“My father still intends to present me as the chosen one to his legions,” Layla said. “If he can’t open the prophecy himself, perhaps that’s why he wants all three of us to come.”
“We should search the rest of the mansion, just for good measure. Perhaps Targigoth will have more insight into how the seals work. He consulted with his giant ancestors before he learned how to open the giants’ final prophecy.”
“Good point, Caspar,” Aerin said. “Send me back with the bodies, and I’ll prepare the death rites for these three. When you’re done searching the mansion, meet us back at the ranch with the rest. These three have waited long enough for their peace.”
I nodded and formed a portal back to the ranch. “Stand in the middle of the bodies. I’ll pull the portal over you so you don’t have to carry them.”
“Thank you, Caspar,” Aerin said as she handed me Brightborn’s letter and stepped into the middle of the room. I focused my mind and dropped the portal over Aerin and the three bodies. They disappeared from view, and I released the fairy power that sustained the portal.
Layla and I ran upstairs.
“Find the bodies?” Brag’mok asked.
I nodded. “Three of them. I sent Aerin back with them to the ranch.”
“What about the rest?” Brag’mok asked.
I handed Brightborn’s letter to Brag’mok. He unfolded it and read it.
“What a snake,” Brag’mok said. “I wonder what he’s up to.”
“He didn’t mention the stolen prophecy,” Layla said. “We think he wants us three to go there to open the prophecy.”
“When you and Targigoth were in the sweat lodge, did you see everything he saw?” I asked
Brag’mok shook his head. “Only he has the ability to speak to the ancestors.”
“We’ll have to talk to him about it,” I said. “We’re not sure if Brightborn can open the prophecy the same way he opened the boxes that contained the artifacts when he stole them before.”
“It’s possible,” Brag’mok said. “But you’re right. Targigoth could have more insight than I would on that matter.”
Three of the drow warriors came down the stairs. Apparently, they’d already searched the rest of the house.
“Find anything upstairs?” I asked.
“Nothing of note,” Rina, the drow warrior that Jag had taken an interest in, said. “It looks like hardly anyone has been here at all. The place is pristine. Not even any personal objects or clothes.”
I nodded. “It seems that this place has served its purpose for Brightborn.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Since there wasn’t much else to see at the mansion, Aerin hadn’t gotten far in her funeral preparations by the time we arrived. Christian funerals are fairly predictable, and I’d officiated more than my fair share of them. We usually had a casket or, on occasion, an urn, set up front and center. I usually gave a homily. Sometimes we had a few eulogies, but as often as not, those were saved for the graveside service that followed the church service.
Whatever Aerin was setting up was, as Monty Python would put it, something completely different. Aerin had clothed the bodies. When the rest of us arrived, the drow warriors came to her aid and carried each of the three bodies around the smoldering campfire.
Jag was sitting at the fire, roasting what looked like a chicken breast on a stick over the flames. Rina came over and grabbed him by the arm. She whispered something in his ear—probably something to the effect that he might want to cook his food elsewhere given that they were about to conduct funeral rites for the dead.
Apparently, he felt he’d cooked it sufficiently. He ripped a giant chuck from the end of his skewer with his teeth as he walked away. Rina returned to the other drow as they started preparing the bodies.
Again, not in the ways that humans usually prepared their dead. Though, now that I think about it, it was probably less weird than what we do. Think about it. We take our dead, we drain all their blood, fill their bodies with disgusting chemicals, then put makeup on their faces to try and make them look alive, even though they never look anything remotely close to their own selves. Dead people usually have the exact expression you’d expect after getting chemicals shot up the pooper or into whatever other hole the mortician surgically created.
It was downright strange what we did. I mean, why were we putting formaldehyde in bodies, anyway? What exactly were we trying to preserve?
Given all of that, I was reluctant to judge what the drow were doing. The bodies weren’t laid out in such a way to look like they were sleeping. They were on their backs, spread eagle as if they were making snow angels. They were dressed, not in black dresses, but in the colorful patterns the drow usually wore. They weren’t adorned in makeup. There were no pretenses here, no attempt to make the dead look like themselves. Their eyes were opened rather than closed. Their jaws were agape. Since they’d been dead a while without any preservation, their eyes were sunk deep in their skulls. It was more than a little creepy.
But the goal of the rite wasn’t, as I understood it, based on what Aerin had said about giving the mourning closure. It was about giving the souls of the deceased a peaceful exit from this world. The drow believed in reincarnation, so I presumed that they believed that the souls of the dead went to wherever souls went while waiting for reassignment to a new earthly existence.
Aerin came over and grabbed my arm. “Come here, Caspar. I’d like to show you what we’re doing and explain it.”
I nodded. “You don’t have to. You can tell me about it afterward.”
Aerin shook her head. “I’d like to show you now.”
I shrugged. If I learned anything dealing with mourning, it was that people often wanted or expected odd things. Things that, frankly, didn’t necessarily make sense. Sometimes people wanted photos with their deceased loved ones. Invariably, they’d say that they wished they hadn’t done it later, that they couldn’t bear to look at the photos. At the moment, though, the act of taking the picture was something that they thought would help. Some people laugh a lot at funerals. They share funny stories about the deceased, sometimes embarrassing things that the dead probably didn’t want to be aired publicly. Interestingly, the ones who laughed the most were typically those who cried the most at certain parts of the service.
