The sight was dazzling to eye and mind and reassuring as well. The geir was immediately recalled to her duties; her training and teaching returned to her. Color came to her pallid checks, she remembered the proper way to introduce herself and, after a few moments, quit trembling.
She gave her name, her clan name,* and that of her charge. This last name she spoke with a choke in her voice and was forced to repeat it before the Keeper understood. He searched swiftly through the repositories of his memory, found the name filed there, among hundreds of others, and ascertained that the soul of this young princess rightly belonged in the cathedral. (Difficult to believe, but, in this degenerate age, there were those elves of common blood who attempted to insinuate their own plebeian ancestors into the cathedral. The Keeper of the Door—through his extensive knowledge of the royal family tree and its numerous offshoots, both legitimate and otherwise—discovered the imposters, made them prisoners, and turned them over to the Unseen Guard.)
*Elves of other clans may become weesham, though only the Kenkari may serve in the cathedral. The weesham, who must be highly skilled in spirit magic, study with the Kenkari from the time they enter adolescence until they become adults (equivalent in human terms to the age of twenty). At this time, the geir are assigned to their charges, usually members of their own clans.
Now the Keeper was in no doubt and made his decision immediately. The young princess, a second cousin of the emperor on his father’s mother’s side, had been renowned for her beauty and intellect and spirit. She should have lived years longer, become a wife, mother, borne more such as herself to grace this world.
The Keeper said as much, when—the ritual ended—he admitted the geir into the cathedral, shut the crystal door behind her. He noticed, as he did so, that the woman almost wept with relief, but still glanced about her in terror.
“Yes,” replied the geir in a low voice, as if, even in this sanctuary, she was afraid to talk aloud, “my beautiful girl should have lived long. I should have sewed the sheets of her wedding bed, not the hem of her shroud!”
Holding the box in her open palm, the geir—a woman of around forty years—smoothed its intricately carved lid with her hand and murmured some broken words of affection for the poor soul held within.
“What was it struck her down?” asked the Keeper solicitously. “The plague?”
“Would it were!” the geir cried bitterly. “That I could have borne.” She covered the box with her hand, as if she could still protect the one inside. “It was murder.”
“Humans?” The Keeper was grim. “Or rebels?”
“And what would my lamb, a princess of the blood, be doing with either humans or the rebel scum!*” the geir flashed, forgetting in her grief and anger that she was speaking to a superior.
*Reference to the rebel elves, who were currently attempting to overthrow the Tribus empire.
The Keeper reminded her of her place with a look.
The geir lowered her eyes, caressed the box. “No, it was her own that killed her. Her own flesh and blood!”
“Come, woman, you’re hysterical,” stated the Keeper sternly. “What possible reason—”
“Because she was young and strong, her spirit is young and strong. Such qualities,” said the geir, tears trailing unheeded down her cheeks, “are more valuable to some in death than they are in life.”
“I cannot believe—”
“Then believe this.” The geir did the unthinkable. Reaching out her hand, she grasped hold of the Keeper’s wrist, drew him near to hear her low, horror-filled words. “My lamb and I always had a glass of hot negus before retiring.* We shared the drink that night. I thought it tasted odd, but I assumed that the wine was bad. Neither of us finished ours, but went to bed early. My lamb had been plagued with evil dreams…” The geir had to pause, to regain her composure.
*The geir never leave their charges, but remain at their sides, day and night, in case death should take them.
“My lamb fell asleep almost immediately. I was puttering about the room, sorting her dear ribbons and laying out her dress for the morrow, when a strange feeling came over me. My hands and arms felt heavy, my tongue dry and swollen. It was all I could do to stagger to my bed. I fell instantly into a strange state. I was asleep, yet I wasn’t. I could see things, hear things, yet I could not respond. And thus, I saw them.”