Chapter Text
It had been easy enough to find the municipal Ulismeire of Ulvanensee, in the end. The pair of them, Celehar and Vanet together, drew no attention at all as they made their way there: ordinary workmen wearing exhausted expressions and dustied clothes, to all appearances, merely visiting a cemetery. And the airmen of Amalo had many reasons to visit their cemeteries.
Celehar tried not to worry too much over what he would say to the prelate he found there. No such efforts would make him more eloquent, as he had long since learned. It was better simply to be honest, to rely on good faith and the direness of the situation to earn him some grace. But he had not spoken to any others in the priesthood since he had resigned his position in Aveio in disgrace, save of course the Archprelate.
He could not even remember those conversations after Evru’s execution, entire weeks of his life utterly swathed in a haze of grief and guilt and agony — he only knew that Teru Tethimar had refused to expel him from the priesthood, and somehow narrowly convinced him not to end his own life, for which he supposed he was finally actually grateful.
Goddesses of mercy, let him not be implicated in all the Duke Tethimel’s scheming, Celehar prayed, not for the first time. As far as he knew, the Archprelate was not allied politically to the rest of the Tethimada. All canons were supposed to give up those bonds of blood when they swore the vows of the priesthood, of course, but it was rarely so simple: among his cohort of novices, only Celehar’s family ties truly had been severed, dispossessed for taking up the calling. Most did not entirely forswear their households, especially those with names as powerful as Tethimar. But he had no reason to believe that the Archprelate would have betrayed the young emperor’s cause, either. And there was no one else he could think to reach out to. So Celehar was putting all his hopes in the goodness of two prealtes, one so high-ranking as to surely be barely aware of Celehar’s existence, the other both so low-ranking as to be helpless in matters of politics, and, more importantly, a complete stranger. Hast placed thy faith not in them, but in Ulis, he reminded himself, trying to find comfort in that.
Made’st thou thy own bed , as his grandmother had been fond of saying, and ‘tis thine to lie in.
Vanet had not made any mention prior that he knew this place, but Celehar supposed he must have; he certainly didn’t hesitate in the least, leading them both sure-footed to its iron gates. And yet, there was a reluctance about him, lips pressed tight, ears low, that Celehar did not think was only the weight of their greater task pressing down upon him.
It was still very early. Too early for the Ulismeire really to be open to the public: the holy hours of their god began at dusk, and ran into the night, and so morning visitors were rare. If there had been a funeral last night, and if the local Ulis’othala was lax on such matters, there was every chance that the othala and his juniors were still abed, in fact. Celehar had no way of knowing, and so – very conscious of himself, the whole time, and of Vanet skulking at his heels like a spooked cat – he had no choice but to pick his way through the rusted gating and to the front door of the temple complex itself. Not the private side door, to which he had always been accustomed: the public door, through which mourners, petitioners, and corpses entered, and at which he now knocked, hoping somewhat pathetically that someone would come to answer.
Several long minutes passed by in frosty silence. Then, just as Celehar was considering knocking again, the great black door with its moon-mask panelling cracked open halfway. On the other side was a sallow-faced elven youth of the kind the prelacy seemed always to be full of, even paler than most elves, blinking owlishly in the dawn light. He was all in black, of course, without ornament or jewellery or coat of office to indicate that he was the othala — but then, he was bleary-eyed, only barely dressed.
“Othala Chanavar?” Celehar asked, not optimistic. The youth blinked baffedly at him.
“…No, mer, he’s working in the back. May I help you?”
“We’re afraid we must speak with him at once.”
He spoke in the formal plural, and it was only then that the junior – the youth had to be a junior prelate, Celehar decided; surely he couldn’t be a curate – seemed to notice Vanet beside him. Whether it was the grim look on Vanet’s face, or the Curneise token displayed at his belt, he seemed startled by this.
“Um. All right, mers. I’ll show you through.”
Celehar had expected to be led into the chapel – thinking that perhaps the othala was busy with the endless task of transferring clean bones to revethmerai – but instead the youth closed the door behind him, edged past them, and brought them around the building to the cemetery proper.
