The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

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Chapter 56

Warning for some violence and talk about human sacrifice. What are we getting ourselves into?

This chapter covers some prompts for the Middle-earth Olympics (athletics; boxing; wrestling - both literally and figuratively). That is accidental, but I'm going to take it.

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Chapter 56

Two days later I finally got word that there was a family willing to give up the body of their newly deceased, if we could 'come to an agreement', as the runner from the watch house put it. I duly asked Urdad to come along to negotiate the price. From among my apprentices, I picked Bâgri - he had been so anxious about whether the work would hurt that I figured being involved from the very beginning would give him a better idea of what he would have to do, and me a better idea of whether he could do it - and Dârujan, who appeared to have some knowledge of embalming and might therefore be able to reassure Bâgri in case the latter became too scared at any point. Since Bâgri didn't trust me, it would hopefully help when Dârujan acted unafraid.

But as we took the cart to the city, Dârujan very much appeared afraid. He sat on his hands, chewed on his lips and fidgeted enough to make me fear that he would fall off the cart. It made Bâgri nervous (or more nervous than he already was, anyway); it made even me anxious, and after a while, I couldn't keep from remarking on it and asking what the matter was, exactly. Dârujan made a series of grimaces as if trying to keep from answering, but then it burst out, "Where are we going?"
Urdad answered in my place, brusquely, "To the city. He told you that."
"What for?"
Before Urdad could snap at Dârujan again - maybe the poor lad simply hadn't understood me properly - I replied, "To take the first body to our working place. At least, that's the plan."
Dârujan pondered this, continuing to shift his weight in a way that set my teeth on edge. Then he closed his eyes and asked, in a small voice, "Is it mine?"
"No," I said, "we will work on it together, all of us."
"I mean," Dârujan said, "am I the body?"

Urdad turned his head, sharply, while I blinked in confusion. I was certain I must have understood him wrong. Or maybe it was a joke, although I could not find it funny, and Dârujan did not look like a man trying to joke, either; he looked like a man bracing for a storm that he wasn't sure he'd survive.
Perhaps he did think he wouldn't survive.
"Of course not," I said indignantly.
Bâgri hung his head at that, and Dârujan asked, still sounding thoroughly frightened, "Will I have to kill him?"
Bâgri groaned, and then mumbled something in his own language. I did not understand what it was. Not that it mattered. The whole question was absurd - and, to be honest, deeply unsettling.
Urdad seemed to agree, because he drew himself upright, his brow creasing, and he said, sharply, "How dare you suggest--"
I held up my hand to stop him. "Let them explain," I said, feeling very tired all of a sudden. Turning to the apprentices, I said, "You think one of you is going to be killed? Am I understanding that right?"

Dârujan nodded at once, his eyes wide with terror. Bâgri was studying his feet, but he, too nodded after a moment's hesitation.
"Well, that's not going to happen," I said. Then I had to take more than a few steadying breaths. The idea was terrifying - not just for them, but also for me. I dimly thought that this might be how Lord Herucalmo must have felt when I had accused him of wanting to leave me at the mines. It was not pleasant. No wonder he had been so angry, even though the thought had made sense to me at the time. He hadn't been a monster, exactly (and whatever he seemed to think, I'd never said he was a monster, anyway), but he had given me no reason to think that he was in any way kindly disposed towards me until -- no matter. The point was, he had not shown me any particular kindness back then, whereas I did not feel that I had given my apprentices any reason to think that they would be killed. Not while working for me, anyway. Surely my judgement upon Yorzim hadn't been that excessive.

"Will you tell me," trying to keep my voice even - I was on the verge of crying - "what reason I have given you to think that you would... that I would... that one of you would be killed?"
"They are fools," Urdad said in a flat, angry voice. "There is no reason."
While I appreciated the sentiment, I didn't think it was helpful just then.
"Thank you, Urdad, but there must have been some reason," I said. I wanted to be patient and understanding, although it was so very hard. Once again, I felt betrayed. What had I done to deserve such accusations? Lord Herucalmo, at the very least, had been cold and abrasive towards me, and threatened me with consequences, and reminded me of what power he wielded over me, and so on. But until Yorzim's punishment, I honestly couldn't recall treating my apprentices unkindly. And I had tried to be kind to Yorzim, too, I truly had been. I asked again, "Can you explain why you believe - whatever you were believing?"