One thing I knew from experience was that people mourned differently. No two people go through the loss of someone they cared about in precisely the same way. If Aerin wanted me there, if explaining her traditions to me made her feel better, I was willing to comply.
“When does the service start?” I asked.
“It already has,” Aerin said. “We don’t have services the way you do. It’s all a process of preparing the body, of offering the dead the clearest path from their bodies to the beyond.”
“A path?” I asked. “What’s that about?”
“You’ve heard of ghosts and vengeful spirits,” Aerin said. “They are souls that did not have a clear path to the beyond. They were not properly prepared. Spirits of the dead, particularly those who die with something unresolved, can be easily distracted when they leave their bodies. If they do not have a clear focus, if their bodies are not positioned properly to direct them straight into the beyond, they may find themselves lost for a time. Wandering the world. Fulfilling an unfulfilled purpose. Exacting vengeance on someone who wronged them.”
I cocked my head. “A spirit can do something like that? Become a ghost?”
“Ghosts require energy to manifest and engage with the world of the living,” Aerin said. “Humans, for the most part having never touched Earth’s magic, are rather helpless even when their spirits are lost. For the drow, although we do not wield magic, we’re all attuned to it. Our dead, if not transitioned to the afterlife, can be quite powerful.”
“Which is why it was so important to conduct this ritual,” I said.
“I suspect Brightborn realizes this,” Aerin said. “Typically, the spirit of a person will l
inger with the body for as long as a week, but not much longer than that. He knows that we’ll be pressed on time to conclude our rites.”
“Wouldn’t he want you to do the rituals?” I asked. “You’d think an angry drow spirit released in the presence of the elven king wouldn’t bode well for the king.”
Aerin shook her head. “There are other methods, ways I’m sure he knows, to trap the spirits of the dead. To harness their power, like an enchantment, in something like a blade or another weapon. It’s one reason, I believe, he’s sure that we’d come no matter what threat there might be from the Furies at the same time.”
“Why wouldn’t he just harness their power for himself anyway?” I asked.
“Wielding a blade enchanted by the spirit of the deceased is risky,” Aerin said. “Whoever wields it has great power, but whatever damage is done by the blade also wounds the soul of the living.”
“Wounds the soul?” I asked.
“The spirit of one who wields such a blade will be melded with the spirit of the blade itself, until the two are indistinguishable. Eventually, it will be that the living is possessed by the spirit of the blade. They will become, in a way, possessed by the person who died and used to exact that person’s vengeance.”
“So the dead person takes over that person’s body?” I asked.
“Not completely,” Aerin said. “They will gain a greater influence over the host each time the blade is used. At most, the two spirits will share the body. It depends on the relationship between the two spirits. It can be adversarial or cooperative.”
“If the elves did that to the fallen drow, it would certainly be adversarial.”
“Yes,” Aerin said. “But the destruction the legionnaires could unleash in the meantime using the power of such a blade would be profound. A single strike of such a blade, even indirectly, could separate spirits from the bodies they inhabit.”
“So, how does this ritual prevent all of that from happening?” I asked.
Aerin reached into a small hip purse that she often wore and retrieved a mason jar full of glowing dust. “This can direct the spirit of the deceased.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“A mixture of salt and ground limestone,” Aerin said. “Enchanted with aether. I must sprinkle a circle around the body and then place some in the mouth of the deceased. The circle will prevent their spirits from leaving, and they’ll go directly into the afterlife. The elves, if they wished to trap the spirits of the dead, would sprinkle their weapon with dust and use it to strike the body. The soul of the deceased would be transferred into the blade.”
“And the elves know how to enchant like the drow do?” I asked.
Aerin shrugged. “I can’t say for certain, but it is possible. I can’t say that Brightborn doesn’t know how to do it.”
“Fascinating,” I said, putting my hand on Aerin’s back. “Thank you for sharing.”
Aerin nodded. “Of course.”
Aerin proceeded to sprinkle circles of the enchanted dust around each of the three bodies. The rest of the drow gathered around and, holding hands, started to sing. It was a beautiful but haunting song in another language. They all spoke English, but the drow also had an ancient language of their own.
As Aerin dropped some of the dust into each of the three fallen drows’ mouths, their bodies started to glow with a golden hue that matched the magic of aether. The glow centered on their chests and then exploded into an impressive tornado of energy that swirled inside each of the circles before shooting into the sky and disappearing.
The drow raised their hands to the sky as their fallen ones migrated into the great beyond.
“May our sisters live on in our memories and in the care of the gods.” Aerin, Rina, and the other drow exchanged tear-filled hugs.
It was over. It was a beautiful ritual. I was honored that Aerin made me a part of it.
Chapter Forty
After the ritual was over, I wandered over to the giants, who were constructing shelters for themselves out of scrap metal as Brag’mok had done. Gronk was particularly impressive, tearing apart old cars with his bare hands.
