I was awake before the footfalls reached my door. Sitting up in bed, I gracefully dropped to the ground and fell on my hands and knees. Peering under the crack of the entrance, I saw the shadow of someone appear on the other side. One person, no others. I tensed, holding my breath and reaching for my sword.

  Just as I gripped the hilt, there was a polite knock. Perhaps some might see my behavior as unusual, but I had learned to be wary of those who approach deep in the night. I grabbed my sword and quietly made my way over to the door. Bracing myself, I cracked the door open, prepared to slam it shut if necessary. Out in the hallway stood Charon in his white robes.

  He bowed. “I apologize for stirring you from your slumber, but Berenice requests your presence.”

  “At this hour? For what purpose?” I asked, suspicious of the mannequin.

  “She requires your assistance with a funeral rite.”

  My brow furrowed, confused. “What kind of burial? Of whom?”

  Charon merely raised his arm. “All I am allowed to say is that she desperately requires your assistance. The specific rite can only be performed by a male of the family or otherwise trusted friend. You are the only candidate.”

  “Why me? Why not Gereon?”

  “Only Berenice can answer that question. Will you answer her summons?”

  I considered it for a moment, weighing my options. However, curiosity and concern won me over. I threw on my cloak and buckled my scabbard. Entering the hallway, I hesitantly acquiesced to the mannequin.

  Charon gave a gracious nod and led me down the passage. We walked down moonlit corridors, the faces of busts and frescos looking upon us as silent observers. The mannequin’s feet softly clicked on the tile floor. Had I better boots, I could’ve passed noiselessly. But between what I had brought and what I could purchase in Terminus, I could only match the mannequin in our quiet stroll.

  Taking several turns, Charon finally stopped at an iron door inset into the stone. It was featureless, save for a handle and the opening for a lock. The mannequin produced a key from his robes and unlocked it, revealing a stairwell that tunneled deep into the earth. I could barely discern the bottom far below.

  Before I could say anything, Charon quickly proceeded down the steps, and I had to run to catch up. The iron door shut behind us, and all that guided our path was a faint glow from further down. As we descended, I looked around in puzzlement as the brickwork turned smooth, without a seam or crack to be found. And yet, I knew that this was not carved from natural rock. Running my hand along the wall, I felt an unmistakable condensation.

  “There is a wide network of underground tunnels and rivers crisscrossing Terminus,” Charon explained as we continued. “They are used for many purposes. Many of the channels are used as fisheries, while there are also wide chambers for livestock and vegetables. The city below sustains the city above. It is how the citizens of Terminus continue despite the frigid weather. And more, the tunnels also serve as useful catacombs for the dead.”

  A faint light appeared from an etching along the wall. The etchings were carved in straight, angular patterns, which I recognized only from the most ancient architecture. This place had been constructed during the early days of expansion, when men built the first ships to cross the empty sea. I ran a finger along their paths. The lights gave off a strange yellowish glimmer, but they emitted no heat.

  I was reminded of a favorite pursuit of the Astronomers. It has long been the topic of academic debate whether an incandescence can be produced which burns eternally. I found the question poorly reasoned. By definition, to burn is to exchange. All light is produced at cost, whether it be in a polarized current, the excitement of certain chemicals, or the alchemic transmutation of matter. Even the stars must run out eventually, and if those molten drops, little flakes of iron and heat struck off the anvil of the Potentate—if even they cannot last, then what hope should we have?

  Yet the dream of the eternal flame remains in men’s hearts as if it ought to exist somewhere. And some take that as evidence—and I count myself among them—that it must exist. We would not desire it otherwise.

  Finally, the stairway widened into a large tunnel. Before me flowed a wide river with a meandering current. The smooth walls continued, and the lights formed concentric circles alongside us. Near the river was a small marina where a single gondola was moored. Berenice waited for us there, still cradling the sword in her arms.

  Unlike her usual dress, she wore a simple black gown with a flowing skirt that trailed behind. Her head was covered with a similarly black veil around her golden hair. Her quick blue eyes brightened when she saw me walking down behind Charon.

  “Thank you,” she said as we approached. “I am sorry I disturbed your slumber. I did not think Gereon would agree to my request.”

  “Charon was light on explanation. What is this?” I asked.

  She gave a deep sigh. “I cannot say.”

  “Can you at least tell me why you cannot say?”

  She remained quiet. Her head was bowed, an expression of sorrow upon her face. I glanced over to the small boat moored to the marina. It was big enough to comfortably fit six people and a gondolier. Wreaths and vines and flowers were intricately carved into the weathered wood. Both ends of the boat curved upwards into sprouts of trees. However, I noticed near the bow was a casket, big enough to fit only a newborn baby.

  I looked from the casket to Berenice, barely holding back tears, and all questions fled from my heart. I did not need to know who was in the coffin. I knew enough.

  “I shall do whatever you ask of me.”