Bâgri was breathing hard, his fists clenched, and I suspected that he was once again locked in awful memories. Dârujan was more forthcoming. "Everything is - how do you say. Either good or true. It does not make sense, unless we are..." he said something in the language of Umbar, and then clamped his hands in front of his mouth as if to physically stopped himself from going on.
I turned to Urdad for a translation.
"Set up for sacrifice," he said, grimly, and then turned on the apprentices again, "How dare you, when Master Azruhâr is the kindest, gentlest, most gracious --"
I cut him short before the matter could get more embarrassing. Urdad's anger was heartening, in a way, and his vote of confidence was touching, and his praise - though undeserved - was certainly very nice, but on the other hand, I thought that I might finally find out what was wrong with the apprentices, and I did not want to miss that chance because Urdad was taking umbrage on my behalf.

"I still don't understand," I said. "What does 'set up for sacrifice' mean, and why do you think it's what's going on?"
Unexpectedly, Bâgri spoke. He wasn't looking at me, instead staring ahead at some point between the mule's ears, but after the initial shakiness, his voice was clear. "Years and years and years ago," he said, "long before my great-great-grandfathers were born... or even yours," he paused, took a deep breath, then went on, "our ancestors had the old gods. They gave our people wealth, and they protected them from - from the people of the West, and other enemies." Another pause. "And for their protection, and to keep them happy, the gods needed sacrifice. People. People that were killed so the gods kept Umbar safe."
I was beginning to sweat, and it probably had nothing to do with the fact that there had been rain yesterday and the air was now heavy with humidity.
Urdad huffed, "That's ancient tales." Bâgri fell silent.
"Maybe you can tell me these tales, Urdad," I said, struggling for composure. "Somehow they seem to be relevant today."

Urdad appeared to be chewing on something unpleasant, but neither Bâgri nor Dârujan volunteered further information after the interruption. After an angry silence, Urdad said, "It is said that in those ancient days the gods demanded people sacrifived to them. Valuable people. People that other people did not want to lose. To show that they honoured the gods above all. Their own child. Or the best warrior. Or the fastest runner. It was bad. It is no longer done. Maybe it never was, and is only a tale." He glared at Bâgri and Dârujan. "It has nothing to do with today."
Dârujan spoke up. His fingers were flexing nervously, but clearly he was unable to leave the tale untold. "The people did not want to sacrifice their best," he explained. "So they thought of a way to give lesser people. Make them look valuable to the gods. And they took their slaves. Or strangers. Or prisoners. And made them out to be family, or honoured guests. Until the sacrifice, they treated them like kings." He closed his eyes again. "So the gods would believe that they were important. And then when the time came, they were sacrificed."
"Ancient tales," Urdad growled again.

I had to sort my thoughts. "Maybe that happened, a long time ago," I said eventually. "But not among my people! We don't have sacrifices like that. We don't have gods like that." That, at the very least, was something I was sure about. The only thing that compared was the offering made in the Eruhantalë rites, but that consisted only of fruit and grain and the food prepared by the crowd and was barely comparable at all.
"Then why," Dârujan was again saying what he thought, bless him, "are you treating us like this?"
"Like what?" I asked. "I never treated you like kings." I was fairly certain about that, too. Like it or not, I knew how kings lived. Not in a decrepit winery in a shared dormitory that wasn't even a proper room of its own, that much was for certain.
"We are nothing," Bâgri said in a terrible, hollow voice. "We can ask for nothing. And you gave us... many things we could not ask for. Nice food. Nice clothing. Nice beds. Time to visit out families, even. You were very friendly. It made no sense, unlesss..." he trailed off.
"Unless I was planning to do something horrible later?" My voice was hard now. I couldn't deny that part of me was angry. I'd challenge anyone to face such accusations and not get angry. I could understand being suspicious, but jumping from 'more friendly than we could ask for' to 'going to sacrifice us to ancient evil gods' was a bit much.
And yet, Dârujan said, "It was an explanation that made sense."
"I don't even know these gods," I said. "I didn't even know these stories."
"We don't even know if they're true," Urdad said hotly.
Bâgri whimpered.
"Then why?" Dârujan repeated.