It was not an attractive graveyard, as graveyards went. Celehar suspected that it was far older than it initially appeared, if only because of the sheer density of the graves: crowded into a space smaller than the average tenement were easily thousands upon thousands of plots, some in orderly rows, some squashed into corners where extra space had evidently been painstakingly carved out for them. The walls towered above head-height, granting some privacy for the mourners and the dead, but they were crumbling in places, much-patched; probably the benefice couldn’t afford to repair them, which was itself likely why the graves were so crowded in: municipal burial was cheap, expensive sunset funerals would be rare, and so the only way to raise money would be to physically fit in more burials. Celehar had some sense – either purely from long experience among the Ulineise clergy, or a part of his calling to Ulis itself; he did not interrogate the feeling enough to be able to separate the two – that the catacombs beneath them were truly, truly ancient, the god-maze far too dangerous to be walked by ordinary pilgrims, winding serpentine and dark and deep. But despite all this, it was neatly-kept, without any of the creeping neglect that always so worried Celehar, even so far south. Without proper care, such a packed burial place could very easily give rise to ghouls, and so it was a relief to be able to chart a great many signs of careful care.
The othala was on his knees amid the gravestones amid the gravestones, a basket of weeds and moss beside him, a scrubbing brush in his hands. He was the one tidying the graves, Celehar realised — which should not have been his job, and yet was a job that needed doing, and so here he was.
Perhaps irrationally, the sight of the man reassured Celehar a great deal. Here was one who cared for what must be done, and doing it correctly; Celehar had judged correctly, coming here, placing his trust in the guidance of his god.
As they came closer, the othala seemed to hear the crunch of their footsteps against the frozen ground; he peered up, but didn’t seem quite able to see them, even with the aid of his thick spectacles. He was dressed in the same unadorned blacks as his junior, goblin in stature and colouring, save only near-sighted yellow eyes so pale that they were almost white.
“Daibrohar? What’s toward?”
The junior trotted over to him.
“These men are here to see you, Othala — they didn’t say why.”
“Oh?”
Celehar came up to meet the prelate as he climbed up laboriously to his feet, bowing politely — but Vanet hung back, taking no step among the graves. The othala smiled pleasantly, dipped his head in a small bow back.
“Anora Chanavar, mers.”
“Thara Celehar.” He hesitated, had to wet his lips, and then forced himself to add, “Witness for the Dead.”
Both Othala Chanavar and the junior reacted with the kind of shock that Celehar had been expecting. He saw the boy’s mouth drop open; though he restrained himself a little better, the othala’s eyebrows still shot upward, visibly taken aback. Celehar couldn’t quite help but cast his eyes briefly back to where Vanet stood, observing: it was strange, to watch his young friend encounter two people who really knew what it meant to be a witness.
“I see,” said the othala, adjusting his spectacles, regarding Celehar with open curiosity now: taking in, Celehar thought, his exhaustion, his worker’s clothes, his state of disarray. “And may I ask, is this perhaps a new discovery?”
Celehar blanked on this question for a moment before he realised what Othala Chanavar meant. It couldn’t have been further from the truth: he had known that he was a witness almost his entire life, been in the service of Ulis since he was a child. But a great many people in his position did not have that privilege — they learned of their gifts too late, and had to teach themselves how to deal with them, overwhelmed, grieving, often in the midst of some awful tragedy. Clearly the othala thought he was one of these, having become aware of his calling from some awful accident at the A3 Works or some other manufactury.
“Ah, I - no, Othala. I apologise, for dissembling — I had been asked to Amalo on, on,” Imperial business, he almost said, and choked on the words, wincing at the awful self-importance of the phrase, even true as it was. “On… a matter of great importance.”
Although Celehar had only hinted at the real shape of the situation, Othala Chanavar seemed to sense the depth of what he was not saying, and looked even more surprised. Celehar had expected this, he supposed. Ulineise prelates were prohibited – or at least, strongly discouraged – from deception of any kind, on the grounds that it was both unbefitting to their role as trusted intermediaries between the dead and the living, and antithetical to their god, the god of mirrors and moonlight and secrets revealed. It was the sort of rule only to be contravened under the most extenuating of circ*mstances; he only hoped that the othala sensed that Celehar understood this, rather than thinking that he didn’t care. But of course, this man did not know him.
“And I am afraid that we need your help,” he concluded limply, again in the plural, indicating Vanet too.
“Well, then,” said Othala Chanavar gently. “If I may, then of course, I will. Let us consider this matter inside, Mer Celehar. Or, Othala Celehar?”
Celehar tried, and failed, to conceal a grimace.
