January 24 – 1027 YD
Sevína appeared in Delus Palace cradling Brennan. Vilsonius abandoned the table and attempted to heal Brennan with her, but broken organs are like shattered glass. He faded from the light within a bloody minute.
Galluel heard the commotion and entered the Great Hall, listening as Sevína gave a disordered and hasty account of what she had seen in Offenure: the Princess drawing the bow, the Lenyol Beran together at what seemed to be a trial, the Custodin on his throne, and no notion of what Brennan’s crime had been—although she suspected the scripture she had given him was to blame—
__‘He is still bleeding.’ Galluel knelt and rested Brennan’s fallen hand on his chest, both of which were warm. ‘When did this occur?’
__Sevína and Vilsonius froze.
__Galluel examined their wordless exchange and hardened the silence.
__‘The Nevician ring allows weavers to work consciousness and wind together, and—move—’ Sevína felt Vilsonius’ gaze insist on ambiguity— ‘with—speed.’
__‘It is difficult, and dangerous for non-weavers. He could not have survived it in such a state.’ Vilsonius rocked back onto the cold marble floor by Sevína. ‘Although you knew he was beyond saving.’
__‘I acted to sweep him from danger. He had begged me to bring him here a fortnight ago. I acted too late.’
__Galluel spoke: ‘I will require a better explanation in time. It was right to return him to his homeland—’ Galluel lost herself and kissed Sevína’s head in heavy compassion, for the High Priestess was grasping her departed friend and weeping freely. ‘Let him be delivered to Miggest.’
Night reclaimed the land.
__Sevína presided over Brennan’s cremation in the burning yard of Delus Temple. Vilsonius accompanied her, and a handful of adherents aided in fuelling the pyre.
__‘Cross and enter in peace,’ Sevína requested of the night which fought the flames. Her words were echoed by those present.
__She stood in the warm evening as the stars drifted above. Someone offered a stool and shawl when only embers remained; and she sat, staring at the diminishing pyre, with the quiet turning of cogs ticking beneath a stillness of conscious thought.