I breathed out slowly. "Have I given you any reason to think that I had something so evil planned for you?" I said. I was fairly certain that I hadn't. It was what Amraphel would have called a rhetorical question.
Bâgri said, with a pained expression, "Like Darwa said, it felt... either good or true?"
"You mean, too good to be true?"
"Yes. That. You do not need prisoners to do good work, for pay and food and friendly talk and a good place to live. You can find better people. Your own people, even. So when you take us to do good work, like that, something is behind it."

Again, I let out a long, slow breath. Well, at least he did think that it was a good place, I told myself, even if he had drawn the wrong conclusions from it.
Of course, there was something behind it, and it was that it wasn't good work and certainly not done by better people. "I'll tell you what's behind it," I said, resigned. "Among my own people, we don't consider embalming good work. You know how I came into it? I was a prisoner myself." Briefly, I considered telling them just how desperate my situation had been, but then I decided against it. Already they didn't trust me. No need to give them more reason to despise me, to realise that I was much worse than they were, and yet set to teach and govern them instead of sharing their situation. "When I became an embalmer, I had the good fortune of having a kind master and getting good money and being able to buy good food and live in a nice place, and so on. I know, personally, what a difference that makes. But even if I didn't, you haven't done me any harm. So why should I be unkind to you?"

Dârujan and Bâgri pondered that for a while. "But you could have taken free people," Dârujan eventually pointed out.
"You tell me that now. I didn't know that! I thought you'd find the work as abhorrent as my people do. So you don't, apparently. Great. Nobody told me that. Not even Darîm." That was particularly annoying. Darîm surely must have known, and for all his talk about offering advice, he hadn't bothered to tell me. I couldn't help but feel resentful. When I later asked Darîm why he had not informed me that I could just as well have recruited my embalmers among the free men of Umbar, he smiled his most charmingly apologetic smile and bowed low and said, "It was an opportunity to have a few decent men released from your prison. Please forgive me, but I was unable to let it pass." I forgave him, then, but in that moment I simply felt betrayed.
We went on in silence for a while. "Do you all believe this?" I eventually asked.
Bâgri and Dârujan exchanged an awkward glance.
"Not Yorzim, I think," Dârujan ventured. "And Elâl thinks he is safe now."
"Oh, wonderful," I said. "What about Sidi?"
Silence. I was silent, too. It was a lot to stomach. I could feel Urdad's anger, and the apprentices' discomfort, and I had no reassuring words for any of them. I didn't have any for myself.

In this cheerful manner we arrived in the city at the watch house, where the family of the dead person were waiting for us in the inner courtyard. And by family, I mean a whole crowd. It was an unusual situation for me. For the most part, the bodies we had worked with back in Arminalêth had either been dead beggars or other poor folk abandoned by their families (if they had any left) and brought to us by the city watch, or the criminals we collected at the executioner's scaffold. Rarely, it had been actual nobles willing to support the King's endeavour, but from what I'd understood, those had also been swiftly abandoned to our care so their descendants did not have to endure the presence of death for too long. With the exceptions of old Palatar, Mistress Nîluphêr and, of course, the King, there had been no family and no mourners, and only in the case of the King had it been a significant crowd.

These people, on the other hand, were sitting on straw mats on the ground, sharing food from bowls that had been placed around the shrouded body, conversing freely until we came walking in. Children were running around playing tag or climbing from the porch to the flat roof, where other children were already sitting, laughing and spitting seeds at passers-by in the street below. Somebody had placed wreaths of flowers on the body's head and chest, like the ones Nurdâr liked to make, and occasionally one of the people laid a hand on the dead person's shoulder or brow as if they were still alive and needed to be included in the conversation. None of them appeared to be particularly put out by death in their midst. The shroud was of simple make, and the family were clothed in well-worn shifts, so I had to assume that they were poor and would not have considered giving us the body at all unless they needed the money; they didn't look as though they were going to part with it in a hurry.

When we joined them, they rose and bowed politely. I introduced myself, Urdad and the apprentices. Then we stood there in awkward silence, until most of them had settled down again. Feeling out of place, I squatted down, too. I didn't want to get straight to business - the thought felt tasteless - so I asked who the dead person had been. That was the beginning of a surprisingly long conversation. Again, I had the impression that the family, while mourning their loss, were not in the least scared or even just disgusted, as people at home would have been. They told us that the dead man had been named Yaphadin, and that he had been an assistant fuller, though in the past years had been unable to work because of ulcers that had caused him great pain and ultimately killed him, too. The people present were his last living brother, and his daughters, and their spouses and their children, all there to give their blessing to the 'transaction' (as Urdad translated it) or perhaps to veto it, and to take their final leave from their dead relative. And to remember him. After an hour or so, I almost felt as if I'd known the man himself, having heard so many anecdotes about him. It would be hard, I thought with a sinking feeling, to negotiate a reasonable price from people who clearly loved this person even in his dead form.

