Chapter 31 Epilogue 1 The Ceremony
Osric
“A ceremony,” repeated Osric.
“Yes,” said Cíele.
“At Swanstone.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m invited, as a guest of honour.”
“Yes.”
“Have they forgotten I’m a Fyren?”
“Tristane has been invited, too,” said Cíele. As a final shock to Osric’s system, the deofol added, “She said she’d come.”
“Has the Haelan Order collectively descended into lunacy?”
“Into a state of truce, rather.”
“Shocking.”
“Will you come?”
“No.”
“Aurienne said to imagine her on her knees, begging.”
Osric did so. He was minimally moved. Aurienne was not pliable enough to get on her knees and beg, physically or morally.
“When is it?”
“Monday. Noon. Broad daylight.”
“No,” said Osric.
“We’ll see you there,” said Cíele.
The deofol butted its forehead to his before disappearing.
Osric went to the ceremony. Obviously.
Monday afternoon found him at Swanstone’s portcullis, where Aurienne awaited.
“You’re late,” she said, but it was with unusual leniency.
She was wearing some sort of ceremonial Haelan robes today, more elaborate than her usual habit. Long feathers, white on white, were embroidered into the material, and made her look like an angel, freshly descended from some heaven or other.
She slipped a gentle hand into the crook of his elbow as she walked him in.
“Are you sure this is wise?” asked Osric.
“No. But hearts aren’t brains.”
It felt strange to be entering the Haelan headquarters by the main gate, rather than by a dodgy route over roofs.
“You know, my plan was always to come here and steal my money back from you,” said Osric.
“What changed?” asked Aurienne.
“Me.”
Aurienne squeezed his arm.
They walked on in silence until Osric added, “Also, with the new wards, I simply couldn’t get in.”
This earned him a black look.
They arrived at the entrance of Swanstone’s largest courtyard, where the goddess Frīa’s stone arms arced skywards, flanked by two massive Aer in flight. At the sight of hundreds of Haelan milling about in their white robes, Osric balked. He fought an impulse to dive into the nearest shadow.
“Hel. Look at them all. What am I doing here?”
“You’re a distinguished guest,” said Aurienne.
“I’m a Fyren.”
“And your actions saved more lives than I have in my entire career. Including my own. Come.”
Aurienne introduced him to a number of absolute boffins: Prendergast and Abercorn, the two other Heads of the Haelan Order; a dozen Haelan who directed a dozen departments; her colleagues from the Centre for Seith Research, who had heard of him and his miraculous recovery from seith rot, and actively refrained from undressing him and examining him where he stood.
With varying levels of warmth, he exchanged greetings with others he knew. Dinadan, the leader of the Wardens, told him that he was a hero, and promptly broke his fingers with her handshake. Xanthe called him a priceless imbecile and gave him an enormous hug.
He was formally introduced to Quincey, Aurienne’s assistant, whom he remembered as an owlish man, who remained owlish, and called him Mr. Fyren, sir.
“You saved us,” said Quincey, placing a glass of wine in Osric’s broken hand.
“No hard feelings about the knocking out, eh?” asked Osric.
“What knocking out?”
“Never mind.”
A crowd of Ingenauts showed up, including Perfect Aedan. Osric avoided the lot of them.
He tasted the wine. It was not excellent. It was not even good. It was fiercely average. It would have to do, because a voice called, “Mr. Hungwell!” and it was too similar to Aurienne’s to be ignored. He downed the wine.
Aurienne’s parents, Radia and Rosbert, had just arrived. Radia, in a fuchsia dress, exchanged waves with her fellow Ingenauts and made a beeline for Osric. Rosbert, Aurienne’s mild-mannered, professorial father, followed, flower on lapel and cane in hand.
“You put the Radia in radiant,” said Osric as he bowed.
Rosbert said, “Oh—that’s very good,” as Radia received the compliment with an inclination of the head.
After a bit of small talk, Osric determined that Aurienne’s parents had not been updated on his status, nor his real name, and that they firmly believed him to be here in his capacity as a scalpel merchant.
Osric looked for a cue from Aurienne, but she was presently being manhandled by Dinadan and did not offer advice.
“What a state the place is in,” said Radia, looking about Swanstone’s courtyard, which was still partially in rubble from the fight. “My Order will be lending the Haelan a few of our master builders to help with the reconstruction.”
Rosbert examined a piece of rock. “Such a pity. There were rich lichen assemblages on the stonework, unique to this area.”
“Apparently some of the Fyren Order came to help during the fight,” said Radia. “Quite heroic. There are a few good eggs among them.”
