A Distant Tomorrow. Bertrice Small

finally dressed, and ready to be displayed, Lara called for the Fiacre men to come and return the lord to his hall. The body was transported by means of a stretcher decked in white silk and decorated with summer flowers. The men from Vartan’s home village of Camdene took turns bearing their lord. In the hall the bier awaited. A ring of candelabra flanked it at either end. The stretcher was set in its place, and then Lara commanded them quietly to leave her. She brushed back into place a small lock of her husband’s hair that had come loose from its binding. She critically eyed the disposition of his tunic, smoothing a barely discernable wrinkle from his chest.

       It was all so terribly unreal. Just a short time ago Vartan had been a vibrant, living being. Now he lay cold and silent, his big body seeming to stiffen before her eyes. His spirit had flown from him—surely it no longer inhabited his great frame.

       How could this have happened? Why had she not seen Adon’s perfidy before he had the time to strike? She silently cursed her husband’s brother and Elin. Had they had any thought for what they were doing? Did they really believe that the Fiacre would accept a fratricidal murderer as their lord? That Lara would not avenge her husband to protect her children? Did they not think of their own son, Cam? She sighed. Obviously they had not.

       There was still much to do. Outside the summer’s long twilight was deepening. The men sent to bury Adon and Elin returned, reporting they had done her bidding. She thanked them, and then went to the chamber she had once shared with Vartan. Taking her writing box up she wrote messages to the six other clan lords. Then she summoned six faeriepost messengers, told them where she wanted them to go, and that they were to wait for a reply. Each message said the same thing. It told of Vartan’s death, and asked that they prepare to be transported by means of her magic on the day of the departure ceremony. A new head of the Outlands High Council must be chosen before Vartan’s departure pyre was gone to ashes. The messengers flew off, and Lara, putting her writing box away, went to the kitchens.

       She found the cook and the kitchen staff in various stages of weeping. Drawing a deep breath she said in a firm voice, “You must begin preparations for my husband’s departure ceremony. As many of the Fiacre as can come will be here in another day. The lords of the other clan families will be here. Would you have it said that the hospitality of the Lord of the Fiacre is poor? You cannot stand about in mourning. You have work to do!” And then turning on her heel she left them.

       “She has a cold faerie heart,” one of the kitchen maids said.

       “Perhaps,” the cook replied, “but it is a broken heart, I fear. Let none doubt that the Lady Lara loved our Lord Vartan with all her being.”

       Lara returned to the hall to find the bier now surrounded by flowers. She smiled, and with a small incantation, made certain that the flowers would remain bright and fresh until Vartan was brought to his pyre. Gazing down at him she was again astounded at how cold and lifeless the shell that had once housed his spirit was. It had been a great spirit, which was perhaps why having gone, Vartan’s body looked so empty.

       “He is not there.” Lara heard Bera’s voice in her ear.

       “No, he is not,” she answered. “You should be sleeping.”

       “I didn’t take the pill,” Bera said.

       “She was supposed to mix it in your wine,” Lara replied with a small smile.

       “Where is Adon?”

       “Out on the plain with his wife,” Lara said quietly.

       Bera’s eyes filled with tears, which she attempted to swallow back.

       “It had to be done,” Lara told her.

       “I know,” Bera agreed, “but he was my son, too.”

       “He killed Vartan,” Lara responded.

       “And you killed him,” Bera remarked softly.

       “Aye, and I have not a moment’s regret that I did,” Lara answered her mother-in-law. “I just wish I had seen into his black heart before he murdered Vartan. Perhaps none of this would have come to pass, Bera.”

       “What will happen now?”

       “Liam will be chosen by the elders to be the new lord. He will come into this house, the only one in Camdene fit for a Lord of the Fiacre. You will have his house in which to raise Adon’s son, Cam.”

       “What of Dillon and Anoush?” Bera asked.

       “I will not have them living in the same house as Adon’s spawn. Liam and Noss have agreed to take them,” Lara told the older woman. “I cannot remain here now. I feel the pull of my destiny once again.”

       “Would this have happened if Vartan had not married you?” Bera wondered aloud, and then hastily said, “I am sorry.”

       “My mother says his fate was his fate,” Lara answered. “I expect that is true.”

       Bera nodded. “Do your children know what has happened?”

       “I have told Dillon. Anoush is too small to understand,” Lara responded.

       “I think I will return to my chamber and take that pill now,” Bera said. “I am suddenly very tired, Lara. You should get some sleep, too. The next few days will be very busy, my daughter.”

       “I know,” Lara agreed. “I will rest soon.” She walked the older woman to the staircase that led to her chamber. Then she returned to the hall and stood by Vartan’s bier. “I did not know it would end this way, Vartan,” she said softly. “I swear I did not know.”

      THE ELDERS of the Fiacre arrived to hold their meeting and choose a new leader of the clan. Their first instinct was to delegate Lara, but she refused, explaining to them why she could not accept the honor, and asking if they wanted her counsel. They did, and she named Liam before departing to let them debate the matter. Finding her own bed she did not even bother to undress, and falling into it slept until the next morning.

       The day dawned bright and warm. Lara arose and washed her face and hands. Smoothing the wrinkles from her gown, she went out into the hall, which was already filling with clansmen and women. Vartan’s cousin, Sholeh, headwoman of the village of Rivalen, had arrived. As she stood taller than many men, Lara saw her immediately. The two women hugged wordlessly.

       “Where is Bera?” Sholeh asked.

       “It was too much for her,” Lara answered.

       “You have done it all yourself?”

       “He was my husband, Sholeh,” Lara said.

       “You have done well, and Vartan would be proud,” Sholeh replied. “Where is that snake, Adon?”

       “I slew him and his wife while Vartan was yet warm,” Lara replied.

       Sholeh nodded. “It was well done, Lara. And they are buried?”

       “Out on the plain in an unmarked place,” Lara said.

       “I curse them both!” Sholeh said fiercely. “You will lead the Fiacre yourself now. It is your right, and you were half my cousin’s wisdom, I know.”

       “Thank you,” Lara said, “but no. Liam shall be the new Lord of the Fiacre. You cannot be dissatisfied with him. The elders in their usual way wanted to meet in three days and debate the succession, but I saw they met last night instead. Liam was the natural choice. I will not remain with the Fiacre much longer. I am being called from the Outlands.”

       “I will be sorry to see you go,” Sholeh told her companion. “But Liam is not the man to lead the High Council, I fear. Who will you put your influence behind? Roan of the Aghy? He would take it in a minute, you know.”

       Lara shook her head. “Roan is too hot tempered. Rendor of the Felan would be my choice. He is a wise and thoughtful man. The responsibility will cause him to rise to the challenge of being head of the High Council. He will not fail the Outlands.”