At four o’clock in the afternoon, the low alpine sun touched the western granite ridges. That turned the snowfields on the Guard to a cold, burning rose-amber that threw long, violet shadows across the valley floor.
Six veteran quarrymen from Geth Marr’s shift stepped to the corners of the timber platform in Tram Square. They were big, broad-shouldered men dressed in clean wool jackets, their faces scrubbed of limestone dust. Their calloused hands gripped the ash-wood carrying poles with timed together, unrushed strength. With a single, heavy heave, they lifted Doma Reel’s pine coffin from the railway sleepers, raised it to shoulder height. Then they turned toward the winding hillside path that led to the terraced cemetery on the slope above the depot.
A procession of two thousand people followed the coffin up the mountain path.
They walked in total, respectful silence, their boots crunching on the damp, thawing shale of the trail. There were no brass horns blowing dirges, no town banners trimmed with silver bullion. No hired mourners tearing their tunics for coin. Ahead walked Len Vey. He used his father’s old walking stick in his sound right hand to steady his steps against the grade, his left arm held rigid within its ash-wood splints, his spine held straight and balanced by Carrying Balance. Beside him walked Bram Ash, Heth, Ivara Quill, Melli Dorn, and Edda.