And yet, money did not actually appear to be the issue. When our conversation eventually drifted towards Yaphadin's future (if you could call it that), they were very interested in what I would do with him and whether I could ensure that he would be as satisfied with our work as he would be with the traditional Umbarin method of embalming.
I was at a loss.
"Well," asked Gulmar, the dead man's eldest daughter, who was acting as spokeswoman (although the others had been throwing in comments and questions all along, too), "did any of your customers come back to complain?"
"By customers, do you mean the dead people, or their relatives?" I felt compelled to ask. I fully expected her to say "The relatives, of course," but instead, she said, "Both." She looked me straight in the eye, without the slightest trace of humour.
"Ah," I said, very nearly laughing at the idea of - say - Mistress Nîluphêr coming out of her tomb to complain about what we had done to her hair, or something along those lines. "No, not that I've noticed."
She nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. "You would have noticed," she said in a tone brimming with certainty.

I was fascinated. "How so?" I asked.
"Bad sleep," Bûrid - one of the sons-in-law, or perhaps a nephew; I had lost track - supplied. "Misfortune. Dreams of the ghosts. You would know."
That gave me pause. I did sleep badly more often than not, and could not exactly consider myself a stranger to misfortune. Had I done the embalming wrong, and was this the revenge of angry ghosts? I pushed the thought aside. I had never been particularly lucky even before I'd become an embalmer, and surely there were other explanations for all the adversity of the past years. Such as having incurred the wrath of the former Crown Prince, now King. As for dreams -- "I guess I dreamt of a ghost once," I admitted.

The gathered family fell quiet, and I realised that Urdad and Bâgri and Dârujan were also staring at me. Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything.
"And what did it do?" Gulmar asked, just as I was beginning to feel uncomfortable under their scrutiny. "How did it make you feel?"
"It - he - made me feel safe, actually," I replied, recalling Palatar's apparition in my dream. Back then, appeasing Tar-Ancalimon had been my greatest concern. The mere thought made me feel old and hopeless. I forced myself to focus on the telling of the tale. "I'd had a nightmare, but suddenly he was there, and then we were walking through a forest. He made a joke. It was not a very remarkable dream, really." At any rate, I thought to myself, it wouldn't have been remarkable if it hadn't happened during that remarkable night.

Gulmar nodded in a knowing way, but she hadn't finished yet. "Why," she demanded, "do you offer money for the body? Normally we pay the embalmer, not the other way around."
"You would pay one of your own embalmers, I know," I said. "But I'm using different methods. So I have to ask you to trust us to do the work right, even if it's different from the usual. And my apprentices are only just beginning to learn. I will make sure that they do their work well! And I know I can't buy your trust, but I thought it might be easier to decide to trust me when you're getting something out of it too." I forced myself to smile.
Again, Gulmar nodded. "Money is good," she stated sagely. "But we also have to know that we are getting something more. Father's good rest."
"I understand," I said. "As I said, I'll make sure that the apprentices do their work right."
"Yes, I believe you. But you must also promise that you will finish the necessary rites, before the work. We have begun, but the embalmers must do the end."

Not knowing what those rites were, I frowned at that, but before I could ask for clarification, Gulmar suddenly tilted her head at Dârujan, shooting a question at him in the language of Umbar. He responded, and she asked further questions while the rest of the family listened intently. I felt awkward and left out. "What are they talking about?" I asked Urdad, quietly.
"She asked if he isn't Dûrlim's nephew, and he said yes, he is, and then she asked if Dûrlim knows that he is working for you, and he said no, because he only just began, and then she asked why he is not working for Dûrlim, and he said that he was imprisoned until a few days ago, and besides Dûrlim cannot take new apprentices at the moment, and then she asked if Dûrlim would approve of him working for you instead, and he said that he doesn't see why not."
I tried to make sense of that. "And Dûrlim is...?"
Dârujan paused in his conversation. "He is the uncle I told you about, Master."
"The embalmer?"
"Yes, exactly."
"Ah."

