Free Children of Enchantment by Anne Kelleher Bush Page A

which red-tinged mucus still dribbled. Dark blood spooled down his
     chin from a corner of his mouth. Both of his secondary arms were splayed outward, his primary arms clenched in fists on his
     chest. Sighing, she leaned against the door frame as her two human attendants peered around her.
    “There was nothing you could have done for him, Rever’d Lady,” whispered Mharri, her pale eyes in her ancient face soft with
     sympathy.
    “No.” The old woman was right. But why did she feel so defeated, as though this were one more burden laid across her shoulders,
     a burden which she had no way to bear? She looked around the cool white room. “The body will have to be burned—everything
     he touched will have to be burned.” As she was speaking, she heard a new commotion outside—the sound of pounding hooves and
     eager shouts of greeting. Everard had come.
    “Rever’d Lady?” One of the Mutens across the room gestured toward the water buckets. “Our supplies of soap and clean linen
     are very low. If we must see everything is washed, is it possible—“
    “Of course. I’ll see more are sent over from the laundry.” Suddenly she felt very weary. There was so much to do, and so few
     to do it. “Only humans handle the body, do you understand?” She spoke more harshly than she intended, and instantly she regretted
     it. “I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular. “I’ll be back to say the rites after I’ve seen my brother.”
    Later, as the sun slipped like a red disk behind the rounded western hills, Jesselyn stood within the circle of the firelight,
     and recited the ancient burial rites of the Muten tribes in a language liquid with vowels and meaning. The wind-whipped flames
     leaped high in all directions, obscuring the dark shape of the funeral pyre at the center.
    Throughout the ceremony, she was conscious of Everard’s reassuring bulk beside her, his very presence comforting in a way
     the old words could never be. As she lowered her arms from the final blessing, Everard shifted on his feet. He was a big man;
     beside him the Mutens were dwarfed and she herself felt child-sized. Of all her many brothers and sisters, only Everard contacted
     her. Her work among the poorest and the lowliest of the Mutens had made her a pariah among her own people. Abruptly she realized
     she had no idea what the reason for his visit was, or where he might be going. He had come provisioned for a long trip. As
     the crowd slowly dispersed, he tilted her chin up. “You look tired, Jessie,” he said, breaking the silence.
    She shrugged. “A lot has happened lately—refugees of the rebellion arrive every day from the South, sometimes as many as two
     or three dozen. It must be horrible down in At-land.”
    There was another long silence, and finally Everard plucked at her sleeve. “Come. A cup of hot spiced cider will do you good.”
    “I’m sorry. We’ve no spices—I traded the last of them to the Mayher of Bartertown to buy us a little peace.”
    “I brought you more. And don’t worry—that lordling will not trouble you again. I encountered his minions on my way here, much
     to their regret.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pressed her close to his side, and for a while she stood content.
     At last she drew away and managed a smile in the flickering light.
    “Spiced cider sounds good.”
    As they turned to go, Mharri approached, her back bent beneath the ragged shawl she wore against the evening chill. “Rever’d
     Lady, great lord.”
    “What is it?” asked Jesselyn, preparing to ask the woman to wait until the morning. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought
     she saw Sera pause in the shadows, just beyond the periphery of the light.
    “There’s been no chance to give you this, Rever’d Lady. But the poor soul—he had this in a pouch around his neck. He was clutching
     it when he died. We found it when we carried him out to the pyre. It looks like the sort of thing the Children use