Chapter Fourteen A Funeral for Small Things
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A FUNERAL FOR SMALL THINGS
D ESIL DID NOT speak to her on their journey home.
He’s upset at the way I killed the cub , Lythlet guessed. He never would’ve let me kill it if I was going to do it that way.
Had she really done anything wrong? It was a task that needed to be done by either one of them and she had simply stepped up in his stead.
The spectators loved her for it, and she’d secured the jackpot and their goodwill as a result.
But she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Desil wasn’t wrong either—his was probably the most humane of all the reactions in that arena.
They came to the rope ladder leading up to their kataka flat, and as she brushed her hand against it, she remembered what was in her pocket—the last remains of the cub. She paused. What should she do with it?
The answer came to her, and she let go of the ladder. Quietly, she said, “You head up first. I have some business to take care of down here.”
He looked concernedly at her but nodded.
Curving around the massive trunk, she came to a secluded corner at the edge of the kataka premises and squatted there on her heels to dig through the earth with her bare fingers.
Her fingernails were caked with dirt by the time she’d created a small hole.
She brushed it off before diving a hand into her pocket, digging out the horn stub.
The jagged edges pinched the skin of her fingers.
Gently pushing it into the earth, she said, “I’m sorry, little bear. I did not understand that you only meant to play.”
She was glad she was alone. Master Dothilos would’ve scoffed at the idea of having remorse for the death of a wild, unthinking beast, as would all the spectators.
“May the white wind guide your soul through the abyss, that you shall find rest in the halls of healing,” she continued anyway, reciting the prayers she’d heard so often at Ederi funerals growing up.
Another absurd thing to say—these prayers were not meant for sun-cursed beasts, who had no redeemable souls.
No amount of guidance would ever lead them to the halls of healing.
Yet Lythlet did not feel right simply saying nothing.
It’s not so easy abandoning mercy, she realized , even knowing I should.
Lythlet was drawing the rite of mercy in the air, twirling her first two fingers in a loop before touching them to the palm of her other hand, when she felt a presence lurking over her shoulder. She turned, frightened.
It was Desil, staring at her wide-eyed. “I was worried about you, so I came back down. What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” she said, embarrassed. Then, sheepishly: “I’m holding a funeral.”
He sank down on his knees, peering into the hole at the horn. “For the cub?”
She nodded, blushing. “I know it’s silly.”
“A little,” he agreed, giving her a small smile. But he sat on his haunches beside her and drew a rite of mercy of his own.
She took comfort in his presence, and they sat side by side for a long while, drawing the appropriate rites, of mercy, grief, divine intervention, and remembrance.
“I thought you were angry at me for killing it the way I did,” she said when they’d finished.
He paused before responding. “I was just surprised at how enraged you became. You normally kill the beasts as cleanly as you can, but you kept attacking the cub long after it had died. You weren’t yourself, and that scared me. Was I seeing a side of you I never knew existed, I wondered.”
“I’m no more capable of hiding a predilection for violence than you are,” she said to soothe him, but he seemed unconvinced—even a little apprehensive now, she realized from his tense shoulders.
In hindsight, perhaps it was distasteful to dismiss his concern so flippantly, especially to one who so despised the concept of petty violence against his fellow man.
She bowed her head, solemn again. “Desil, did I commit a sin today? I know one of the high commandments of the Poetics is to take not what cannot be returned by thine own hand.”
He sat quietly, and at long last, he shook his head. “You took the life of a sun-cursed beast, and that is not a sin. No bloodguilt lays upon you.”
She nodded, relieved. “It’s not like I killed a man,” she comforted herself.
Desil kept quiet, staring at the horn. After a moment, he raised his head. “Where did you and the match-master disappear to while I was washing up?”
“Up to the stands. He wanted to talk.” She faltered. She did not want to recount the match-master’s cruel words about him. “He was very complimentary of us. Said we’ve the makings of champion conquessors.”
“We or you?”
The question surprised her. She cast a cautious glance, but he didn’t seem upset. “Me,” she admitted.
He nodded, and she struggled to read his tone. “I thought as much. I barely fought today, anyway.” Silent for a moment, he then resumed: “Be careful with him, Lythlet. I think it’s plain enough to the both of us he’s not a good man.”
She glanced up at him. “He’s a swindler through and through, and I’d be the last to say he’s a pure-hearted fellow. But getting on his good side would only help us in the arena—and perhaps beyond, if he were to set us up with the right connections in life.”
Desil ran a hand through his hair, clearly unhappy with her response. “I know. But he’s just—I don’t get a good feeling about him, that’s all. Try not to talk too much with him.”
She pinched her lips and nodded—not in agreement, but in understanding. Desil means well, but if I were to listen to him, I’d been crippling our conquessing careers. All I need to do now is maintain my conviction and my momentum, and we’ll both be set up for brighter futures.
She began pushing dirt into the hole, burying the white horn once and for all.
As the dirt filled up layer by layer, she threw in a few more things: the image of those two little boys she’d brutally stabbed— may the white wind guide your souls —and the bitter sadness of the aggrieved child she had been.
A funeral for one became a funeral for many small things, and soon she was trying to heap into that hole anything that bothered her.
At long last, she was done. Desil pulled her to her feet, and they grappled their way up to their kataka flat.
Inside, she thumbed through their jackpot once again, counting every coin.
Every single coin, from the humble penny to the awe-inspiring white valir, was a symbol of the spectators’ faith in her.
I may not like what I became in the arena , she thought to herself , but I do like how I was rewarded for it.