Free The Weaver's Lament by Elizabeth Haydon Page A

memorization, than death rituals.”
    Meridion led his two nieces to the wall just inside the exhibit, where a mural of four riders on four strange horses was displayed.
    â€œThis is an old legend, popular among the adherents to the Filidic religion of the western continent, of which your aunt Laurelyn is the Invoker now,” he said solemnly, his blue eyes twinkling, their vertical pupils expanding excitedly. “I’m sorry you both couldn’t attend her investiture; it was truly an interesting ceremony, and only takes place rarely.”
    â€œWe were sorry as well,” said Cara as Evannii nodded in agreement. “We were still in Manosse when it happened.”
    â€œIt is one of those sorts of events that only gets attended by those who are nearby or if the weather cooperates,” Meridion said, opening up the case below the mural. “Unlike the kinds of celebrations that can be planned months or years in advance—such as the family summit we are all about to attend—when the Invoker dies, the Filids have death traditions that prescribe an almost immediate transition, including a fairly unique kind of funeral pyre. The Songs of Passage and the dirges that are sung for the high nature priest in a religion to which the entire western half of the continent, including nearly all of the Lirin kingdom, adheres are extraordinarily beautiful, as well as being heard only rarely.”
    â€œCan you tell us, Uncle, of this lore?” Evannii asked, pointing at the mural of the horsemen. “I have never seen anything about this in Manosse.”
    Meridion’s face lit up as it always did when he was discussing lore.
    â€œIt is believed in the tradition of the Filids that death has four different manifestations, as represented by these images,” he said.
    He pointed to the first one, a painting of a tall man with a restful expression on his face, which was pale as was his hair, a shade of white that reminded Evannii strongly of the moon. His eyes, however, were dark and devouring, as were the brows above them. The horse he was pictured atop appeared to be in the midst of constantly changing colors.
    â€œThis is the one that is most well known, which I find rather amusing, given that his body count may be the lowest,” he said impishly. “This is the manifestation of the Peaceful Death, the Lord Rowan, who is also known as Yl Angaulor, the Hand of Mortality. He is said to live beyond the Veil of Hoen, which is the Cymrian word for ‘joy,’ a place where time passes differently than it does on our side of the Veil. His wife, the Lady Rowan, is known as the Keeper of Dreams, the Guardian of Sleep, Yl Breudiwyr. They are considered sacred entities by physicians and healers, because it is said that if you seek their aid in a life-or-death situation, they may take you, or the person you are caring for, beyond the Veil to assist in healing that person.”
    â€œDo you know of anyone who has ever gone?” Cara asked.
    â€œA few,” said Meridion lightly. Both of your grandparents, and Constantin, the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, he thought, glancing at Rhapsody. “The Veil of Hoen is reputed to be a place between life and death, on this side of the Gate of Life. Those who are grievously injured are often healed and returned to this state of being. Those who are beyond their talents pass through the Gate of Life to the Afterlife, as does everyone eventually, the Filids believe. So, for purposes of this display, the Lord Rowan represents Peaceful Death.”
    He pointed at the others. The next was a more terrifying image, a large, muscular horseman, clad in armor from which spikes emerged, a whip of many tails in his heavy-gloved hand. He wore a war helm above a face that was half skeletal, half sunken, and rode a tall, broad steed that seemed to be formed of dark wind and fire.
    â€œThis is the manifestation known as the Wracked Death,” he said a little