Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 64
back to her invisible path, and then forgot her anger. He hated
her for what she had done to him, but she seemed incapable of
hating him, and this confused him. He decided to be insulted
by it.
The countryside they passed through was deeply forested
by black oaks that trailed moss, muffling the birdsong. The
forest floor was bathed in a secretive green twilight, broken by
dust motes sparkling in infrequent shafts of sunlight. The air
was warm, but held the expectant fullness of late summer, as if
Life were resting. They were far from the habitations of men.
When darkness fell Lady May decided to camp again.
Jordan was worn out, and grateful for the respite. She made a
quick fire and roasted some more rabbit, and he ate his and fell
asleep immediately. His mind had been going all day, running
up against walls of fact and memory, and it was mental
exhaustion more than physical that put him under.
The last thing he was aware of was Lady May watching
him with something like sympathy in her eyes as she languidly
fed the fire.
They slit open his belly and dumped out his organs. He
did not protest. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling of the
tent. Muttered voices all around; the sharp tang of incense; and
outside, professional mourners wailed hypocritically.
The two men who were preparing his body were elderly,
their long grey hair tied back with strands of hair from the
corpses they'd worked on. They wore black velvet robes sewn
with many pockets, and from these they produced a variety of
vials filled with noisome chemicals. These they dripped on
and into his body, and painted over his skin with brushes.
The ceiling was aplay with shadows of underworld
spirits, from statues placed around the perimeter of the tent.