“If you like,” he said uneasily. It seemed wrong for him to be addressed with such respect, considered so outdated and stuffy in the capital, and for all that it was the correct title, technically, he felt that he had given up his right to it along with his benefice. But there was no judgement on Othala Chanavar’s lined face.
“Very well.” He exchanged a few quiet words with his junior – who murmured in response to the prelate’s instructions, Celehar noted fondly, not yes, Othala, but yes, Anora – and then brought Celehar toward the smaller private door in the side. Vanet came up to meet them there, still keeping well clear of the graves themselves.
By now, Celehar really should have grown wise to the fact that Vanet knew everyone in Amalo, and everyone in Amalo knew him. It still managed to surprise him, on this occasion. As soon as they were close enough for his eyes to make out Vanet’s face, Othala Chanavar recognised him at once.
“Ah, you’re one of Lorëar’s boys, aren’t you?”
“Yes, zhornu,” replied Vanet, mutedly; he clasped the othala’s hand when he extended it. “Vanet.”
“Vanet, of course.” His voice was warm, genuine. “Do drop thy words; I’ve never known one of thy sort to stand on formality before.”
Vanet managed a wan smile in response to this, reminded perhaps that he would lose his sort, if all worked now as planned, but he replied well enough.
“Perhaps for a holy man.”
Othala Chanavar chuckled at this, leading them through into the gloomy interior of the Ulismeire, past the dingy-smelling stone steps that would lead to the catacombs and the god-maze, past the public receiving room, past the statue of Ulis-as-mourner and the michenothas beneath him, past the morgue where the bodies were prepared, through into a small back room that must served as his office.
“That is why I remember thee,” he carried on pleasantly as they went. “Thy reverence. Art always the one stood at the far edge of the services, then making thy duties at the graveside long after the others have gone. Thou dost pray, unlike most the others. Just not publicly.”
“‘Tis not the praying that’s the problem,” muttered Vanet. He glanced over to Celehar, added in an undertone, “I don’t like funerals, is all. Too many bad memories.”
Celehar nodded, more in understanding than agreement. He supposed he didn’t really like funerals, necessarily, either, although he was almost certainly more comfortable with them than Vanet, and he had very certainly attended far more. They had simply been a part of his duties for many years, familiar and rote; awkard, perhaps, in seeing so many people so distraught and trying to be nothing in return but appropriately solemn and consoling. He had been witnessing as long as he could remember: at first his cousins’ funerals, then his mother’s, viewing the dead in their coffins as his grandparents’ sect dictated, before he had even been able to form memories properly, before he had had words for it, before anybody realised why the child wailed so loudly through each service. Still, he did not experience the memories as particularly traumatic, no matter his distress at the time. It had been Ulis calling him, showing him glimpses of his purpose.
The only funeral that Vanet – Maia, then – could ever have attended would have been his mother’s. He had no one else, no other family; he had been ferreted away by the Curneisei already by the time his guardian was dead, and gods knew what the funeral of a man executed beneath attainder would have been. Alone, in all the world. He had been very young — but then, so had his mother.
If Chenelo Zhasan had survived her relegation, she would now have been around Celehar’s own age. He had only just ended his novitiate when she died. Poor, unlucky woman. He would not have wished Varenechibal IV’s wrath upon anybody, least of all a teenage girl, politically married to a hostile house, friendless in a foreign land. Small wonder she had not survived it. He had seen people waste away in despair over less.
“Here,” said Othala Chanavar, ushering them to the two battered armchairs that served as refuge for his petitioners. “I presume your important matter, Othala Celehar, is thine also, Vanet?”
“In more ways than could’st know,” Vanet replied, flat.
“Well, then.” Othala Chanavar took his seat across from them, behind the battered writing desk. “Whose story is it to tell?”
Vanet and Celehar exchanged a glance, heavy with the weight of what had transpired earlier that day: the revelations between them, and the knowledge of what must happen next. Vanet’s ears were pressed back low as he said,
“Mine, rightly. But — I cannot speak of it.”
Which meant, of course, that Celehar ought to speak on his behalf. But he found that he had no idea where to even start. The whole of it was too much. Who in their right mind would believe that he had been working in personal concert with the crown, that he had hunted down the emperor’s assassins, discovered the missing archduke? Such claims would sound like nonsense, and rightly, for they should have been; but by some remarkable coincidence of fate it was all true, and Celehar’s unfortunate duty to explain.