Radia, her eyes on Osric’s gloves, expressed concern that his eczema hadn’t cleared up. Rosbert helped him develop an understanding of lichen population dynamics in littoral zones. Osric stood there like the Good Egg that he was.
Radia hooked her forefinger to Osric’s arm and drew him in close. “Are you and my daughter still together?”
“Yes,” said Osric.
“I knew it,” said Rosbert. “I knew you were different.”
A stage had been placed at the foot of Frīa’s statue. There was movement on it now; important people were stepping onto it. Osric, apparently an important person, heard his name called.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you, because you’re about to find out,” said Osric.
Radia and Rosbert leaned in. “What is it?”
“I love your daughter. She loves me, apparently. Hard to believe. I’m still unconvinced that that part isn’t a dream.”
Radia blinked in the face of this emotional effusion. “But—but that’s lovely.”
“Osric,” called Aurienne from the stage. “You’re wanted. We’re about to begin.”
Osric waved at her and turned back to her parents. “Yes, terribly beautiful. Also—small, minor point—there’s something you should know about me. My surname isn’t Hungwell. It’s Mordaunt. And I’m not actually a scalpel merchant.”
Quincey popped into existence at Osric’s elbow. “I am so sorry to insist, but you really must get on the stage, Mr. Fyren, sir.”
Radia said, “Mr. What?”
“That’s the minor detail—” Osric was tugged away by Quincey. “I’m a Fyren.”
Radia’s and Rosbert’s eyes flew wide as Osric was whisked away.
Osric felt thoroughly out of place on the stage. Tristane was still absent (she had said she would come, the liar) and so left him as the sole Dusken Path walker on a stage full of Bright Path spods.
Swanstone’s courtyard was full of Haelan, Wardens, Ingenauts, Leyfarers, and, in a dim corner, a handful of Hedgewitches.
Diverse speeches were given, commemorating the victims of the Dreor plot—the children who hadn’t made it; the Druids, trapped and killed in their own laboratories; the dozen Haelan who had fallen in defence of the ramparts.
Prendergast took the stage to thank the Wardens particularly.
“The Haelan Order owes possibly the very survival of our Order to the Wardens. We have long been allies and friends. We never imagined our bond would be tested to the extent that it was. We saw courage in its purest form: eight Wardens holding the line against over a hundred Dreor. We speak the names of the fallen Wardens and remember them: Solace, Tenet, Hraith, and Beorgan.”
A minute of solemn, respectful silence followed.
“And we speak the names of those defenders who were here to the very last, and who have honoured us with their presence today: Verity, Haven, Ataraxia, Echo.”
These Wardens, onstage, received bows from the audience.
“To commemorate the Warden Order’s courage and self-sacrifice in the defence of the Haelan Order,” continued Prendergast, “it is our honour to unveil this new addition to Swanstone.”
He swept his hand towards a large draped-over form to the right of Frīa.
The drapery came off to reveal a massive stone auroch, his horned head lowered in warning.
He was flanked by shields bearing the Warden Order’s tācn.
On the shields were inscribed the names of the Wardens who had fallen in Swanstone’s defence.
The Wardens were touched. Hands were pressed to hearts. Dinadan sent a difficult, tearful smile towards Prendergast.
“We must also thank another Order—an Order which I never thought I would thank, in my seven decades on this earth,” said Prendergast. “In the moment when the night seemed darkest, help came from the darkest night. The Haelan Order marks its deep gratitude to the Fyren Order.”
On Frīa’s left side stood another form shrouded in drapery. An apprentice pulled the drapery off, unveiling an enormous hellhound, her teeth bared, her horns curving wickedly, her skeletal face pointing to the sky.
“It’s a good likeness,” came a voice.
There were gasps on the stage. Tristane had just materialised among them—from which shadows, Osric did not know. It was high noon.
“Absolute rager of a party,” said Tristane to Xanthe with a jut of the chin towards the sombre Haelan.
“It’s a commemorative ceremony,” said Xanthe.
Tristane descended from the stage. Her boots rang on the flagstones as she walked towards the hellhound. Her black hair glistened under the sun. Her gaze travelled over Frīa’s statue with contempt. When she reached the hellhound, she stopped. Silence reigned in the courtyard.
She stroked it between its stone ears. “I like it.” Over her shoulder she said, “The Fyren Order accepts your thanks.”
Tristane gave the hellhound a last scratch between the ears and disappeared.
The Haelan presenters regrouped after a bit of discombobulated muttering among themselves. A long series of thanks followed—to Paediatrics and Virology for their tireless work, to the Ingenaut, Leyfarer, and Hedgewitch Orders for coming to Swanstone’s assistance at the end of the fight.
