Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

---

Mortal Flesh

---

Chapter 7 – Mortal Flesh

The sun beat on Urzahil's face. Everything around him was dazzling white. The tombs were crowded together, the white stone monuments barely separated by paths of gravel and crushed shell which crunched underfoot when he shifted his weight. Wisps of grasses grew against the marble walls, moving slightly when the air stirred. The City of the Dead. And behind it all rose the Great Dome of the Temple.

An iron door stood open beneath a lintel carved with the name Lintoron. Inside the chamber, a stone slab lay waiting, cold and hard, as long as a man is tall.

"Tar Lintoron was a noble man," Tar-Castamir addressed the crowd in his booming voice.

Tar-Lintoron's body lay on a bier before the open door, dressed in his finest ceremonial robes. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and a crown of leaves and late fall flowers, the last vestige of autumn, circled his brow. Bits of the wreath moved slightly in the breeze, but the stiff brocade of his father's sleeve remained still.

"He was courteous and brave, everything a nobleman should be."

The immediate family stood near the bier, with the household servants beside them. Lady Lintoron was the chief mourner, along with her sons. Urzahil's sister Aranelaith was there, along with her new husband. Urzahil was glad the message had reached her in time. His father's friends, and every noble of the city including the Council of Captains, was in attendance. At the edge of the crowd, where the bright colors of the nobility gave way to the grays and browns of working folk, were fishermen and farmers who, indirectly, belonged to the household too.

Tar-Castamir's voice, trained to carry in storms at sea, reached the far edge of the crowd and reflected back from the sides of tombs and the city wall beyond. The mourners listened in silence.

It was a disgrace they couldn't afford an effigy for his father's tomb. Most families commissioned the best sculptor they could to sculpt a portrait in stone. Urzahil was ashamed they couldn't honor his father's memory until things improved.

Tar-Castamir finished the eulogy, and others were invited to speak. When his turn came, Urzahil moved to the front, although he didn't know what he wanted to say. That he loved his father and missed him. That he'd thought the time they had left together would go on and on, but it was cut short. None of those sentiments seemed worthy, they were all about his own loss. He tried to speak but his voice broke; he feared he would sob before everyone he'd ever met. He was grateful when the priest conducting the ceremony stepped over and rescued him.

"I'd like to say a few words about my friend, Eädur Lintoron," said the priest.

The priest seemed familiar. Urzahil tried to place him, and realized he'd come to the house after Aranelaith's wedding. What was his name? Súrion, his father's friend from childhood.

"When I heard he'd died defending his tenant, I was grieved, but not surprised. Tar-Lintoron was a nobleman, most of us are, but he was noble in the purest sense of the word, exalted, worthy, having a superior character. Although born to wealth and privilege, he spoke oftener of obligation, the obligation to be a good friend, to give more than you take, to defend the weak," said Súrion.

When he finished speaking, Súrion motioned for the other pallbearers to come forward. The four men stood at each corner of the bier. Tar-Castamir said, "On my mark", and in unison, they lifted the bier to shoulder height. Urzahil's arms shook with exertion, and even Tar-Marös struggled under its weight.

Urzahil took small steps and placed his feet carefully, especially when he stepped over the high threshold at the mouth of the tomb. Inside, the walls pressed in on him, and the ceiling barely allowed him to stand up straight. Stone effigies of Lintorons past filled niches in the walls, their bones encased in the walls behind. Most of the floor space was taken up by two plain slabs. The pallbearers held the bier over one of them, and with shaking arms, lowered it onto the stone surface.

Lady Lintoron entered the tomb with a silk veil, transparent as a spider's web. She draped it over the body, and Urzahil's younger brothers helped her to tug the edges straight. The fabric over his father's nose and mouth didn't move. It was time to go. Urzahil followed the others out into the blinding sunlight, and the iron door of the tomb clanged shut.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Three days after the funeral, the traditional day for the reading of the will, his father's legal advisor came to the house.

