Three hundred and twelve.
The number was read aloud in the council chamber the morning after they returned, and the room received it in silence. Zekar sat at the head of the table and said nothing. There was nothing to say that the number didn't already say better.
He walked among the pyres that night.
They had built them on the long flat ground below the east wall, close enough to the city that people could stand at the walls and watch but far enough that the smoke went out over the valley rather than through the streets. Each pyre had a name. Each name was spoken aloud before the fire was lit, first in Drk, then in Khursagi, then in the slow rolling vowels of Velanthri. Three languages for the same grief.
He moved through it slowly, without purpose, just walking. Around him the fires burned and the voices of the readers rose and fell, steady and formal, giving each name its weight.
He stopped at one of the smaller pyres near the end of the row.
