Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) by Jordan MacLean Page B

Renda approached the pew where her family and
Gikka sat before the little veiled bier, she moved through these currents of
pain and guilt, not sure how much of what she felt was her own.  More than
enough, well more than enough.
    Beneath the veil, amid tiny fragrant bouquets of rosebuds,
sprays of brilliant doucetels and snowberries all in white, Renda saw the
little girl’s body looking more peaceful than she could have hoped, and beneath
the tearing pain in her heart, she was grateful to the maids for their
efforts.  Somehow, they had bound Pegrine’s trunk to give her body a more
lifelike form beneath the white lace of her gown.  Her arms and legs had been
put straight, with her hands crossed peacefully over her chest to hide their
missing fingertips.  Even her face had been smoothed out of its agony, and with
the soft glow of a blush on her cheeks, Renda could almost believe that the
child lay asleep.  The illusion was not perfect, but it was enough.
    The family stayed a while in the chapel, offering their own
poor prayers for Pegrine’s soul to speed its way through the stars and leave
this place, a Brannagh daughter, a fitting gift from B’radik to Verilion, but
they all knew the truth.  B’radik had no bishop at the temple now; just as no
one stood before them to direct their prayers, so no one stood to consecrate
the child’s grave.  Especially given the manner of her death, she could not be
sealed within her niche, nor even her bier set directly upon any stone of the
vault, until a proper bishop could come, and none was within a tenday’s ride of
the castle.  Until then, she would lie on her funeral bier within the vault
over a thick black cloth to keep her unsanctified flesh from desecrating the
whole of the crypt.  Pegrine would go to an unhallowed grave, unprotected and
alone against its dangers, until a new bishop could come to Brannagh.
    When at last the family followed the little girl’s body into
the vault, Renda and Gikka carried the bier.  Lady Glynnis chose the child’s
temporary resting place herself and set the black cloth over the sarcophagus of
Lexius, the first Sheriff of Brannagh, in the hopes that his formidable spirit
might protect little Pegrine. Then they settled the funeral bed atop it.
    So dark, the crypt, thought Renda.  So bleak and chill.  But
Pegrine had never been afraid of the dark, not the way Renda had as a child;
Renda supposed she would not mind it so much.  What nonsense, to think that she
still inhabited the flesh they set here to rest.  She was surely gone, sped
through the stars upon their prayers and wrapped in Verilion’s own cloak
against the cold.  Pegrine, at least, was at peace. 
    Even so, the mausoleum seemed overflowing with sorrow, as if
the many dead sheriffs and their kin mourned with the family at Pegrine’s
death. 
    Renda prayed over Pegrine’s bier for a time before she
lifted the veil and placed the bloodied wooden sword into the little girl’s
hands.  For a moment, only a moment, she fancied that the child’s hands opened
to receive her gift, grateful that her Auntie Renda could do her this last
service.  But when Renda looked again, the sword lay flat beneath Pegrine’s
mutilated hands, sinking sickeningly against the bandages that filled out her
body and bloodying the gown that the maids had worked so hard to keep white.
    At last, tears spilled over Renda’s gown of mourning, not
the tears of honest grief but of futility.  Her revenge had meant nothing,
changed nothing.  Pegrine was still dead.
     
     

Five
     
     
    S he
missed the sting of sweat and blood in her eyes that cut streaks through the
grime on her face.  She could feel it now, when she closed her eyes, that and
the close, sweaty heat of her armor that seemed to weigh nothing when she
fought.  In her dream, she saw herself look down at the unmarred peplum on her
armor and she smiled.  The battle was yet to come.  She had not missed it.
    She did not flinch as a