Luther's Pride Part 47

Luther stared at Criella’s wrapped form. Her body rested on the stone table in the undercroft. This same room had been the preparation place for his father, the Verdells, and the Feothes. Criella was the last to take the wrappings. The stench of fuel coated Luther’s nose, but he didn’t budge from the room after the others left.

A pall fell over the manor staff with Criella’s death to match her funeral shroud. Many tears had fallen, and there were more still to fall. Eira and Rhosyn had seen to most of the arrangements. They respected Criella and did their duty to her in gratitude for her service to their late parents. 

Jowangshin and Helena had known her more personally, and each took their time to mourn with Luther and on their own. Luther, for his part, had mourned over her fallen corpse until his eyes burned from lack of tears. He was empty, a husk, and his grief boiled away in rage when the duke told him such a display was unbecoming of a lord.

The duke had been an annoyance throughout, pestering Luther and the staff for breakfast and demanding that Luther give the fallen Feothes preference and priority in their funeral preparations. As host, it became Luther’s duty to provide for his guests, but he had no desire to feed them anything other than steel. 

Still, he let them wrap the Feothes’ bodies first, then removed them, laying them outside while the servants gathered their pyres. Gathering their pyres had to wait, of course, since the duke needed his breakfast. Disrespectful? Yes, but Luther had already sold it as his ineptitude. He was only doing as his grace asked, after all.

Wulfric, ever a man of duty, had volunteered to oversee the host duties while Luther mourned. Luther had told him to take the day off, and he’d told the rest of his staff the same thing. 

So the duke and his spouses sat in the dining hall, snacking on bread and pastries already cooked, as the servants waited for Criella’s burning. They wouldn’t leave the grounds or take their time off until they paid their respects.

Once the servants finished building the pyres, Luther had only to move her body from the stone. He’d carry her to her pyre and let the priestesses begin their song. 

The wrappings hid her from him, but he could remember her as she looked in life, her beautiful features accompanied by her devilish appearance. The memory of her naked beside him on the library table came to him unbidden. Their reunion had been on the first morning after his father’s funeral. Even happy memories could sting when pressed against a fresh wound.

“This is not how your story was supposed to end, Cree,” Luther said. 

His voice haunted the undercroft. Its vaulted ceilings let the sound fall away and echo into emptiness. His words rang against the stone and stilled. 

He kept his eyes on her body, but her death was confirmed. No heart, no breath, and no hope left. Only vengeance. He couldn’t save her, but he’d die before he let any of his spouses share her fate, or allowed her killers to go unpunished. 

Oh, he wouldn’t stop at slaying them. He would punish them. No matter what the duke offered or commanded, Luther was well within his rights to see Branan and Lucas answer for Criella’s unnecessary, cruel, and tormenting death. Their deaths would be slow, satisfying spectacles of blood, flesh, and bone. They’d find no mercy left within Luther, not even the mercy of a sharp, painless blade.

“You should have some breakfast, Luther.” 

Helena’s voice floated from behind him, filling the space with her firm, steady tone. 

Luther didn’t respond. 

“I brought some food, but it’s not terribly appropriate to eat in here. I had to threaten violence on Wulfric to get this down here.” 

If he weren’t staring at Cree’s silhouette in funeral wrappings, he might have laughed at that. Instead, he focused on the body before him. 

Cree was the latest in a long line of people he’d lost in his life. Friends he’d made, his in-laws preceded her, and his father’s death preceded theirs. Death was an inevitable constant of life for every species, but he’d never expected to burn his ageless fey father. 

Yet even his father died with unfinished goals, just as his and Criella’s were. She couldn’t join him on his adventures now, finishing his father’s work of pursuing the dark lord’s tomb. The dark lord. The necromancer who obsessed over his control of life and death.

Death could strike at any time, from any direction, and it’d come for Criella from a man who had nothing to gain by killing her but pleasure. 

Luther hoped Branan enjoyed trading every member of his union for Lucas and the satisfaction of his pettiness. It would be the last battle he survived. Death wasn’t coming for him at an angle; it was coming head-on, and Luther would see him destroyed. 

“Put it in the library, I’ll eat there,” Luther said. He rose in a single motion, stiff and joyless. 

