Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) by Evie Manieri Read Free Book Online

one way, then the other.
    He pulled out the cork, poured a few drops onto his tongue and swallowed them. And waited.

Chapter Four
    Daryan’s heart sank when he realised how late he was to arrive. He stopped in the doorway, guiltily glancing around at the other Shadari ringing the pyre, but every one of them had their watering eyes fixed resolutely on the flames. There were at least sixty people there, and probably more of the two hundred-odd slaves in the temple would have come if their duties had allowed it.
    He moved in amongst the mourners as quietly as he could. The flames had already caught the hem of the dead girl’s robe and before long were sweeping over her body and consuming the filmy veil covering her face. He watched the garments char away. The heavy, drowsy scent of the oils in which the garments had been soaked rolled through the room – it was oppressive, but at least it masked other less pleasant smells. Acrid smoke spiralled around the pyre and drifted into the room, but the draft pulled most of it up through the aperture in the ceiling and out to the stars. Suffocating heat pulled at his limbs, reminding him longingly of his bed, and he sighed heavily.
    ‘I know. She was so young. And she’d only been here a few weeks,’ the young Shadari woman standing next to himcommiserated in a tragic whisper. She had her hands pressed to her heart, but when she saw him looking at them she self-consciously curled them up under the sleeves of her robe; her knuckles were swollen and red with sores, most likely from scouring floors. ‘She would have been honoured to have you here, Daimon.’
    A tall man on her other side, so tall that the top of the girl’s head did not reach up to his shoulders, nudged her gently. ‘You’re not supposed to call him that, Mariya,’ he reminded her quietly in a low, deep voice.
    The girl brought her swollen hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry, Dai—’ she began, and then stopped herself. ‘I mean, I’m so sorry, Daryan,’ she amended, emphasising his name with a shy giggle.
    ‘That’s all right,’ he said, smiling warmly back at her. He turned back to the fire.
    On the far side of the pyre behind the leaping flames, he noticed his Uncle Shairav glaring at him from beneath his heavy black brows. Daryan dropped his smile.
    The tall man – Omir, he remembered – looked up through the skylight. ‘Almost dark,’ he said to himself uneasily. Daryan looked upwards as well, anxiously scanning the cobalt sky for any sign of the White Wolf’s patrols. Anyone flying over the temple on a dereshadi might easily notice the smoke.
    He looked round again at the ring of solemn faces. The Dead Ones had outlawed the burning of the dead as a waste of resources, just as they’d outlawed drums because of the noise, and a host of other Shadari rituals for offending their sensibilities in one way or another. The punishment for participatingin this ritual – not to mention the related crimes of stealing oil and straw and exhuming the girl’s body from the Dead Ones’ tombs – would be unpleasant, to say the least. And yet here they all were, huddled in this unused room while someone kept watch out in the corridor, just to liberate the soul of a young woman most of them barely knew.
    Shairav walked forward into the circle, taking a large jar of sand from one of the waiting Shadari. Daryan thought he looked ridiculous in his gaudy ceremonial robes with their silver and gold constellations crudely worked over a ground of flamboyant indigo, but his dark, deep-set eyes, straight shoulders and black hair shot through with silver were still impressive. Shairav poured the sand out onto the floor while the rest of the Shadari knelt down on the hard stone and looked away. Everyone – except for Daryan – assiduously averted their eyes while the old priest scratched the prayer into the sand; he was watching Shairav carefully, mouthing the words to himself as they emerged from beneath the