Her interrogation of Dârujan interrupted, Gulmar had turned to her relatives and begun a whispered conversation with the rest of her family. At the last, they appeared to come to an agreement, for there was nodding all around. She turned back to me. "We have agreed to trust you. Dûrlim's nephew will watch over the rites."
Nonplussed by the certainty in her tone - and Dârujan's sudden promotion - I didn't know how to answer that, but then, perhaps it was better not to question her decision lest she change her mind. I bowed gratefully on instinct, before I remembered that I wasn't supposed to do that. Stopping halfway through the motion would have been awkward, though, so I attempted to turn into one of the graciously superior bows Darîm was so good at. It felt all wrong and not at all gracious.

Still, Gulmar smiled and bowed in turn, and suddenly everybody was rising from where they sat, smiling. The matter was settled. Unexpectedly, there was no haggling; they accepted the price I had offered from the beginning (which probably meant that it was higher than necessary), and helped Dârujan and Bâgri to lay the body on the cart, very gently. It seemed that all of them had to say farewell to Yaphadin personally, as though he was going on a long journey, which perhaps wasn't the worst way of thinking about it. Gulmar gave Dârujan some further instructions (or so I suppose), and then we covered the shrouded body with a heavy wet blanket to protect it from the warmth of the day, bid farewell to the family, and embarked on the way back to the old winery.

With the apprentices sitting at the very end of the cart to make sure that the body wasn't jostled around or - good grief - tumbled off the cart on the worse patches of road, there was no occasion to talk either about the rites Dârujan was apparently expected to oversee, or about the absurd accusations that had come to light. I would have to speak about that with all the apprentices, anyway, so there was probably no point in discussing the matter further with just Dârujan and Bâgri present. So I spent the way back brooding. Just this morning, I had hoped that things would get easier now that we could begin our proper work, and instead, relations with the apprentices were more strained than ever.

To add insult to injury, as we drove into the yard, the first thing I saw was a fierce fight between Elâl and the guard Rophâr. I had told the apprentices who had stayed at home to and prepare the workshop and fill one of the basins with boiled water and clean the other basin, and then to use the time until we came back at their discretion, by which I had meant resting or taking a short walk or maybe even practicing their letters or (in Sidi's case) playing chess or whatever was to hand. Instead, apparently Elâl had picked a fight, though judging by the headlock in which he now held Rophâr, it would soon be over. None of the other guards looked as if they were going to intervene - instead, they were watching from the sidelines, as if afraid to get hurt themselves.

Before I had time to think better of it and get frightened, I had jumped off the cart so I could throw myself physically between the fighters and stop Rophâr from being throttled. Fueled by the anger about the unjust suspicions and the frustration about Yorzim's disappearance, I actually had the strength to pull them apart, and when I shoved Elâl back, it was with enough force to make him stumble backwards and fall. And although I swear that I am not normally a violent person, in that moment something inside of me sang at the sight of Elâl hitting the ground, and I jumped after him and punched, hard, until my knuckles hurt, although the blood on them was Elâl's. "How dare you," I was yelling, "when I trusted you! How dare you, after what I have done for you!"
Rophâr, having regained his breath, cast himself between Elâl and myself, holding out his arms placatingly and calling, "Have mercy on him, sir, we thought it was permitted!"

That gave me pause. I took a step back and shook out my hand. Only then did my brain manage to catch up with my rage. Only then did I realise that Elâl wasn't fighting back, which he certainly could have done, to my detriment. On the side, the rest of the household - Nerâd, Nurdâr and Zâdosh excluded - were looking on, their expressions ranging from concern to shock. Bâgri was watching, wide-eyed, clutching the side of the wagon, while Dârujan appeared to try and comfort him.
"Of course you mustn't fight!" I snapped at Rophâr. "That should go without saying!"
Elâl, who had used the break to sit up, holding his nose with one hand, looked up at me. There was genuine confusion in his eyes. "You gave permission yesterday, Master," he said in a nasal voice full of hurt, and only some of the hurt seemed to come from his bleeding nose and the dark bruises that were beginning to blossom where my fist had connected.
Sidi hurried forward. "It is true, Master. Do you remember? You permitted Elâl to compete in the festival. And to practice for it."