Helena backed away with the tray, making room for him. She waited to see if he would leave Criella’s corpse, and followed him to the stairs. 

Great slabs of stone rose in a steady staircase to the hall. Luther opened the door into the hall with more force than necessary, not suppressing his above-average strength in the face of his fury. 

The servants in the hallway backed away from him, and his expression, which threatened to kill whoever met his gaze for too long. He washed his hands in the bowl someone brought him, but he didn’t pay attention. The motions were repetitive and automatic, requiring no thought on his part. He strode to the library, and Helena followed him. 

Food and drink in the library. What would his father say? 

He and Criella had always pushed the boundaries of his father’s patience with their behavior in his father’s sacred spaces. This hall was no temple, but it might as well have been to his father, who came from a people that found the written word a perversion of the spirit of language. 

Everyone had their kinks. 

Luther ignored the food Helena set on an empty table for him. He crossed to another and rifled through the books on it until he found the one he wanted. 

“Luther?” Helena asked. 

“Did you know my father was obsessed with discovering the dark lord’s tomb?” Luther asked. 

“Yes and no,” Helena said. “I know he was obsessed with discovering some ancient ruin in the mountains. He and my father would go on expeditions. They’d planned another shortly before his death. I was supposed to go with them, though I don’t think your father ever saw me as marriage material. Was that ruin he searched for the dark lord’s tomb?” 

“Yes,” Luther said. The reason should have been evident to anyone who knew the stories. The dark lord was the lord of death, a necromancer of such significant power that it took many mages to defeat his army. Yet his powers over life and death were storied and attested. The empire’s universities typically censored documentation of his magic. The study of the man was a historical necessity, but his powers? The empire and the temple forbade such studies. 

His father had no such qualms. He had to hide or disguise more than one of the books in this library, but needles hid easily in piles of other needles. 

“A historical curiosity, I suppose,” Helena said, giving his father the benefit of the doubt. 

“No,” Luther said. “A morbid curiosity, once, an obsession after my mother died.” 

“You’re not suggesting—” 

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you that my father sought the dark lord’s tomb in hopes of restoring my mother to life,” Luther said. His mother’s resurrection was the only reason his father would pursue such studies and resources, wasn’t it? When the facts were before him, it made sense, and Luther sympathized with his father’s endeavors more than ever before. 

If there was even a chance of restoring Criella’s life, he had to pursue it. He didn’t care if the empire forbade the study. Why should he care about their rules and laws the way Criella did? The system of might-making-right was old and outmoded, and the broken nature of their corrupt government was too much for Luther to overhaul alone.

“Are you saying he tried to dabble in necromancy?” Helena asked. Her expression was one of shock and horror, as if Luther had just told her that his father fucked pigs. 

“No,” Luther said. “Unfortunately, he died before he could travel to the tomb, but I know where it is.” 

Luther lifted his gaze to see Helena’s horrified expression focus on him. 

“Luther… you can’t,” Helena said. “I’ll miss Criella too, but—” 

“I can,” Luther said, his voice as solid as the ground he stood upon. “I have been blessed with powers previously unseen in this empire. I have the resources necessary to mount an expedition, and if the power exists to bring Criella back to us, then I’ll use it.” 

“Criella wouldn’t want you to,” Helena said, stepping closer to Luther with caution, as if afraid he might bolt like a nervous horse. 

“No, I don’t imagine she would,” Luther said. “But I’m a selfish asshole, she said so herself. So, I don’t give a damn.” 

Helena continued to step closer as Luther gathered materials. 

“So, what are you doing?” Helena asked as Luther closed a book and added it to a pile. “Rushing off into the mountains instead of swearing your fealty to the duke? Are you even staying for Criella’s burning?” 

“Her burning,” Luther repeated, his mind in stormy contemplation. “That’s a fair point.” 

Helena relaxed, relieved to have finally gotten through to him, but still wary of his expression. 

“I need a pair of charms from my chambers,” Luther said. “Don’t let them move Criella’s body yet.” 

Helena looked confused at the wild look in Luther’s eyes, as if he was about to do something stupid, dangerous, and there was no stopping him. 