  Berenice gave a quick, grateful nod, and Charon helped her into the boat. I followed, and we took opposite seats from each other. Charon untethered us from the marina and took up a large oar. Gently, he paddled us down the river.

  Berenice laid her sword across her lap. She was quiet for a few minutes as we drifted down the tunnel. Then she spoke, “tell me, Astronomer, what does your School teach about death?”

  How should I have responded to that question? Even now, I still wonder. Perhaps it is a fault of my own mind. I was trained to think in orbits and ellipses. My eyes followed the patterns of the sky, spinning and dancing and teasing in their unfettered delight. Was it so thoughtless that I began with such geometric terms?

  “We know the land of the dead is beyond Okeanos, the River of Stars. It is on that channel, which encircles all worlds and all worlds yet to be, that the dead are carried to the next life. But of that distant Firmament, no man can voyage and still live.”

  “And of the dead? What is their fate?”

  “We are taught that the Potentate pans the waters of Okeanos for souls, where even the littlest babe outshines the celestial fires. Of those resplendent and beautiful, He shall add as gems for the adornment of the Bride who is yet to come. Of those wretched and sickly, He tosses them into the stellar wind. There, the Whirls of Time shall gather them into one great mass, so dark and terrible that it crushes anything that treads near—even light.”

  “Do you believe that?” She did not say that as an accusation, but rather with a tender somberness. “Do you believe the Potentate had any care for this child?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Once again, I found myself at a loss for how to console Berenice. The answer seemed obvious to start, but it escaped from my tongue before I could speak. How could I say something so assuredly when I entertained such dark doubts? I had wanted my life to be in service to my School, which I loved more than anything… and then I was given my sentence. Where was that merciful hand that I had been promised? Where was my justice?

  I felt Master Algol’s ghost behind me, his eyes mocking even as he drew his last breath. With his own accusing hand, he sealed my fate, ensuring no one was left to pick up the pieces of his treachery. No one except me.

  How could I have answered that question any other way?

  “There’s a story I want to tell you. It’s not a true story, but it’s true enough, and maybe it will set your heart at ease. There was once a Master of a household who had numerous secret affairs with many consorts. Breaking all marriage vows, this man had no dignity nor shame. However, upon learning that an illegitimate child had been born, he sought to have the babe mutilated and murdered as punishment. A servant, seeing all this, secreted the child away, to a place where the infant would never be harmed again.”

  Berenice broke down and began crying. Startled by her sudden outburst, I eased into the seat beside her and gently draped my arm around her shoulders. I glanced at Charon, but he offered no acknowledgement, his focus fixed on guiding us through the winding, silent tunnel.

  It took Berenice several moments to collect herself. She wiped tears from her eyes. “I am sorry. Tell the rest of the story.”

  I grew distant in my thought. “The Master was clever, and he found a way to pin his crimes on the servant. The wife of the household ordered the servant put to death. The servant was stripped. He was tortured. He was nailed to his coffin and left to die. And for the child’s safety, the servant did not say a word. Not for his honor. Not for his life. Not a word.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  I looked at her with the eyes of a dead man. “Only that a very small servant was able to care that much.” I felt her relax in my arms, some of the pain slipping away.

  I wish I had said those words innocently, but even then, I looked around to see if the Potentate would send any portent or perhaps rescue me from my fate. Would one so mighty care? I awaited my answer, but time and again, I received nothing but silence. For this reason, I had no choice but to press on to Calrathia. It was there I would receive the judgement I so desperately desired.

  Ahead of us came a fork in the tunnel. Charon led us down a passage that turned from smooth walls to jagged rock. Evidently, this was some later addition to the tunnel network. As we left the dim light for darkness, I noticed something strange in the water. Below us were many kinds of plant life. Thick tangles of green bobbed in the deep water, illuminated by bright nodules of white. And as continued further down, I saw a blue luminescence also coalesce in the water. We continued down this passage until the whole river was awash with constellations of swirling light.

  I meant the River of Stars as a mere metaphor, but I saw very clearly with my own eyes that such a thing might be truer than I thought. I could not discern the water’s surface, and it appeared to me that we were gliding along the night sky itself. I cupped my hand and drew some of the twinkling lights close.

  “Thank you, Sirius,” Berenice said, glancing to admire the view herself. “You have been kinder than I deserve, and I will repay you with a story of my own. When I was a small child, I grew very ill. My father called all manner of physicians and healers to my care, but they could do nothing to bring me back to health. Despairing, my father turned to a priest to conduct the last rites for my death. I had just been placed in the family tomb when the priest raised his head from prayer and suddenly asked whether I should live.”

  Berenice trailed her hand through the water, tiny blue lights shimmering and slipping from her fingers. “My father was deeply troubled by this question and pressed the man to explain. The priest told him that I could either rest peacefully in my grave or bear a sorrow as sharp and cruel as a sword thrust through my heart. My father replied that such sorrow is the fate of all who truly live. And then, he rebuked the priest, saying he loved his daughter far too much to shield her from the pain of life.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The child placed upon the grave drew breath once again. The young girl who was dead found life again. The priest became a holy man, even though he insisted otherwise. My father waited in horror of when I should suffer, but he passed first. I was left to Messalina, and you know enough of the story afterwards.”

