The Hour of the Crow

Epilogue: The Queen of Primsharah

The only time Inna had ever been to the catacombs was directly after her mother's funeral, when she had sneaked out of the palace to visit the royal mausoleum. The catacombs were a complicated network of immense underground chambers with vaulted ceilings, accessible via a long, narrow staircase in Onshra's temple. It was easy to get lost within the maze of dark corridors, so a priest with a torch always accompanied visitors.

The young priest who had escorted Inna underground stood further down the corridor, out of earshot. Inna ignored him and stared at a simple urn with zigzagging, geometric lines painted on its earthen exterior, which stood in one of the small, rectangular niches in the wall. With her finger, she cleared a thin layer of dust off the wooden nameplate at the bottom: Arran Dir Akhta, 525-545.

It had been a month since his death, a month in which Inna's entire world had turned upside down. After the surviving Cultists had fled the city, she had taken over her father's position as ruler of Primsharah and its provinces pending his recovery. She personally supervised the project of rebuilding the city, largely financed with the Palace's coffers, and she had fired most of her father's council members to establish a new council of elected representatives for each district. To show them she hadn't forgotten about them, she had given many of Majidah's men who had assisted in the mob a pardon for lesser crimes and forced the court in handing out milder punishments for the more severe ones. Arran would have been proud, she often thought to herself.

She sighed. The sound echoed through the long corridor and startled the priest, who had been dozing against the wall. Inna scrubbed a hand over her face. In the hectic aftermath of the Cult's attack, she had successfully banned her grief for Arran out of her head; the potions Tata brought her in the evenings to treat her recurrent headaches cleared her nights of dreams. However, now, deep down in the catacombs with Arran's urn filling her sight, she bowed her head and allowed herself to grieve.

"Your Highness?"

Inna looked up. Merriam shuffled into the circle of torchlight with a second priest in her wake. Her dark hair, once thick and glossy, hung in limp, unwashed strands in front of her sunken face. Even in the gloom, the shadows around her eyes stuck out and deep lines disfigured the corners of her mouth, as if she had kept them downturned for a long time. A feverish brilliance shone in her eyes when she met Inna's gaze.

"I hadn't expected to see you here."

"Why not?" Inna asked edgily. A twinge of guilt stirred in the pit of her stomach, but she pushed it away. She had as much right as Merriam to be here.

Merriam's wariness peeled away, like a snake shedding its skin. Up close, her pallid complexion became even more pronounced. She looked like she had grown ten years older since the last time Inna had seen her, bereft of everything that had made her life worth living.

Merriam shrugged, though it came across more as an involuntary spasm of her shoulder muscles. "I figured you'd be too busy to visit him," she mumbled.

Inna didn't know what to say. She had been busy, but she'd been delaying the confrontation with Arran's grave just as much, afraid to acknowledge the hole in her heart. Ashamed, she averted her gaze.

Merriam didn't seem to notice her discomfort. "I've been coming here every day since ..." Her voice trailed off. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. "I know it's just ashes, but it's the closest I can get to him. It's not the same as hearing him laugh or ... or embracing him, but ... Oh gods!" Her knees gave way and Inna hurried to catch her before she would fall. The sound that escaped Merriam was so inhuman, so raw, it raised every hair on Inna's arms and neck. She held the other woman close and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing that she hadn't come, that she could be anywhere but here.