To their left, eastward, unfenced meadows stretched from the road to the Woldswater, a ribbon of silver glitter rimming the green. On their right, down from the western heights of the Icefang range, streamlets hurried to join the river, some crossed by shallow, splashy fords, others by sturdy timber bridges that thundered hugely under the hooves of the horses.
After the seventh such crossing, the catafalque turned west into a road that ran upward across green meadows into a valley extending into the mountains. On each side, the meadows gradually gave way to gray cliffs that grew higher the farther into the mountain they went, sheltering the valley on either side and joining at the western end in a vast, towering arc. Between the arms of this great escarpment a tall, sprawling gray building stood among gigantic, white-bolled trees.
“Netherfields,” said Abasio. “I am told this is where the duke’s parents lie, and theirs before them back to the time of Lythany, Huold’s daughter. Here Xu-i-lok will lie now, and when the time comes, here the duke will lie beside her.”
Xulai murmured, “What people keep this place? I have never met anyone at the castle who mentioned working at Netherfields.”
It was Precious Wind who answered. “No. The people who keep this place are brothers and sisters from Wilderbrook Abbey. It lies some distance east of us, across the river Wells and upward, upon the heights beyond the great falls. They come here a year at a time, some to maintain this holy place, some to say their prayers and perform the rites that have been performed here for a thousand years or more, some armed men to protect the others, and when their term of service is over, they return to the abbey and another group comes to replace them. The place is never untenanted, never unguarded.”
The gray building looked large even at a distance, and it proved to be both larger and farther away than it had appeared. It was some time before the catafalque went through the heavy gate in the surrounding wall and drew up in the forecourt. The abbey doors, tall doors made of heavy planks strapped with iron, stood open at the foot of the square tower. Outside them, eight gray-robed and hooded brothers stood, moving immediately toward the catafalque to take up the coffin. Others, white-garbed men and women, moved behind them, singing words Xulai did not know in a strange melody that she had never heard. They went up the steps, through two sets of doors, and into a long room, arched high, with colored windows at the very tops of the arches, so angled that sunlight fell upon the floor and upon their bodies as they moved along it, jeweling them with multicolored light. On the walls were carved figures of those who had ruled in Wold, silently guarding the crypts below the floor. One of these had already been opened, its great slab of stone lying at one side, the leathern lifting straps folded neatly atop it.
The bottom of the crypt had been strewn with fragrant herbs and the walls of the crypt had been newly whitewashed. These pale surfaces too were stroked with rainbow colors from the high windows, jeweled shards of light falling upon stone, upon robes and faces, upon the white coffin being carried down the aisle. Xulai, as was proper for a soul carrier and as she had been instructed by Precious Wind, laid her hands upon the coffin for a long moment while trying to think of nothing at all. When she stepped away, the coffin was lowered, and the duke knelt beside the opening to drop an offering of flowers together with the glittering golden crown made in the shape of a branch of fluttering leaves. This crown of golden leaves was reserved for the Duchess of Wold. His people knelt around him, murmuring prayers to this deity or that helpful spirit as they were moved to do. From somewhere above them a high voice began to sing, soon joined by others, a hymn in that same unknown language. Though her head was bowed and her eyes closed, Xulai felt her spirit floating upward, lifted and made buoyant by the song. She had thought she would cry, but she could not cry while the music went on. It was too soon over.
Those who had borne the coffin were joined by as many more to draw the heavy stone into place, its surface already carved:
Here lies Princess Xu-i-lok of Tingawa,
Wife of Justinian, Duke of Wold.
Young in years but old in wisdom;
Her soul is in the keeping of her people.
“I will remain here tonight,” the duke said to no one in particular, his voice choked and indistinct. “Xulai, you will return with your protectors and the Wold folk.”
And so it ended. Great Bear gathered her up as though she were an armload of laundry; behind her she heard the ponderous shrieks as the straps were removed and the stone was levered into place. Precious Wind followed them out to the small carriage where a small group waited for her: young Bartelmy Fletcher, with a flower in his hand for her. Oldwife Gancer. Her friend Nettie Lean, the seamstress. Cook. Abasio. While Abasio looked on, Xulai allowed herself
