The priest stomped the heel of his staff on tile. Once. Twice. One strike of the staff for each making of the world.

“Make the hallowed farewell,” he said. “But do not mourn. For we will all be born again with the coming of the Third Dawn and walk once again with those we have lost.”

The choir of veiled serenes raised their voices in hymn. The front ranks of the congregation broke from ordered rows and approached the oaken casket for the hallowed farewell. Despite the priest’s words, this was a moment only for family and friends. Malachi half expected the priest’s hand on his own shoulder; the slow, solemn shake of the head. In the event, he took his place behind Rosa and began the long shuffle to the waiting casket without complication.

Rosa offered no acknowledgement. Indeed, she’d spoken fewer than a dozen words since their arrival. Her manner remained stiff and cold, and she seemed a stranger in many ways. Not least because Malachi couldn’t recall when last he’d seen her exchange a uniform for a formal gown.

“Kasamor would have hated this,” he murmured. “He’d have wanted a party, not a wake.”

“He left detailed instructions the very first time we went into battle,” she replied. “No incense, no dirge and no priests. Serenes? Serenes he didn’t mind, though I shudder to think why. I told Ebigail. She ignored me.”

Of course she had. Malachi cast his gaze to where the elder Lady Kiradin now parted her veil and stooped to kiss the stylised features of her son’s golden death mask. Her poise, her whole manner, was of a matron striving against grief. Striving, but not overwhelmed. Her cheeks were dry of tears, and her expression as impassive. Ebigail Kiradin would love her son more in death than she ever had in life, for Tressia was built on the dead. On their deeds, and on their tombs.

Ebigail stood aside. Sevaka took her place, eyes downcast and rimmed red by clandestine tears. Shameful, perhaps, but Malachi was glad to see some genuine sorrow. The traditional kiss bestowed, Sevaka withdrew. An older man – a distant uncle – stepped forward.

“Hold.”

Ebigail’s pronouncement brought the line to a halt. Malachi frowned. The hallowed farewell was traditionally performed in silence, and without interruption.

“Roslava.” Ebigail extended a hand, scattering kith and kin. “You should be here. Come, child. Take your place.”

Malachi noted the same kindness was not extended to him, despite the greater tally of years that had bound him to Kasamor. Rosa stiffened, but made no move.

“Go,” Malachi whispered, and set a hand to the small of her back. “I’ll see you outside.”

Ebigail took Rosa’s arm and drew her towards the casket. She dipped her head to Rosa’s ear, whispered briefly, and withdrew.