When Gods get Playful
Looking back at the growing crowd, it occurred to Ista that the funeral rites of Castillar Chancellor Lupe dy Cazaril were going to be the most well-attended event of the year. All the nobility was certainly there, filling the first six or so rows. Behind them, craning necks to see, was what looked like the entire population of Cardegoss, supplemented by half the countryside. At least it's pleasant weather, she thought, so that this can all be outside. The idea of cramming even a twentieth of the attendees into the throne room, the largest hall in Cardegoss, was daunting.
Despite the cloudless sky and great crowd, the mood was overwhelmingly somber. Several places down the line from herself, Ista could see Caz's wife, Betriz, whose cheeks shone with silent tears. She was being half-supported by the new Castillar dy Cazaril, her son Canis, on her left, and gripping Iselle's hand tightly on the right. Iselle had an expression that Ista recognized as her daughter's "too royal to cry" face, and was in turn leaning into her husband, Royse-Consort Bergon, whose arm was wrapped comfortingly around the Royesse's waist. Ista decided to take a cue from her daughter, and leaned into her own husband, Illvin.
"It's not like you couldn't have seen this coming," he murmured into her hair, correctly identifying her discomfort as due to the massive assembly. Ista had stopped being truly sad when people died shortly after being made a saint again. She mourned for the loss, of those still living, but not for whatever soul was now sitting joyfully in one of the five heavens. "This is the fourth time he's died, after all. With so much rehearsal, how could the real thing not have a packed audience?"
Ista looked up at him. "Hush. Caz deserves it. Being a saint is bad enough, imagine being chancellor."
Illvan gave a mock shudder. "The horror."
Ista smiled. "Stop making me want to laugh," she whispered. "People would stare."
"Don't worry, the ceremony is starting. We all have to hush, now."
The ceremony was indeed starting, with the Archdivine himself leading. Many people took a turn at expounding the late dy Cazaril's virtues, and even Ista said a few words. But at last it was time for the sacred funeral animals to show which god or goddess had taken up his soul.
The grey wolf of the Father stalked slowly towards the bier. It sniffed at Caz's head, then settled back down at his feet. Mutters ran through the audience as news of this ambiguous move was passed to those who could not see, and discussed. Neither the Mother's green bird nor the Son's bright red fox showed any interest in the proceedings, but that was to be expected, as the ex-Chancellor was no mother, and had not been a son for many long years.
Then it was the turn of the Daughter's bluejay. When leased from the acolyte's arm, the bird flew directly to Cazaril's forehead, and perched, looking as if it meant to stay. The crowd's muttering grew louder, but Ista remained unsurprised.
"Dy Cazaril is no daughter," Illvin said quietly, voicing the thoughts of most of the crowd.
"But the Gods don't forget their well-used tools," Ista responded knowledgeably. "In fact—"
A raucous squawk cut her off, as the crow representing the Bastard leapt from its handler's arms and took to the air.
"Caz! Caz!" it shouted, landing on the body's chin. The crowd started as one, from Iselle and Bergon in front all the way back to whoever was in the back. Countering the crow's harsh caws, the bluejay puffed up its feathers and started whistling piercingly. The competing calls continued their awkward duet in growing volume for what Ista thought was a full five minutes. Then the Father's wolf gave a short growl. The bluejay didn't cease its whistling, but the crow gave a last cry of "Caz!", and flew back to its anxious acolyte in defeat. Finally, the Daughter's jay ended its song with a high trill, though it stayed resolutely in place.
The awed silence continued for what Ista thought was probably another full minute before somebody a few rows behind her started to tentatively clap. The applause grew to a deafening roar, showing no signs of stopping.
Was that really necessary? Ista thought crossly at her God, not expecting a reply.
But of course, sweet tart Ista an unheard voice replied soundlessly. You know I hate to share.
Then how do you manage cases like Foix, accidental sorcerers? she wondered curiously.
There is a system worked out came the reply. No need for you to know. Yet.
Ista turned to Illvan, still clapping with the crowd. "Promise me that if anything like this happens at my funeral, you will shoot the bird."
He looked at her quizzically. "If you insist, I suppose I could risk offending the Bastard. Are you expecting anything odd?"
She sighed. "Some gods have too much time on Their hands for Their own good. They get playful." The clapping was finally dying down, and slowly, ever so slowly, the crowd was starting to disperse.
"Is that prophecy?" Illvin inquired as he offered her his arm. She placed her hand on the forearm with precision aided by many years of practice.
"No, just experience." Slowly, they made their way towards Iselle and Betriz, In her head, the God added silently Don't worry, my dear. I have something special planned for you.
The problem with being a saint, Ista had realized many years ago, was that you couldn't say "Gods help me" if they were the ones driving you crazy.