Othala Chanavar watched him flounder with an expression of increasing concern.
“May I ask,” he put in, gentle urgency behind it. “Are you in danger?”
It was a good question; Celehar considered it in earnest. Probably, yes, though not imminently: Mer Aisava had no desire to betray them to the Lord Chancellor, and surely the Curneisei couldn’t know to retaliate against them so soon.
“Not …presently,” Celehar hazarded. Vanet pulled a face of reluctant agreement.
“Are you being followed?”
“No, no. Not yet.”
“Has somebody died?” he pressed, with that characteristic frankness of one who spent all his days surrounded by death. Somebody had, of course: Varenechibal IV, and every other soul aboard the Wisdom of Choharo that fated day. But they were months-buried: nobody lay dead, here, now, as a result of this, and so Celehar shook his head.
Having established these necessary preliminaries, reassured himself that there was no immediate threat, Othala Chanavar relaxed incrementally. He seemed intrigued; after a moment of thought, he guessed,
“This matter, is it a case of… financial concern, perhaps? Blackmail, or -?”
“No, Othala,” cut in Celehar, mildly embarrassed. “None of that. It is… a matter of politics, in sooth.”
“Oh?”
Which raised only furhter questions, Celehar supposed, all too aware of his uncomfortable perch on what was probably usually a comfortable seat, tense as a strung bowstring, his back as straight as that of a man on trial. He was aware of how strange they looked. A clerical witness in disguise and a Curneise airman, embroiled in politics together. Bizarre.
“A long tale,” Othala Chanavar supplied, mild and helpful.
“Yes,” agreed Celehar gratefully, and heard Vanet mutter,
“A damned long tale.”
“I see.” The othala stood again. “If we are to talk at length, then, perhaps a pot of tea will aid us?”
“Oh — thank you, othala,” Celehar stammered, genuinely relived.
“Anora, please,” Othala Chanavar – Anora – corrected him, smiling with his eyes. “I’ve only got orchor here, and that only for wakefulness, but it’ll serve.”
Perhaps he had expected Vanet, foster-son of a teahouse, to be amused at this. But Vanet was just as edgy as Celehar, and barely paying attention. He slumped forward once Anora was gone, suddenly bereft of all that tension.
“sh*t,” he breathed to himself.
Indeed, Celehar thought, though he didn’t say as much. If they could not tell even this man, how could they think to tell Idra himself?
“Wilt use these same rough manners to address the emperor?” he asked, voice low enough to near a whisper.
Vanet smiled, didn’t quite laugh.
“No, zhornu. Never thou worry, I’ve been trained to my court manners. Rusty, I s’pose; ten years out of date. But I remember them still. ‘Tis what I was born to.” He looked over to Celehar, silver eyes sad, “I’ll not shame thee. We will not shame you.”
And for the first time, Celehar caught a glimpse not of Vanet, but of Maia , the person that Maia could have been, had he not been raised a Curneisis: still as careful and thoughtful as he was, but quiet, uncertain, discomfitted. He had been born to the court, yes, but brought up in exile, all too aware of the supposed reasons for that exile, his shortcomings in the eyes of the elvish elite. The sight of that embarrassment, so deeply misplaced, struck Celehar like a blow.
“Couldst not shame me,” he promised, old guilt and self-loathing bitter on his tongue. “Not ever, Vanet.”
Vanet turned to him properly at this, curious — and it occurred to Celehar that he might never had another private opportunity to tell Vanet of Aveio, of Evru and Oseian and all that had happened between them. It was painful, for him even to consider putting voice to. But it was only right that Vanet should know, and it was better for him to hear it from Celehar than in the cruel words of court gossip. He knew how his cousin Csoru spoke of him, and she was the least of it.
“I -” he began, and cut himself off as heard Anora or one of his juniors moving about in the corridor. They would have no proper time, here; he would have to make it elsewhere. “- I will tell thee all of it,” he promised hastily. “Before Cetho. I promise thee.”
Vanet hesitated, and then nodded.
“If thou wish’t.”
Celehar knew without having to be told in as many words that Vanet would not hold him to this promise, if he proved too cowardly to put the whole sordid tale into words. It was not a generosity that he deserved — not for his part in Evru’s death, and not for what he had done to Vanet, either. He shook his head: it was not a case of whether or not he wished to speak, but that he had to.
“I know all thy secrets already. Deservest thou the same consideration.”
