Free The Still by David Feintuch Page B

hurting me!”
    “Sorry, Pytor.” I loosened my grip.
    Behind us, within the second rank, walked Llewelyn and Joenne. I was amazed that Rustin chose to be absent. When I’d paid my respects, Llewelyn inclined his head with a stony stare that forbade any inquiry.
    I tried to suppress my hurt. Rust and I could have quietly weighed our plans during the long, slow processional, though Uncle Mar wouldn’t have been pleased to see him at my side in the front rank.
    The windswept hill was strewn with faded markers. The realm of Caledon had been knit for many generations before Varon of the Steppe seized it, and rulers with names ancient beyond ken were here laid to rest. From hand to hand, crown to crown, the Still had been passed.
    Pytor sobbed into my waist while the words of descent were chanted, and the ropes slowly loosed. Old Hester worked her way past nobles and gentry, rested her twisted fingers on his shoulder.
    Slowly, the coffin settled into the grave. Despite myself, I shivered. “See, Pytor? They’ve brought marigolds, her favorites. Send one to her, with me.”
    Unable to speak, he nodded, pressed tight against me while I made my way to the floral urns, picked out two stems to pluck. I gave him one, knelt in the damp earth beside the pit. “Throw yours in first, then I.”
    “Together.” His voice was a quavering reed.
    I held his hand and my flower, guided his forward. “Now.” We dropped the blossoms on the casket. Uncle Mar waited, his eyebrow raised.
    I nodded. Uncle Mar took the spade, poured a shovelful of earth onto the lowered coffin. I restrained a wild urge to leap in and brush it off. When he handed me the spade I’d have thrust it away, but that all eyes were on me.
    For an endless moment I stood motionless atop the pit. Then I dug into the earth, hurled a huge spadeful into the grave. Mar reached to take the shovel. Ignoring him, I ground the blade into the dirt, tore out another clod, flung it onto my mother.
    “Rodrigo.” Mar’s hand grasped at the haft. I shoved him in the chest with the flat of my palm, nearly sent him sprawling. I slashed at the ground, hurling chunks of dirt and stone into the pit.
    Murmurs of disbelief; voices calling. Pytor tugged frantically at my sleeve. I shrugged him off, dug anew.
    A gnarled, wrinkled hand on my neck. Sharp-nailed fingers pulled my face against a black garment, a familiar hand rubbed the small of my back. “There, boy. It’s done.” Insistent fingers pried the spade from my grip. “Leave him! Think ye that I know not still the soothing of him?”
    “Hester, let me—”
    “Not yet.” Firmly, she held me close, while around us the assembly dispersed.
    Finally, mortified, I pulled my nose from her garment, blinked in the sudden light. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
    She shrugged. “You did as you must. Take my arm. If I fall it’s the end of me.” Gingerly, we made our way through the rock-strewn field.
    She freed me at the safety of the path. I looked about; nearly all had gone ahead. “Where’s Pytor?”
    “Run back on his own, I expect. He never would abide my pace.”
    A figure detached itself from the bystanders, approached casually. “Rodrigo—” The groomsman, Kerwyn. He inserted himself between me and the Nurse, dropped his voice to a whisper. “Elryc sent me. Danger.”
    “Tell my gutless brother he can—what?”
    “Danger.” His words were almost soundless. “He said to meet him where you met him and Rustin last, and to bring Pytor.”
    “What’s happened?”
    “I don’t know. Elryc’s a strange child, and I’d have paid no heed but for the odd look he bore. Griswold said—well, no matter. You’d best find out what he wants.”
    I swallowed. Rust would know what to do, but where was he? “If this is a trick, some peasant jest, I’ll cut out your heart!” Without waiting for answer, I started down the trail.
    Hester caught at my arm. “You’re off? To where?”
    “Later, Nurse.” I