Realisation dawned and brought with it a thorough feeling of shame.
"This was - this was practice?" And, because apparently I hadn't made enough of a fool of myself yet, I added, "For the festival?"
Elâl nodded eagerly, blood dripping from the hand that cupped his nose. "I wrestle," he explained. "I practiced my wrestling."
Of course. With his bulk and his strength, I should've figured that he wouldn't compete in - say - the hurdle races, or pole vaulting.
"I'm an idiot," I said, out loud. Lord Roitaheru wouldn't have approved, I'm sure, and Sidi was quick to put on a scandalised face and say, "Oh no, Master! It was our mistake! We did not tell you what Elâl's sport was!"
I shook my head. "I could've guessed. He even said fight - I thought he just didn't know the right word, but it was the right word all along." I turned to Elâl, holding out my hand to help him up. "I'm so sorry. I assumed the worst, instead of trusting that you wouldn't do anything forbidden. That was terribly unjust." I grimaced at the sight of his face. Perhaps I was the monster Bâgri had seen in me all along after all.

Elâl, on the other hand, seemed more relieved than upset. "It was a misunderstanding," he said, shaking my hand instead of using it to pull himself up.
"Yes, but it got you hurt," I said, my face burning with embarrassment. "Can you stand?"
"It's not very bad," Elâl assured me, despite the slow but steady drip of blood. "Only a nosebleed. That happens in wrestling. Not a problem." He stood up just fine. He was probably right in that it was just a nosebleed, and I tried to take some consolation from the fact that at least I hadn't broken his nose. It didn't do anything to make me feel less guilty about it, though.
"I'd rather let Yorzim take a look at it, anyway," I said, recalling that Yorzim had been a surgeon and might know a thing or two about healing in general. "Just to make sure there's no lasting damage. Could you do that, Yorzim?"

Yorzim gave me a funny look - somewhere between exasperation and annoyance - but he asked for clean rags and a bucket of water to clean the mess on Elâl's face, studied the result, and then declared that nothing was broken and it would heal by itself. For good measure, he put a wet cloth around Elâl's neck and told him to press the cleaning rag to his nose and his bruised cheek, and then turned around to me, now blank-faced.
"What about your hand, Master? Did you hurt it?"
"Never mind that," I said. It did hurt a little, but if one good thing had come out of the stupid drills with the palace guard, it was that I had learned how to punch without breaking my fingers, and besides, the sting in my knuckles was doubtlessly what I deserved for being hasty and unjust.
Yorzim studied me for a moment, then dropped his gaze and said, "As you wish."
I nodded, then turned to Elâl again. The bleeding had stopped by now, and in spite of the bruises, Elâl seemed perfectly cheerful now. He grinned at my apology, a little sheepish, perhaps, and said that he was grateful that I had not changed my mind. It did nothing to alleviate my guilt.

But I decided to push it back for the moment. "We'll talk properly about this - and some other stories I've heard today - in the evening," I said, loud enough for the others to hear. "But now we really need to take care of our first... client." After I had seen how Yaphadin's family had treated the dead man, it did not feel right to refer to him simply as a body. He'd been a man, just yesterday, a father and brother, grandfather and uncle, and he had clearly been beloved by his relatives, and even after his death they had wanted to see him - well. Not happy, because there was no happiness in death, but content. Whether or not the dead of Umbar really came back to haunt the living, I felt obliged to honour my agreement with Gulmar, and no harm would come from it.

So I explained, as quickly as I could, what I had learned about Yaphadin, and asked Dârujan how to go about finishing the rites as Gulmar had demanded. As it turned out, all of my Umbarian staff - apprentices and servants and guards all - knew how those rites worked, since they had all participated in them for some of their own relatives. It required lighting candles around the body and reciting some prayers (not, I hope, to the same terribly gods who had demanded human sacrifices in the past, but it was not the right moment to enquire about that), which the apprentices did, once we had cleaned up from the road (and the fight). We also had to make a sort of infusion of honey and laurel and wine. It tasted terrible, but fortunately we only had to take a tiny sip before pouring the rest out as a libation for the departed spirit, who supposedly liked that stuff. Then we could extinguish the candles and carried Yaphadin down into the catacombs so that they could finally earn that name. In the evening, we'd need to have a long and uncomfortable conversation about our mutual misunderstandings and misjudgements. I hoped that it would ultimately clear the air, and that we'd be able to rebuild our relationship into something less frightening for all of us.

For now, we had work to do.