17.6
Celsus did not look very aged, partly for his already pure white coat, partly for the prodigious muscular build that still prominently stood out beneath it. But Jewel could smell the far too familiar scent of death on him.
“You are certain my old friend?”
The venerable bull raised his head to meet Jewel with his familiar eye, then closed it slowly and nodded. Taking in a deep breath before he spoke in the old cantor that was the preference of the beast.
“The procession of my ancestor’s names is starting to slip away from me, I have taught all of my sons and daughters the tales and wisdom I and my fathers before me knew, and they have taught their own. It is my time to give one last gift.”
Jewel thought of the stark horror of Muriel’s body bereft of her soul, lacking in all that had made her who she was, a breathing, living corpse. Then the wyrm nodded solemnly.
“If you can wait until the longest day of summer I think it would most aid your family.” The old cantor made it easier to denote the family which cared for the bull instead of his offspring, saying that in Ridgevaulic was more of a chore..
He nodded to her in acceptance and agreement, then it was quiet.
She settled in the warmth of the late spring sun, alone with the philosopher bull of Minos’ line, as just her wyrmish self. The Twins and their ‘little twin’ out among the village, the ‘Gem’ with Smithson at the manor, her captain taking up his old role as Nurse Knight. It was more for his peace of mind than any real need.
As for her strangest spawn?
Paul and Dariusz’ eldest daughter were probably fussing over her, which was for the best, Jewel found being that particular one of her selves disturbing, helpless and uncomfortable as infants were, and then all the other strangeness, her nose for one felt like it was constantly overstuffed how it was pressed up through her brow and jaw. It was even worse than the first time with Gem in some ways. There was something so much softer and more vulnerable about that small loaf of a body and its useless limbs. At least she had teeth.
Thinking of her selves reminded Jewel of the other matters that were her responsibility.
“Patriarch Celsus, might I ask for your people’s wisdom on a matter?”
The bull hummed in the vaguely affirmative but did not otherwise stir, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the clear day after so much spring rain, Jewel continued.
“Me and my priest have discovered that we do not know where the souls of the ver go, we thought the gods kept them, brought them back to speak to us, but they do not, we don’t know where they have gone, the children of Minos are very wise, you know the tales of your ancestors, do you know where I would find them? To know they are safe?”
Celsus took in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly and sadly.
“It is so easy to forget that you were raised by ver, yet then you remind me with their madness on your tongue, why should the dead go anywhere? Why should what has passed and ended need safety?”
Jewel could only stare, her lips held tight from the clench in her jaw, words strangling in such a profusion through her throat, leaving her silenced for a breath before she finally broke some free.
“B-but Bethica was sacrificed, she was given to the gods-”
Celsus rumbled over her own voice and then tossed his head as if to shake away flies.
“Yes, she was given to the sun, Helios, but does the grass live on in any form but our own flesh when we grind it again and again in our teeth and swallow it? Was Bethica's flesh and bone and ashes able to speak her words after it became part of you? Or the other Ver? Do the fields enriched by her life’s blessing know her mother’s name?”
He shook his head more slowly, in a manner more like a man than a beast. It was a smooth but very intentional motion, unnatural for his muscles despite his grace. For Jewel’s and mens’ benefit not his own.
He opened his family eye upon her and she saw just the faintest milky hue past the reflection of the sky.
“I cannot speak to the souls of the Ver but among the children of Minos we are assured that nothing of the dead remain after, we give our spirit to the heavens to make blessings for the living, not to carry on our lives. Bethica Knew this, I know this as I make my arrangements for my final gift to you and my family.”
Jewel shuddered, eyes stinging with tears.
This text was taken from NovelFire. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“S-she b-believed that? B-bethica knew?! She knew that she would be gone and she still asked for her death?!”
Celsus rumbled again, swishing his tail.
