Caber Kiber had once remarked that if anyone wasted good timber putting him in an expensive coffin, he intended to come back and complain about it.
No one could remember precisely when he had said it.
Several men insisted it had been after too much drink. Another swore Kiber had been perfectly sober and was discussing the funeral of an officer he disliked. One of the older Blackwatch soldiers maintained that Caber had actually been talking about Ironmantle.
Whatever the truth of it, his coffin was plain.
That, at least, would have pleased him.
The rest probably would not.
The procession that accompanied Caber Kiber on his final journey was considerably more impressive than the jailor would ever have permitted while alive.
At its head rode cavalry.
They wore the colors of the Blackwatch, mounted upon horses kept in disciplined formation. There were enough of them that they could not easily be dismissed as scouts who had happened upon horses. They rode as soldiers accustomed to riding together.
An honor guard.
That alone represented something new.
They were not the only surprise.
Among the Blackwatch infantry walked robed figures bearing the same colors. Staves, spellbooks, and arcane implements marked them plainly enough. They were not hedge wizards pressed into service for the day. They kept formation with the soldiers around them and carried themselves with the quiet purpose of men and women who knew precisely where they belonged.
Blackwatch mages.
The coffin traveled between them.
There was no cheering. No grand speech.
Only hoofbeats, boots upon the road, and the low cadence of a drum carrying Caber Kiber toward his grave.
Then the Elves came.
The alarm broke through the procession.
Men shouted. Horses turned. Steel came free of scabbards.
The solemn order of the funeral vanished beneath the necessities of battle.
The cavalry wheeled away from the coffin and began forming. Blackwatch soldiers rushed toward the approaches. The unfamiliar mages raised their staves, robes snapping around them as the first arcane light gathered in their hands.
And somewhere behind the procession came the furious voice of a woman.
Woman: "No."
It was not loud.
It did not need to be.
A woman pushed her way forward through the confusion, leaning heavily upon a cane.
She might once have possessed something of Caber's appearance. There was enough in the eyes, perhaps, or the shape of the face to suggest kinship. Illness had taken the rest and worried at what remained.
She was painfully thin.
Every step seemed negotiated between determination and a body increasingly unwilling to obey her. One leg dragged slightly behind the other. Her hands trembled against the head of the cane. Her skin had the pallor of someone who had spent far too long among medicines, laboratories, and sickbeds.
Several small glass vials hung from a belt beneath her coat.
Others had been tucked wherever she apparently found room.
One of the Blackwatch soldiers caught her arm.
Soldier: "You need to get back."
Woman: "Take your hand off me."
Soldier: "Caber told us to keep you safe."
She slowly turned her head toward him.
Woman: "Caber is dead."
The soldier released her.
She looked toward the fighting.
Something in her expression changed.
Grief remained.
But grief had found something hotter to stand beside it.
Woman: "They came here?"
Her fingers tightened around the cane.
Woman: "Today?"
One of the mages moved toward her.
Mage: "You shouldn't cast in your condition."
Woman: "I've been told."
Mage: "Repeatedly."
Woman: "And yet the repetition has failed to make it interesting."
The mage hesitated.
Mage: "Your brother wouldn't want—"
Woman: "Do not."
That stopped him.
She stared toward the Elven attackers.
Woman: "Do not tell me what my brother would want."
Her breathing had become shallow.
She reached into her coat and removed a small vial.
The mage immediately took a step toward her.
Mage: "Absolutely not."
She pulled the stopper with her teeth.
Woman: "Then look away."
She drank.
For several seconds nothing happened.
Then her entire body seized.
The vial slipped from her fingers and shattered upon the road.
The soldier beside her moved to catch her, but she violently waved him away. A fit of coughing doubled her over. When she straightened again, a thin streak of blood marked one corner of her mouth.
Her hand no longer trembled.
Neither did the cane.
She released it.
It remained standing for a heartbeat before falling unattended into the dirt.
Arcane light crawled across her fingers.
Mage: "How long?"
Woman: "Long enough."
Mage: "That's not what I asked."
Woman: "It's the answer you're getting."
She took a step forward.
Then another.
For the moment, there was no limp.
Her eyes remained fixed upon the fighting.
Woman: "He told me about them, you know."
Nobody answered.
Perhaps nobody was meant to.
Woman: "Arandor."
She practically spat the name.
Woman: "He'd complain about the Elves for half an hour, tell me they were insufferable, arrogant bastards..."
For just an instant, something almost resembling affection crossed her face.
Woman: "...then spend another half hour explaining why they weren't nearly as bad as everyone said."
Her expression hardened again.
Woman: "That was Caber."
Another burst of magic erupted somewhere ahead.
She watched it illuminate her brother's coffin.
Woman: "He gave them the benefit of the doubt."
Arcane energy climbed her arms now, brighter with every breath.
Woman: "At his funeral."
She laughed once.
There was nothing pleasant in it.
Woman: "They attack his funeral."
The Blackwatch mage beside her lowered his voice.
Mage: "You cannot afford this."
She looked at him.
Her smile was terrible.
Woman: "I am dying."
She turned back toward the battle.
Woman: "What precisely are you saving me for?"
The air around her began to distort.
One hand disappeared beneath her coat and emerged clutching another vial.
Then another.
Behind her, Caber Kiber's coffin remained abandoned upon the road while his honor guard fought around it.
The dying woman stared at the Elves who had interrupted her brother's final journey.
Whatever sickness was consuming her, whatever Caber had crossed the sea hoping she might cure, it had left something behind.
And that something was furious.
Woman: "Get away from my brother."