Once they stepped aside, Barnabas declared, "Those that would, please take our brother to his resting place." If he looked around, he would find that only six remained, with them being the only ones that could carry him out.

  Haman was the first at the cot, to the surprise of all. Perhaps he took some pleasure in this, though his face gave no indicator one way or the other, but the casualness of his gait was telling. Dinaz, who was not a frail woman, took a place behind him. Many looked down on women carrying men to their resting place, but given her status, no one would challenge her. Barnabas stood behind her. It was also uncommon for priests to carry the dead, but with so few to bear the body, he had no choice, but from the look in his eyes, it was not a burden.

  Barak shuffled to the middle left, at his comrade's prompting. If he broke down, the body would not fall. There was no greater disgrace than for the dead to touch the ground. Habakkuk stood at the front left, that he might make up for Barak's potential weakness. His face stood inches away from his old friend's. Boaz took the last position, keeping his face toward the ground.

  Together, they carried him out, the cot resting at shoulder height, with Barak having to hold it to his head and Habakkuk propping it against his arm. With slow steps, in time with the memorized beat of the Hatran war drum, they took him from the courtyard. There was a brief flight of stairs leading them around the hedges to a long walkway. They ended up at the top of the palace stairs. A crowd awaited them.

  The moment they appeared, the anguished cries arose from the masses, creating a fever pitch of misery. Barak's legs buckled for a moment, but the cot did not lower by an inch. They stood, allowing the crowd's initial despair to subside, while allowing their youngest member the chance to regain his footing. In time, the wails dissipated into a babbling of blubbering men and women stifling their cries. "Hurry," Barnabas coaxed. "While they maintain control."

  At his urging, the procession carried on, walking to the internal beat of the drum. They had not practiced, but they navigated the steps where they glided down them, the cot floating between them. The crowd parted as they drew closer, dividing as water does before a bow. As the procession passed, many extended their hands toward the body, in an act of silent prayer and respect, but no one dared touch.

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  Looking back at the crowd, the procession found people of all walks of life surrounding them. Butchers, weavers, sailors, housewives, beggars, elders, soldiers, even nobility had a place within the sea of mourners, but there was one that all six noticed. Each only saw her for a moment, but that was all they needed. At the sight of her, Barak fell to his knees in a moment of weakness. It was difficult for him to stand up again.

  A girl, no longer than thirteen, stood among the crowd alone. In a crowd as large as this, someone as young as she would be pushed aside by the throngs around her, but she held her place, with a small circle of empty space around her. It was as if everyone knew not to draw close to her. She wore a simple black dress, which covered her from neck to ankle. A little veil clung to her face, but even through the thin fabric, her large, pitiful tears shone. Barak's sharp eyes noticed that there was something familiar about her, although he knew he did not know her. There was this dignity in her eyes, a passion that he was familiar with. When he stood back up, he knew there was no mistaking it: the resemblance between her and the older man who laid on the cot. (If he could see her red hair from that position, he would have cursed himself for taking so long to realize this.)

  At the end of the crowd, they found their destination. The entrance to the Royal Catacombs laid at the end of their march. A small group of caretakers, clad in brown robes, waited beside the marble doorway. Once the procession ended, they would take care of laying Charon to rest. The closer they drew, Barak was not sure if he could bear giving up his dear friend, but he looked up at Habakkuk's strong back. The old man knew Charon far longer than he. It was common knowledge that the pair grew up together, rising to prominence at the same time. How can he stand this? he wondered, his heart aching over his weakness.

  When they reached the end of their march, the caretakers lined up on both sides, relieving the six of their burden. For a moment, Barak almost pushed his man away, daring anyone to keep him from his friend, but he noticed something, and it humbled him. As Habakkuk gave up his position, there was a slight tremble in his shoulders. It was brief, but it was there. Shame gripped Barak and his weakness before a man that only had a single tremor display his sorrow.

  The lad relinquished his position and the six, as well as the crowd, watched as the caregivers took Charon away from the public eye, into the catacombs, where no one would see him again. Through it all, King Li sat on the roof of the palace, looking at what he saved, knowing what he gave up, and there is no doubt that Charon's final moments haunted him until the day he died.