Frog came into view, Urzahil had blisters on his feet. He would have to spend hours many more on his feet before he could lay down in the straw and sleep.

He didn't mind. After the disastrous interview with the merchant, he welcomed the chance to wipe tables clean and scrape plates. It was familiar, mindless work; he wouldn't have to think. He pushed open the door to the tavern and stepped inside. The harness bells jangled and the innkeeper looked up, looking embarrassed.

"Urzahil, I forgot to tell you, my sister's family is coming up from the countryside for Yule. My nephew wants to leave the farm and live in the city, so he'll be staying on afterwards."

That's nice. Do I care?

"He'll be working at the Boiling Frog. The thing is, there's two of you and only one job. You haven't done a thing wrong, I'm happy with your work, but you have to understand, it's between you and my sister's boy."

The shock must have shown in his face, because the innkeeper looked even more distressed.

"I'm sorry to give so little notice. Tell you what, you can work here tonight. What do you say?"

-o-o-o-o-o-

After the last customer had left, after he'd stacked the stools on the tables and swept the floors clean for the last time, Urzahil stepped out into the Inn yard. The harness bells jingled as the door clicked shut behind him, and the moon hung in the sky like a silver coin.

He headed for the barn, staying in the shadow and taking care not to be seen. He had no good reason to be here, now that he didn't work at the Boiling Frog anymore. He didn't want anyone to know he was living in the barn. Tomorrow, he would have to find somewhere else to sleep.

He felt his way through the darkened barn. His hand found the ladder, and he climbed it to the hayloft. It was lighter in the loft than in the darkened barn below, light from the full moon came through a square window in the gable and turned the straw silver-white. Urzahil wrapped his father's coat around himself and lay down to sleep.

Urzahil wondered if there really was a nephew. He hadn't seen him at the Boiling Frog that evening, although it was possible the relatives from the country hadn't arrived yet.

The pale rectangle moved across the straw during the night. The temperature dropped, and a silvery frost formed on the roof tiles of the Inn. Urzahil wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. He didn't know what he was going to do.