“I’m serious,” Luther said. “Kill anyone who tries to take her body from the undercroft until I’ve had a chance to say my final farewell to her.” 

“Luther, take a second and breathe. Close your eyes and meditate,” Helena pleaded with every ounce of her patience. “Don’t do anything rash.” 

“Helena, please. Do this for me, as your husband,” Luther begged. “I promise I’ll explain everything.” 

“No,” Helena said. “I’m not stopping anyone from taking her to her pyre, but I’ll make sure they wait for you to light it.” 

“Then do this for me as your lord,” Luther snapped. “That’s an order!” 

Helena stiffened; her training warred against her common sense. It wasn’t fair to her to put her in this position, but Luther was through being fair. Criella was the only one who had ever been able to convince him to play by the rules, and she was gone. The same laws she upheld, the ones she’d broken only once in her life, were the same laws that killed her. Luther would never forgive society for taking her from him, even if he used that same hierarchy to coerce Helena’s obedience. 

Helena’s mouth formed a stiff line as she set her shoulders. She glared at Luther, meeting his iron gaze and holding it for seven long seconds that became an eternity. Luther didn’t yield or withdraw his command. He didn’t apologize or blame his grief. He held firm. Helena had wanted a spouse who could match her in battle, defeat her, and earn her respect. Well, she’d found that husband, even if she learned to regret what she’d wished. 

“Fine,” Helena said, crossing her arms. “I’ll guard her body and keep the others at bay, but don’t take long, my lord.” She curtsied and left for the undercroft. 

Luther’s brunch remained uneaten on the library table as he left the room after her. She descended toward the undercroft, and he split off to the entrance hall, ignoring the comments and greetings of his guests and servants as he passed them. He raced to his chambers and rifled through his belongings, flinging them onto his bed and floor until he found the charms he sought. 

He shoved them into his purse, fastened it to his belt, and sped to the undercroft. Helena waited at the entrance to the preparation chamber, arguing with four of the servants who’d come to remove Criella’s body. All four turned to Luther as if he might convince Helena to let them pass, but scurried away from him as he strode forward. 

One of them yelped, as if afraid Luther might brandish the sword on his hip or draw it. 

“I told you,” Helena said, her tone frustrated but understanding. “Lord Le Fey wishes to say his final farewells in private. Come, let’s give him space.” 

The four servants looked at each other, but Luther had already passed them, entered the chamber, and shut the door behind him. He waited until he heard the echoes of their footsteps fade, then set to work. 

Ten minutes later, he emerged from the undercroft with every appearance of a man in the midst of grief. The four servants eyed him with sympathy, understanding, and an abundance of caution. He commanded their respectful caution the same way a bonfire might, for fear that the wrong piece of fuel would create a wildfire. 

Helena put her arm around him, and Luther let her guide him to a private room in the business wing, a sitting room used for meetings, where his wives had gathered. 

“Did you tell them?” Luther asked. He could see by the confusion on Eira, Rhosyn, and Jowangshin’s features that Helena hadn’t mentioned his plans yet. 

“I haven’t had a chance,” Helena confirmed. 

“Good,” Luther said. “We’ve much to discuss. I plan to go on an expedition to find an ancient ruin and finish my father’s work in this valley. However, there is much to do first, and I’ll not leave Branan and Lucas alive before I depart.” 

The others exchanged glances but nodded. They didn’t approve so much as understand. There was no dissuading Luther from killing Branan and Lucas, even if they’d wanted to, and none of them wished to attempt it. 

“What about Emily?” Jowangshin asked. “The duke has been suggesting she should marry Branan to support her brother, that he would give her special dispensation.” 

“If she joins them, she dies,” Luther said, matter-of-fact. “Besides, the duke doesn’t have that authority. Does he? It’s a matter for the temple.” 

Jowangshin nodded her agreement. He might be able to convince someone at the temple to give Branan special dispensation, but it’d be a damn impressive feat if he could pull it off. Once someone laid a challenge, the rules were clear. Still, by the time someone fought the order, the wedding would be over. 

“And if he does something underhanded?” Eira asked. “Like we did?” 

Luther shrugged. “Then we deal with it. For now, are we ready for the burnings?” 