  Charon’s oar struck upon rock, and the gondola shook in the water. I tightly gripped the sides of the boat to remain balanced. Berenice simply grasped the sword in her hands. Water lapped into the boat and settled at our feet.

  “That was my father’s final words upon his passing, warning me of what was yet to come,” she said.

  I was at a loss for words. “What a horrible fate.”

  Berenice looked at me with some confusion. “Horrible? Not at all. There is only one way the heart so tormented. Many who live do so without loving anything worthwhile. They pass from this world as wisps, feeling and touching nothing. It is the fate of those who love deeply to suffer the most. I do not know when my tribulation shall come, but I know I shall find something greater than the sorrow.”

  Berenice turned back and placed her hand on the coffin. She caressed her fingers along the varnished wood.

  I realized the second truth about what she had said, and I wondered what end was waiting for her. Great suffering had already struck her heart, and I could scarcely imagine a worse fate in store. It is said a woman can only give her heart three times: to her father, to her husband, and her children. A man may find a cause or a flag or a city, but a woman is bound by blood, in blood, and to blood as was ordained from the beginning. Two had already been laid in funeral clothes before her, and I did not want to know who the third would be.

  The gondola stopped alongside a rocky shore. From my vantage point, I could see the tombs of many great men outstretched before me. On the periphery was an empty grave of a smaller sort, built from heap of rubble instead of hewn stone. It was crude, but I could tell it had been fashioned with more love than all the other graves put together. Charon stepped out of the gondola, holding the casket in his arms. The three of us approached the open tomb silently.

  Charon placed the casket in the grave, and it was there that Berenice lost what composure she had left. She threw herself over the tomb, weeping and wailing with the grief of a mother over an unborn. Charon and I bowed our heads respectfully. At this juncture, there was no consoling the inconsolable and nor should there be. In the same sense that a man is commanded to protect, a woman is commanded to grieve. Only with inconsolable grief that the tragedy of death can be properly mourned.

  I have often reflected upon the mystery of death, as my own demise was so imminent. Why is Man exhorted to die? As all evil draws from evil, why then had the Potentate ordained this severest punishment? Those among the Eternalists proclaim that life cannot exist without death, that only with the other, all things draw their intended meaning. I beg to disagree. As a man who has spent his life training his eyes on the heavens, I beg to disagree.

  Things need not be the way they are, and yet they are. The only answer I have found satisfactory is that there is a greater truth concealed from our fallen eyes. We look at bones and rotting flesh, mistaking the materials for what has been laid bare before us. Man is so clearly not his carcass, and I think that is a great comfort.

  Of what followed next, I must reserve for my own memory, and for sake of Berenice. I cannot disclose what happened next at that tomb, for it would be inappropriate. That which belongs at the grave should remain at the grave until the necessity of graves is no more. However, I will disclose that I followed Charon’s instructions exactly, and I mourned a child I never knew.

  When we finished the funeral rite, Berenice laid her head on my chest, hugging me tight. “I am so sorry that you came to this cursed household. I know you are to depart soon. Leave! Leave and don’t return! You, who have showered nothing but grace upon me, I ask you to never look back! Guard your possessions well and leave me to suffer what I must!”

  It was only after many warnings that I kept my belongings close when Berenice allowed us to depart on the gondola once more. Charon took us on a different way back, but we soon stopped at the same marina from which we had departed. Berenice quietly slipped away, leaving without a word. She bore the heavy sword on her shoulder, yet she still quickly climbed those steps until I could see her no more.

  At the top, she paused and glanced back, and in that fleeting moment, I saw the tears streaming down her face before she vanished from sight.

  I was left alone with the mannequin, wondering what exactly had transpired. I turned to what was concealed under the mask of an elderly man.

  “I know you have your oaths, but tell me this. What is the secret of your Mistress’s blade? Why can’t she let go? Surely you can reveal that much.”

  Charon placed the oar back into the gondola. “Among the nobles of Terminus, it is custom to commission a sword upon the birth of a male. It is to be bequeathed to that heir when he comes of age.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then it must be passed to the next male heir. If there are no more males of the household, it is passed to his mother. If the mother refuses, it is passed to the next female of succession. It is then her burden to carry until she takes a husband. Until that day or her death, she must bear the sword.”

  I looked at the steps that Berenice had so recently climbed. “Why doesn’t Berenice take a husband, then?”

  “It is for her to decide who is worthy to bear that burden. I have no right to question her judgement on the matter. I can only say that the sword is the only thing she has left of the child. It is the one memory permitted to her.”

  I nodded my head in understanding. “I know that feeling all too well. I possess a book that is the last memory of my School. It is the last thing I have of my home. I would not depart from my torment for the world.”