Xanthe took centre stage. “Before us are days of uncertainty. The balance between the Orders has been thrown. We discovered that the Dreor Order plotted and carried out something unthinkable, with repercussions not only on other Orders but on civilian populations—and children, at that. We found that the monarchs of some of the Tīendoms were involved. The fallout of these upheavals is still unclear.”
Xanthe turned to Osric and Aurienne. “There are two individuals who merit especial gratitude in exposing the truth. They have done much work in shadow and secrecy—work that was undertaken at great risk to themselves and with little thanks. They are Aurienne Fairhrim of the Haelan Order and Osric Mordaunt of the Fyren Order.”
Osric felt the pressure—exceedingly uncomfortable, for one in his line of work—of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him.
Aurienne gave his hand a comforting squeeze, then stepped forward, and pulled him with her.
He resisted. Prendergast gave him a nudge.
He resisted more. The Warden called Haven gave him a push too powerful to resist.
“I will not be giving a speech,” muttered Osric to Aurienne.
“Don’t. I will. I’ve got something important to say,” said Aurienne.
The gleam of determination in her eye made him nervous.
She maintained her grip on his hand as she went to the front of the stage amid applause. She stood proud-necked, her silver epaulets flashing in sunlight. Her ceremonial Haelan robes outlined her figure to her waist, then fell full-skirted to the ground.
She reached her arms out to the crowd to silence them and looked briefly like a smaller version of Frīa.
“Swanstone is first and foremost an institution of research,” she said.
“A place of discovery. Through all of this loss and pain, I’ve discovered that heroism comes in different forms. In the courage of the children fighting the Pox.
In the indefatigable work of Paediatrics and Virology.
In the Wardens holding the line to the very last. And—most surprisingly—in the form of a Fyren.
“Our Orders are in many ways one another’s mirror image.
Our tācn place us at diametrical opposites.
Life and death. Beginnings and ends. Neat boxes.
Easy distinctions. Perhaps too easy. Our job as researchers is to interrogate preconceptions.
Before meeting Osric Mordaunt, I didn’t interrogate them. I simply accepted.”
Aurienne tugged off Osric’s glove. She raised his left hand to the crowd. “In the past six months, this tācn has saved more lives than we will ever be able to account for. Thousands. Possibly tens of thousands.”
The crowd was silent, but it wasn’t a shocked or outraged silence—it was the same grave, respectful silence that had followed the naming of the Wardens.
“He has changed my understanding of what it means to walk the Bright and Dusken Paths,” continued Aurienne. “I know now that they parallel each other. They sometimes cross over. At times, they merge into one.”
“Are you so determined to be sentimental?” muttered Osric.
“I’m determined to say the truth,” whispered Aurienne.
She turned back to the crowd. “We discovered that the Pox was a manufactured plague thanks to him. The children rescued from Dreor incubators are recuperating in our wards thanks to him. And at the very last, when things were so dire, he came to Swanstone. I’m standing here thanks to him. ”
The crowd applauded.
“Please don’t degenerate into eulogy,” whispered Osric, who could feel himself reddening.
“I will say what’s in my heart,” came Aurienne’s returning whisper.
“You had better stop.”
“No.”
“Stop, or I shall kiss you right on your provoking mouth.”
“In front of everybody?”
“In front of Frīa and everyone.”
The crowd quieted. With a defiant look at Osric, Aurienne spoke again. “I’ve learned that goodness isn’t about who you are or what tācn you bear, it’s about choices. This man—” Aurienne stepped up to Osric and took his face in her hands. “This man made the right choices. Good choices.”
There were tears in her eyes. She drew his face closer to hers. She was going to kiss him, in public. She was mad.
He was going to let her. He was mad.
“And I love him,” she finished.
He kissed her right on her provoking mouth.
Radia and Rosbert stood speechless. Dinadan gurgled something incoherent. Cath and élodie clung to each other. Xanthe wiped away a tear.
Osric cared about none of it.
Time slowed. He pressed his lips to Aurienne’s and she kissed him back.
Then came an eruption of cheers—a storm of applause and shrieks.
Xanthe made them clasp their hands together and lifted them up—Aurienne’s smile was brighter than the wild sun.
Osric stammered that he wasn’t worthy of her—she kissed him again and, laughing, asked him not to be an idiot.
Her hands threaded into his hair. She was all dimples and shining eyes.
He lifted her against him. Her skirts swept around his legs.
In that moment, he knew sheer, exultant joy. There was magic in the air. This was another thin place; to kiss her was to be on the edge of a new world, a glowing, luminous one, no longer fractured by Order or Path or tācn or dogma, where things could be whole.