"I'm sorry to tell you, but Tar-Lintoron did not leave a will. He meant to; we often discussed the provisions he wanted to include, but he had never actually sat down and wrote his wishes as a legal document," he said.

"But you're familiar with his wishes?" said Lady Lintoron.

"Your husband's wishes were remarkably consistent over time. He wanted to make some charitable bequests, provisions for the widows of fishermen from the Lintoron fleet, bequests to the University and the Temple, and a gift of a fountain for a square that didn't have one. But without a will, those bequests were just talk." The advisor held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Urzahil felt cold all over. If there were no provisions for charities, there were no provisions for children begotten on the wrong side of the blanket, either.

"Did you write any of it down? Perhaps the document he'd wished to write could be reconstructed."

"I took notes of our discussions, but they're just notes, unsigned and unwitnessed. They wouldn't stand up in a court of law,"

"What will happen, then?"

"The division of property will be determined by law: half will go to the widow, with the remainder to be divided equally among the legitimate sons." The room was spinning. Urzahil clung to the arm of his chair for support.

"Can you provide me with enough gold for repairs on the fishing fleet? Our largest boat lost its mast, and several others were damaged in the storm last week. If they can't go to sea, we lose the income they would have brought in."

"I'm afraid whatever gold the estate left behind will be tied up until the oldest son comes of age," the advisor said, indicating Urzahil's younger brother Aldamir. "In the meantime, you'll have to live frugally, but at least you have the income from your lands," he said.

The color drained from Lady Lintoron's face. "We won't receive any rents from those lands for two more years. All the income from them was pledged to the House of Castamir in lieu of Aranelaith's dowry."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Later that day, Lady Lintoron dismissed the workmen repairing the roof, even though they hadn't finished replacing the tile. The building was centuries old and needed work. Some of their bedrooms had water stains on the ceilings, but she wasn't being a good steward to a historic house anymore.

Then she sold the horses, his father's good-natured bay, the grey palfrey, and the boys' ponies. Urzahil hated to see his father's horse sold. It was the one he rode into the skirmish when he was wounded. Aldamir and Êruhil wept over the loss of their ponies. Urzahil was furious with her and ground his teeth in helpless rage.

Lady Lintoron pulled Urzahil aside. "I'm thinking of dismissing Pellardur. Can you tutor the boys in the evening?"

"But I'm busy studying in the evenings. And why can't you afford him? Tutors are paid almost nothing beyond room and board."

Pellardur remained with the household. Perhaps he had an allowance from his own family, or didn't care about money. Younger sons were placed with other families to cement connections among the nobility.

In the weeks that followed, Lady Lintoron dismissed all but one of the family retainers, including one who was very old, who napped by the kitchen fire pretending to shell peas but couldn't work anymore.

"Can you take Old Nan? It's just for a year until Aldamir reaches his majority and his inheritance comes out of trust," Lady Lintoron asked her sister, who was visiting.

"Every time I see you since Eädur died, you have your hand out. Fine, I'll take her this time, but this is it. You've just acquired a wealthy son-in-law in the Castamiri family. They're getting the rents from you dower lands, why don't you ask them for some of it back?"

"I did. They said 'no' in the nicest possible way, but they gave me their best wishes. When I left, Aranelaith pressed her dress allowance into my hand and promised she'd send more when she could."

The term was half over. Urzahil inquired at the University about next term's school fees. He'd had no idea they were so high. He had to figure out how to ask Lady Lintoron for the money to pay them.

He did his best to get along with her. He bit back sarcastic remarks, avoided the temptation to roll his eyes, and tried to stay out of her way. After a few days, when he judged she was in a good mood, he pulled her aside and asked.

"Lady Lintoron? The second term at University begins right after Yule. I wondered if I could trouble you for my school fees?"

"That won't be possible, please don't ask me again." She turned her back.

"My education is all I have in this world. It was the legacy Father meant to leave me," Urzahil was about to add something sarcastic, but stopped himself when he saw her face, gray and exhausted.

"I'm sorry, Urzahil. I just don't have the money."