Targigoth was the only one not participating. He wasn’t just smaller than the other giants, but as high priest, I imagined he wasn’t as accustomed to getting his hands dirty like the rest.
It was a good opportunity to talk to him about the prophecy.
I approached him as he was seated on the back bumper of Jag’s fixed-up truck. “How’s it going?” I asked, feeling the need to greet him somehow before diving into a barrage of questions about the prophecy.
“It is well,” Targigoth said. “I was watching the ritual from afar. Intriguing.”
I nodded. “I agree. I have a question. Since the elves stole the prophecy from the drow, I was wondering, could they open the seal with all five elements themselves?”
Targigoth shook his head. “I was holding the scroll when you opened it. I do not know who might serve as the high priestess amongst the drow, but whoever it is, she must have the scroll in her hands when the magic is cast into it.”
I nodded. “I think, for the drow, Aerin is both the princess and their high priestess. She’s the one in charge of the scrolls, anyway.”
“Your magic loosened the seal, but it would only break when held by one who possesses the authority vested by the ancestors who cared for the scrolls in the past.”
I nodded. “So Brightborn needs us to open it. That’s probably why he wants only us three to meet up with him in two days.”
“This is certainly a possibility,” Targigoth said. “The elven king is likely intimidated by the final prophecy, particularly since each of the final prophecies is particular to each race.”
“Do you think he’s already opened his final scroll?” I asked.
“If, as you say, he could harness all five elements, it’s certainly a possibility.”
“He wants to know what the drow prophecy says,” I said. “Probably so he can figure out how to manipulate its meaning to his purposes.”
“This would be in line with our experience dealing with the elven king. He is, if nothing else, a master of deception.”
“Do you think it’s wise to do as he wants?” I asked.
Targigoth shrugged. “The elven king will do what he does. The prophecy is immutable. Its meaning might be open to interpretation. But what is foretold within it will come to pass, no matter how he might try to manipulate its meaning.”
While we were talking, Gronk sauntered toward us, tossing what looked like the hood of one of the old cars to the side.
“Naayak,” Gronk said. “We’re making some progress here. But I must ask, how soon will you be ready to fight?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We think we know where the elves are. But the elven king is pulling strings trying to consolidate his power, I think. The time will come.”
Gronk nodded. “We’ll be ready when the time is right. We stand prepared to fulfill our ancient purpose to defend the Earth.”
“You should know,” I said. “I’m going to try and stop the earthquake. It might cause some tension between our side and the Furies.”
“You must do what is necessary,” Gronk said. “The Furies will protect this world in their own way. We are united in purpose no less on that account. Even if our means toward the same end might differ.”
I slapped Gronk on the shoulder. “If there’s anything I can do. I know adjusting to this world can be difficult.”
Gronk laughed. “It’s actually surprisingly nice. As a sorcerer, I can feel the magic of this world all around. Could use something to eat, though.”
“No meat, right?” I asked.
Gronk nodded. “Fruit. Brag’mok says that you haven’t lived until you’ve tried an apple or an orange.”
I smiled. “They can be delicious. I’ll see what I can get for you. And some vegetables.”
“I hear you have a vegetable that resembles little trees that I’d like to try.�
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“Broccoli?” I asked.
“That’s not like e-coli, is it?”
I laughed. “No, totally different.”
“Then yes!” Gronk exclaimed. “Get us some broccoli!”
“And some peas, maybe?”
“Pee? You consume that?”
I snorted. “No. Pea, with an A rather than two Es. Corn is also fantastic.”
“Just don’t get us any…what is it Brag’mok called it… Kale?”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t do that to you. But there are some other leafy greens I’m sure you’d enjoy.”
“Speaking of pee. Brag’mok said you have something called spareguts that makes your pee smell.”
“Asparagus,” I said, correcting Gronk’s understandable mispronunciation of the word. “And yes, when you eat it, your urine will smell exactly like it about an hour later.”
“Fascinating…”
“Indeed!” I said, chuckling. “I’ll have Jag load up the truck and see what we can get you.”
I sent Jag and Rina, along with Aerin since she had all the cash, to a farmers’ market we’d seen signs for just a few miles down the road. I wasn’t sure if they’d have enough there to feed the whole horde of giants, but I knew a farmers’ market would have grade-A quality produce. They probably wouldn’t know what to do when Jag pulled up the truck and told them to fill the bed.
We had two days to burn. There wasn’t much sense in trying to find the bodies ourselves. Brightborn said we wouldn’t find them, and as crafty as he was, we decided it wasn’t worth wasting our energy to try. So, instead, I focused on trying to make the giants and drow feel at home.
I didn’t know what was going to happen after we met with Brightborn. I didn’t know how much havoc the earthquake would cause or what my chances were to stop it, but this wasn’t our world anymore. It didn’t just belong to humans. Sure, comparatively speaking, there weren’t many giants. But what they’d given up, and after all they’d lost and endured, I felt responsible for making sure that they were welcome.
Junkyard Dogma (The Elven Prophecy Book 4) Page 22