“Yes,” Rhosyn answered, her voice barely audible. “But we should warn you—” 

“What is it?” Luther asked. 

“The duke insisted that they build Criella’s pyre apart from the others. That she should be burned on a pyre near the stables, while the others are given places of honor in the arena.” Rhosyn braced herself, as if Luther would take out his anger on her or everyone. 

He didn’t. Anger didn’t bubble out of him or consume him where he stood. It hardened into something cold, and in some ways, that made the people around him more afraid. He exhaled through his nose. “Fine. What else is there?” 

“He was very insulted that you didn’t join him for brunch. He’s been talking pretty consistently about getting you to call off your challenge to Branan.” Eira said, though she sounded more amused than the mood in the room allowed. 

“Branan’s pretty miserable, and Lucas is…” Jowangshin hesitated. 

“A whiny little bitch?” Eira suggested. 

Jowangshin nodded and pointed at Eira. “Yes, that.” 

Luther nodded. “Is it necessary that we sit for the pyres?” 

Jowangshin said, looking at Luther with surprise. “I’d like to attend Criella’s ascent.” 

“Yes, of course,” Luther said, nodding. “Let’s attend Criella’s together. She was one of us, after all.” 

“The duke expects us to—” Rhosyn started, but silenced herself when everyone’s eyes fell on her. The duke no doubt expected them to attend the ‘official’ funeral, but if he thought Luther would skip Criella’s last ceremony to attend the Feothe’s? He was even more stupid than Luther had imagined him to be. 

Jowanshin rose and took Eira’s arm. Eira offered her arm to Rhosyn, but Rhosyn took Luther's, putting him between Eira and Rhosyn as Helena took Rhosyn’s other arm. Together, they left the mansion and passed the arena to find Criella’s pyre, where the household staff had gathered to say their farewells. 

Only the duke, his spouses, Branan, and Lucas had gathered to witness Raoul, Marne, and Saehild’s ascent. The duke appeared furious at the disrespect from Luther and his household, but Luther didn’t care. Just wait until he learned that Luther had given his staff the rest of the day off? His fury might even be enough to make Luther smile.

Luther closed his eyes as the song began, meditating on Criella, her life, and his memories of her. He walked along the stream to the pool in his mind, feeling his wives' presence with him. 

Even with the pool halfway drained from Criella’s use, the power and connection comforted him. He circled the edge, passing each stream. 

Helena, who joined him first. Her spirit was restrained, stoic, and solid as ever. Perhaps her grief for Criella was lesser, but Luther didn't think so. More likely, she was being strong for his sake, letting him grieve. He reminded himself to thank her for that later.

Jowangshin's spirit was mournful with his soul. The storm swirled and churned in chaos as emotions warred within her.

Eira and Rhosyn, the twins who added this grief to that of their lost parents. Rhosyn's spirit was low and sad, without anger infecting her spirit. She wept for the fallen and mourned them in the purest fashion. A loss whose only silver lining was that those who parted from this world ascended to dwell with the gods above. If you believed in that kind of thing.

Eira's stormy grief continued to rage, churning as if she couldn't linger on a single emotion for more than a few seconds at a time.

Then he came to Criella, who—

Luther opened his eyes. He glanced at the others, who returned his confused expression with their own. He closed his eyes again and followed the stream of power to its source, where it split into six streams. One for himself, Helena, Jowangshin, Eira, Rhosyn, and—

He sped along the trail and found Criella's spirit there waiting for him. Her formless, abstract spirit rested as peacefully as a windless lake.

He reached for her spirit with his, but he couldn't calm himself to match her. Her spirit tore away from his touch as pain jolted through him. 

He cried out, turning the noise into a sob to hide its true nature from those around him.

Her spirit rippled with impatience, and Luther turned his eyes to the burning pyre. He'd made the right choice then, hiding her body. The “body” on the pyre was something created with a charm, and it would last as long as it needed to, or so he hoped.

He squeezed the hands holding his and whispered. “Rhosyn?” 

“Yes, Luther?”

“When this is done, you and I are going to train together.” 

The girls exchanged glances, confused and concerned by his sudden galvanism, but hesitant to deny him anything in his current, broken state. 

“As you wish, husband.”