Page 54 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

The High Priestess of Keon stepped forward, her gray robes practically swirling around her legs. Like every time Emillie saw her, she was taken aback by the elderly Caersan’s strong voice and even stronger presence amongst the rest of the vampires.

“Tonight we mourn for one we have lost,” she said with such conviction, Emillie almost believed her.

Around her, no one mourned. Everyone wore black—the traditional mourning color—and stood in silence, but that meant nothing in the Society. They gathered as witnesses and nothing more.

“Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell, taken from us far too soon,” the High Priestess continued, “to rest amongst our ancestors in Empyrean.”

Emillie almost choked from holding back her laughter. If Azriel had heard those words, she was certain he would have corrected her. Being a half-dhemon, her brother-in-law would find his final resting place amongst his people’s ancestral home: the Underworld. Not with the tortured souls of the damned but the community from whence they were born.

Beside Emillie, her father stiffened as she cleared her throat. He glanced down at her, no doubt thinking something along the same lines as she. Perhaps he thought himself better than Azriel for looking forward to an afterlife in the heavens.

If, of course, he made it there.

Alek, however, leaned into her and whispered, “Is everything alright, dearest?”

Gods, she would break before the end of this nonsense. She struggled to keep the smirk from her face as she said, “I am merely distraught by our loss, darling.”

The Lord Governor raised his brows, his mouth twitching, then offered her his arm. She took it, and he covered her hand with his in a would-be comforting motion for anyone scrutinizing them.

The High Priestess plowed forward, oblivious to their jest. “We have gathered to honor the Lord Governor. Though his body has already found its final resting place, it is important we guide his soul to Empyrean through the traditional fires.”

To her utter disgust, it was Loren Gard who stepped forward, torch in hand, to light the kindling. The General set the flames to the wood, and within moments, it crept through the pyre. His crimson uniform almost glowed in the vivid light cast by the growing flames, painting him as blood-soaked and victorious.

That was the moment Emillie stopped listening to the old crone at the head of the pyre. Not only did she sound foolish with all of her pretty words, but she had played right into the lies told to her by her father and the man who sought to kill Azriel himself. She did not deserve the title she held nor the power that came with it.

Their traditions called for a simple procedure in the wake of a vampire’s death: shroud the body and burn it. In the most ancient of texts, dating back to their days as mages, it was claimed that the smoke of the fire would create a path for the souls of the dead to follow. As it rose, so did the soul—all the way to Empyrean, where it would rest until Sora deemed it ready to return to the physical realm.

But they had no body to burn. No true death to mourn. No need for a funeral. The entire charade was created to keep up a façade her father had created: that Azriel had died on the highway at the hands of dhemons, saving Ariadne from certain death.

No one thought to question why there was no body.

They did, however, question her sister’s absence at the conclusion of the High Priestess’s words when everyone milled about. Even Ladies Belina Fletcher and Dierdre Kolson approached Emillie to give their condolences.

“Wherever is your sister?” Dierdre asked, batting her pretty eyes up at Alek as though she were not, in fact, married.

Emillie did not feign a smile. This was her one chance to not have to pretend to be kind or happy. “She is in Eastwood, mourning.”

Belina pouted. “Should she not have been the one to light the pyre? By the gods, why did General Gard do it?”

Why, indeed? It was a question Emillie had for her father. Should he not have been the one to light the pyre in Ariadne’s absence? After all, this was his ruse. Though she now knew he had a tendency to strike entire families from the history books—her familial connection to Madan proved that well enough—he would not have been able to do so this time around even if it had been his original plan. Too many members of the Society had turned up to their wedding. Too many had attended the engagement celebration gone rogue.

“My sister is unwell from the experience,” Emillie said, shifting closer to Alek as though his presence would make the Caersans leave her alone. It only seemed to intrigue them both more.

“And what of his cousin?” Dierdre added, searching the crowd for Madan as though she had not taken note of his absence already. “Is he in attendance?”

Emillie sighed and shook her head. “He is in Monsumbra, I am afraid.”

“Why would he miss this?” Dierdre snapped open a black fan and began waving it in her face as though to fight off the night’s chill by batting it away.

“It is my understanding,” Alek cut in, his smooth deep voice dragging both Caersan women’s eyes to him, “he has become the new Lord Governor Caldwell in the wake of this tragedy.”

Belina’s eyes flared at this new kernel of gossip. “Is that so?”

The Lord Governor nodded sagely. “He has much to do in Eastwood but should be returning shortly to meet with the Council.”

“I wonder,” Belina mused, “if he plans to ask for your sister’s hand now that his cousin has passed. It would only be proper.”

Emillie’s stomach turned. Not only were their inquiries and wonderings inappropriate for such an event, but the prospect of Ariadne being expected to marry Madan…disgusting. She would expose Madan before she allowed her father to force such a union, for she would not put it past him to press the matter. The only way he would turn down tradition would be in favor of something better.

---