Woman-From-The-West lay on the robes near the fire. That she lay in the same place where the Warrior had died brought her scant comfort. Soon she would die. As he had. As their child within her had.
And their separation would be for nothing. Nothing.
Would she be allowed to join him in the hereafter if she had not kept her promise to him? Or would she be forever separated from the man who had grown to mean more to her than her own soul?
His burial chamber was covered now but no one had yet smoothed the top of the sacred mound. No one had yet begun to build another mortuary house.
Just as no one had burned this house and all its contents after his death.
As no one had killed the grave goods that accompanied him on his journey.
As no one had been allowed to disturb him once his armor-clad body had been placed in the chamber with the ceremonially robed body of the Priest.
The Guardians would not allow it.
They had allowed no one to approach him, to harm him, to touch him in any way, since she had knelt by his side and returned to him the small cedar box he had given her containing their images on shell.
And they had allowed no one to approach her, to harm her, to touch her in any way she did not wish while she wore the medallion, while she carried his child. But even they were not powerful enough to force someone to give her aid.
The pain came in unrelenting waves now as her body tried futilely to expel the body of their child. He was dead; he must be. Too many hours had passed since he began his journey into this world.
Too many hours had passed since she'd sent her sweet child of a maid to find help for her. Too many hours had passed since the one still living member of the Warrior's guard had come to her side bringing his own mate, telling her the maid would not be allowed to return. Too many hours had passed since she'd heard the last of their moans and cries as they had died, poisoned before they even came to her, she was sure—not by the black drink of honorable death but with something sly and secret—to prevent them from offering her even succor in her last moments.
And for what?
More power for one person?
Three had ruled when she came to these people. The Chieftain, the Priest, and her mate, the Warrior. They had ruled well; their people had prospered.
Now, only one ruled. And greed ruled that one.
No Priest had been allowed to rise up.
If the Warrior had lived, he could have confronted the despot the Chieftain had become, could perhaps have prevented it happening.
But he had not lived. And his successor had not been allowed to be born.
What would happen to his people now?
When the greed of one destroyed the hope of many, would they all just cease to be? Would they fade from the earth as though they had never been?
What would happen to her?
Would she float in limbo, forever alone?
The Warrior was safe. She held onto that thought as the last light in the house faded. He was beyond the touch of the Chieftain, in the hereafter. And his body was safe from depredation and degradation. The Guardians would see to that. Yes. She raised her hand to the likeness of the Warrior she wore on her breast. As was hers. He had seen to that in his last moment. And his likeness was all of this earth she needed to accompany her.
Even in limbo. Even alone.