scene.
‘The damned workmen left the hauling ropes strewn about,’ a mud-splattered
priest exclaimed as he scrambled out of the knee-deep mud-hole.
‘And the girl?’ Molin continued.
‘Thrown over there, from the look of it.’
Lifting his robes in one hand, Molin Torchholder led the acolytes and priests to
the indicated mud-pit. Illyra heard sounds she prayed were Dubro making his own
way to the safe shadows.
‘A hand here.’
‘Damned Ilsig mud. She weighs ten times as much now.’
‘Easy. A little more mud, a little sooner won’t affect the temple, but it’s an
ill thought to rouse the Others.’ Torchholder’s calm voice quieted the others.
The torches were re-lit. From her hideout, Illyra could see a mud-covered shroud
on the bier. Dubro had succeeded somehow: she did not allow herself to think
anything else.
The procession continued on towards the canopy. The rain had stopped completely.
A sliver of moonlight showed through the dispersing clouds. Torchholder loudly
hailed the break in the clouds as an omen of the forgiving, sanctifying,
presence of Vashanka and began the ritual. In due time the acolytes emptied
braziers of oil on to the shroud, setting it and the corpse on fire. They
lowered the naming bier into the pit. The acolytes threw symbolic armloads of
stone after it. Then they cut the ropes that held the cornerstone in its place
at the edge. It slid from sight with a loud, sucking sound.
Almost at once, Torchholder and the other two priests left the platform to head
back towards the palace, leaving only the acolytes to perform a night-long vigil