The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 1414: Ashlynn’s Pyre (Part One)

The courtyard behind the Chapel of the Rising Sun was small, no larger than a modest garden, enclosed on three sides by the stone walls of the temple complex and open on the fourth to the sky. The flagstones were damp with frost that was only now beginning to melt in the weak morning light, and the air carried the sharp, cold bite of a winter day that had no intention of warming.

In the spring and summer months, the courtyard would play host to weddings among the common people of Lothian March, mostly serving those who were too poor to request the services of the chapel. For less than a silver penny, a bride and groom could meet with an acolyte of the temple in order to exchange their vows with their close family members as witnesses.

If they were lucky, the stone planters that ringed the courtyard would be filled with flowers that were in bloom. Even if they weren’t, both the stone walls and the flagstone courtyard itself had been decorated with large, colorful mosaics depicting the rays of a rising sun in yellow and orange tiles on the ground while the walls transitioned from pale sky blue to deep, midnight blue, as if the rising sun were pushing back the dark of night.

At the center of the courtyard, in place of a wooden altar where wedding vows could be spoken, a small pyre had been prepared. It wasn’t large enough or sturdy enough to hold a person’s body, because there was no body to burn.

The pyre for Marquis Bors would be several times larger, and was designed to burn for hours, but the pyre for Ashlynn had been built low to the ground from carefully stacked logs of spruce that would burn hot enough to reduce the memorial offerings to ash, and quickly enough that mourners wouldn’t be forced to linger in the cold for very long before the flames burned out.

The pale wood was interlaced with bundles of dried herbs, rosemary, sage, and juniper, whose scent would mingle with the smoke as the fire burned. A shallow iron basin had been placed atop the pyre to catch the ashes, and a clay urn stood waiting on a small stone pedestal nearby.

Aubin had done this deliberately and with great care. He’d worked through the night to prepare it, and looking at it now, Jocelynn understood why. The pyre wasn’t grand or elaborate, but every piece of it had been placed with intention. The herbs were for purification and remembrance, while the spruce was there to burn brightly and light Ashlynn’s way to the Heavenly shores. The iron basin would hold the offerings as they burned, ensuring that Jocelynn could collect the ashes afterwards.

Ashes that she hoped would make it safely back home to the family crypt in Blackwell once everything was over. Perhaps her own ashes would join her sisters there, though she had little hope of that. The body of a woman who murdered a marquis would never be burned. Instead, the best she could hope for was that the crows made quick work of her, stripping her flesh from her bones when her body was staked out as a warning to the common folk about what happened when someone dared to kill a lord.

It didn’t matter, though. If that was the price to be paid for claiming Owain’s life for what he had done to Ashlynn, then she would pay it gladly. But while thoughts of ending Owain’s life were enough to keep her from falling into an abyss of despair, the man had no right to occupy her thoughts now, and she clamped down firmly on the distraction to focus on the sister whom she’d come here to send on her way.

The mourners filed out of the chapel through the side door and gathered around the courtyard’s edges, their breath forming pale clouds in the cold air. The knights and Templars formed into ranks flanking the pyre, acting like an honor guard for Lady Ashlynn Blackwell’s final moments.

The household staff clustered together for warmth as much as comfort, their dark cloaks pulled tight against the chill. The four noblewomen stood apart, but closeby; Charlotte pressed against Adala’s side with her handkerchief clutched in both hands, while Ragna and Sorcha stood shoulder to shoulder behind them.

Captain Devlin positioned himself near the courtyard entrance, his back against the wall, his hand resting on the hilt of his fighting knife from habit rather than any expectation of danger. His eyes were fixed on the pyre, and the set of his jaw suggested that he was holding something down with considerable effort.

Jocelynn carried the chest to the pyre herself. No one offered to take it from her, and she was grateful. She set it down on the flagstones beside the stacked wood and opened the lid one last time.

The book lay on top, its cracked spine and yellowed pages waiting. The cerulean scarf was folded beneath it, the blue silk vivid against the plain wood of the box. And beneath the scarf, the collection of trinkets from the festival night rattled faintly as the chest settled.

She lifted the book first, pressing it to her lips for a moment before placing it carefully at the center of the iron basin, nestled between the spruce logs where the flames would find it. The scarf came next, and she let it unfurl one last time, the blue silk rippling in the faint breeze before she draped it across the basin so that it lay like a banner.

Last, she placed the box of trinkets beside the book, opening it one last time and setting out each of the mementos atop the cerulean scarf one by one, holding it down against the faint morning breeze that threatened to snatch it away.

Then, when everything was in place, she stepped back from the pyre and turned to Aubin, who stood waiting with a torch in his gnarled hands. The flame trembled in the cold air, small but steady.

Acolytes were already moving about the mourners, passing out torches made from spruce and dipped in pitch so that each person could add their flame to the pyre along with their prayers for the departed.

"Your Worship," Jocelynn said quietly. "We’re ready..."