“Why did you think that I’ve spent so long dictating the tales of her family to your Ver servant’s? To have the words written upon her skull and skin? They will be finished this season, all of the lore of her, my cow and your friend preserved upon her body in the way of Ver.”
Jewel blinked at him.
“Y-you’ve been doing what with her bones?”
Celsus snorted and rumbled a deeply groaning gravely sound that Jewel had come to understand meant a kind of frustrated laugh at foolishness, there were many sounds cows made beyond words that were quite specific.
“And her skin yes, you are a very generous Matriarch despite being raised by Ver, your law has empowered I and Bethica’s children to dictate our rites and ways to the families of this village. Your lent authority has been enough for me to call upon scribes and workers of skins to make a proper gift for you. It has been a labor of many years but it is done, it shall be waiting for you when you return to your villa.”
Jewel stared at him.
“Will you have the same made of yourself when you die?”
He flicked an ear and looked up at her.
“I will not of course, I will be in my final rest, gone and eaten, but I expect my sons and daughters will see to it, they are wise and will know what is best to be done with my last gift to them.”
He took in a heavy breath and then exhaled.
“And my gift to you as well.”
He turned away from her and twisted his neck so he could gaze upon the mixed herd, Bethica’s colors, mingling splotches with vibrant white, they grazed along the hills. Not all of them had the gift of speech, but even those of Bethica and Celsus’ children that were mute were attentive, listening, and thinking.
Many in the distance raised their heads to look back at him and Jewel and tossed their heads in acknowledgement.
The bull looked out over his children and grandchildren and spoke softly.
“It is cruel for your father to be lost to you before he could make peace and last rites. It is crueler still that you have had to lose the Ver’s dream of him that might give comfort. It is cruelty for children to lose their father before he can sing his farewell. I will be able to tell my sons and daughters how great an honor they have brought to me, their family and their fathers' fathers fathers going back to beautiful Minos. It is the most important gift of all I can give, and it will not even begin to soothe their grief.”
He rumbled again and laid his head down in the grass to rest, taking another heavy breath. In that moment looking and acting more in line with how aged his flesh smelled.
“These words are not much, but it is what I can offer in comfort and wisdom for you Matriarch Jewel, Daughter of Jonathan, Who was Patriarch of House Rochford.”
Jewel stared at the bull, whispering softly, voice feeling brittle.
“But he is a Ver, they are different from the children of Minos, surely? Surely he is not gone as you are?”
Celsus hummed but it was non-commital, more so she could hear how slow his breathing was becoming, he was settling in for a late afternoon nap.
Delicately she pulled upon her wyrm flame to let her rise from the grass without disturbing the venerable husband of Bethica, to step and skip across the green hills of grazing that his family supped on without disturbing the earth or roots.
Along the winding earthen road through Valasect, up to the foothills of the mountains that held her Manor.
Where Paul was already waiting for her with two of the footmen holding an intricate arrangement, parchment stretched, bound and cut into a great scroll, held closed in a bundle with the familiar skull of Bethica as a clasp.
Every inch of the bone etched in old cantoran script, declaring her name, her family name, the names of her children, Jewel felt like she had pushed too much Wyrmflame into her head; it seemed to float more than it should.
Paul was making sounds, words, she couldn't make it out, she said something to them some command, then found herself in her office, the gift that had been made of her friend’s skin and bones still furled up before her on her desk, all bundled up like that it was a thing of intricate beauty, she could see signs that the parchment had been illuminated.
With great care she reached out to the skull and lifted it, a latch made from what few of Bethica’s other bones had not been burned unlatched and she saw that the yards of parchment within could now be unfurled like a tapestry.
But instead of a mural of great things there were only words, exactingly dense in harsh sharp letters, so small that Jewel marveled that a scribe had been found who could read the words let alone write them.
But to her or her spawn’s eyes it was hardly a strain.
Jewel began to unfurl the gift of one of her closest friends, made of the cow’s skin and bones and so she solemnly read the story of Bethica’s life and family line.