Normally she would never venture this far into Gridania, but the tunnel she had found on the Thanalan border had led her steadily northward, relying on the shifting air currents and the nearly imperceptible change in her footstepsâ echoes to keep her on the right path. No living Duskwight had walked these halls in a hundred years or more, but somethingâHydaelyn?âurged her onwards. Sheâd paused periodically to map out her path; now she stood in front of an ancient Gelmorran altar, staring at the carefully incised serpent-and-ghostmaw sigil and the dried offerings, and imagined the looks on the de Nevellesâ faces.
A heartbeat. A fire, burning under the earth.
Slowly, she took her glove off and put her hand on the cold stone.
Stone chisel, a steady tap-tap-tap, and wide, weathered hands. The man who holds the tools is older, perhaps her fatherâs age, with skin the color of basalt; he looks kind but a little tired, and his long ears droop. Gently, he smooths the stone dust away. âThere. All finished.â
âFather, are you still working on that?â A young woman, long ears bedecked with rough topaz, stands in the doorway. In the dim light, her robes and eyes gleam gold.
The craftsman stands up, smiling at her. âIâve finally finished. Your grandmother has a grave worthy of her at last, donât you think?â
She is silent, eyes thoughtfully downcast. âI think she would be proudâbut she would scold you, Father, you know youâre supposed to be resting. Your lungsââ
âBah!â Itâs so like Ritanelleâs father that she feels something clench painfully in her chest. The old man laughs, reaching out to sling an arm around his daughterâs shoulder. âIâve many years yet to see you rule, child. Come, âtis time for your coronation.â
The same altar, but different nowâglowing flora has been coaxed to grow along the walls and spill from every crack in the stone, bathing the room in a dozen different colors. The walls are set with mosaics of pale mica and shining gemstones, glittering where they catch the light. This is is still a tomb, but the living have built it into something more.
She hears the approaching footsteps before the procession rounds the corner. Six strong men carry one stone coffin; their faces are masked, but in the Echo grief rolls off them in waves. As they set their burden down in front of the altar, an old woman with a wreath of ghostmaws comes forward. Her robes are a black so dark they seemed to absorb the light; her bare feet make no sound.
âGods above and gods below, hear me! Today we lay to rest Queen Glastinelleâshe who was strong and wise and glorious, she who was a light in the darkness. We call upon you to consecrate her rest, that she may sleep with her ancestorsâ clay.â
Is it her imagination, or are the flowers glowing a bit brighter? Either way, the old woman seems satisfied; a faint smile flits across her face as she turns to the pallbearers. One of them is trying to still his shuddering ears, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. âThere is time to mourn later. Now, we dance to remember her life, as she would have wanted.â
As the men file out, music begins to play in the room beyond. Even the first faltering notes, underlaid by steady drums, make her want to dance.
The flowers are dead, and the room that should have been full of mourners paying respects or telling their ancestors all the things they were missing is nearly empty. Its only occupant is a young man standing at a dusty niche, gloved hand resting on the stone. Even through his skinâs natural gray tint, he looks unhealthy and exhausted. His voice is a whisper, such that she has to strain to hear it. ââŚGrandfather, itâs getting worse. The fightingâgods below, yesterday Seuma accused the conjurers of lying to our faces and one of their bodyguards drew his blade, it took three of us to stop it. Every day, more of our people leave, and IâI do not know what can stop them. Please.â She watches as he crumples to his knees, resting his forehead on his grandfatherâs tomb. âTell me what to do.â
Someone is coming; the young manâs fear spikes cold through her before stilling, for the newcomer looks so much like him that they must be brothers. His clothes are different, thoughâwhites and pale creams, shades that have never been popular in Gelmorra as they donât last long underground. Heâs carrying a heavy rucksack and a long blade at his belt, and his voice is hard. âI came to tell you Iâm leaving.â
His brotherâshe thinks of him as the mournerâscrambles to his feet, staring incredulously at him. âYou promised us! You love this city!â
âThis city?â Thereâs a hand on his sword now. âThis pit in the ground? The elementals will help us build a new one!â
The mourner reaches out a hand, beseeching, but his ears are pinned back in anger. âHow could you abandon us?! Our people, our heritageâdo they mean nothing to you?!â Betrayal pulses through herâa son/a brother/my brother/uncle to my children, how could you?
He takes a step backwards, shaking his head. âThe conjurers tell us such wondersâthe elementals are offering us so much, brother!â
Gloved hands grab for his brotherâs arm, and his voice trembles. âThey offer you chains! The cup they give you is poisonâas sure as an adderâs fangs! And youâre going to drink from it?â
He wrenches away, eyes wild and furious. âIâm going to be free!â
A drawn sword. A cry of pain. Blood splattering the stone.
The young man stares silently down at his brotherâs corpse for a long while before turning and walking away. Thereâs no one stopping him from leaving now.
Dust again, bones long since crumbled. A diremite skitters over the stone, mandibles clicking. It is the most interesting thing the altar has seen in two hundred years.
She surfaced slowly, head pounding in time with her heartbeat. At some point sheâd crumpled to lean against the stone; the cold of it helped a little, but it didnât calm her racing heart. My city, she thought, and then My people. Love, honor, betrayal, abandonmentâthese things are mine too. Thank you, Hydaelyn, for letting me see I am a daughter of the deep earth.
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