Should be thousands, Persephone thought, given what they’ve done for us.
But so many of those who knew of their contributions were also dead and buried on that terrible plain. Raithe had hated that place; Persephone now hated it, too. Someone, maybe Brin, had referred to it as the Field of Heroes. It sounded like her, like something she would put in her book. And while they were heroes, Persephone couldn’t help feeling they were also victims—her victims. More so than anyone, she was responsible. This was her victory.
Tesh had dug Raithe’s grave and placed the Phyre stone, as was fitting for the next of kin. Persephone didn’t know who had dug Arion’s, but Suri had placed the Phyre stone. Suri stood apart from the others, staring down at the twin mounds of rocks, as if unable to understand what had happened.
Suri had saved them all.
She’d also killed Raithe.
No one had told Persephone this; no one needed to. The moment the dragon spoke, she knew. She knew more than she wanted, and it made standing in that dry wind, trying to breathe, so very difficult.
Gifford made an effort to comfort Suri, putting an arm around her shoulder. She pushed it away. “Don’t,” she told him. “Don’t be nice; bad things happen to people who love me.”
As always, Brin stood beside Persephone. She needed to record the event, but she couldn’t have seen much through her continual tears. Moya, Tekchin, Padera, Malcolm, Frost, Flood, Rain, Roan, Gifford, Habet—they all showed up to pay respects. Tressa was the surprise. The widow of Konniger usually kept away from crowds.
“I made it extra deep,” Tesh said to everyone—or no one. “Then used the biggest, heaviest rocks I could find. Don’t want animals digging him up.” Tesh wiped his nose and eyes.
Brin moved to his side and, taking his hand, squeezed.
“We should say something,” Moya suggested.
To her surprise, Tressa, who held a rock in her hand, stepped forward to place it on the pile.
“Not you,” Moya snapped.
“Give it a rest,” Tressa responded. “We just finished a battle. Haven’t you had enough?”
“Of you, yes.”
Tressa sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Why are you here?”
She pointed at Raithe’s grave. “I wanted to say something to him. Funerals are where people do that, or so I’ve heard. Do you mind?”
“Yes,” Moya said. “Quite a bit actually.”
“Good.” Tressa grinned.
The Shield took a hurried step toward her.
“Moya,” Persephone said, “let her talk.” The keenig’s voice was soft and weak, but the effect was powerful. Moya stopped abruptly but continued to glare.
Tressa ignored her. “I didn’t know you very well,” she said to the grave. “You were Dureyan, a troublemaker. Knew it from the moment you first came to Rhen. Dureyans are nothing but liars, drunks, murderers, and thieves. Everyone knows that.”
All of them glared at Tressa, and Moya began rocking on the balls of her feet, glancing over at Persephone, hoping for the leash to be removed.
“Thing is,” Tressa went on, “most people don’t know Tet. Just think they do. People always think they know everything about a person.” She glared at Moya, then stared back down at the pile of rocks at their feet. “You were Dureyan, so you had to be trouble, and maybe you were, but I never seen it. You cut wood for us when everyone else was too scared. Faced the Fhrey when no one else would. Turned down the chance to be the keenig—to rule over everyone. Never saw a man turn down power like that. Konniger wouldn’t have. Konniger got himself killed trying to get one tenth of what folks were shoving in your face. Then you”—she wiped her eyes and sniffled—“then you go and do this. Damn lousy Dureyan. Rotten troublemaker. I just wish…I wish we had more like you, or that I would have had the chance to know you better. Because people…well, I guess people just don’t know Tet.” Tressa looked up then. She glanced at the rest of them. “That’s it. That’s all I have to say.” She placed her rock on Raithe’s pile and turned away.
A long silence followed.
Moya relaxed, her shoulders drooped, her arms unfolded. Finally, she asked, “Tesh? Do you want—?”
He shook his head. “Already spoke the words I wanted while I was piling the rocks.”
Moya looked at Persephone, who rapidly shook her head.
“Suri?”
She was looking at the Gilarabrywn. The behemoth was curled up on Wolf’s Head, watching the proceedings with casual indifference.
Moya cleared her throat and called her name again. “Suri, do you have anything you want to say?”
The mystic shook her head.
Moya looked to the dwarfs, but they also declined.