“You will join me,” he gasped. “You will stand by my side. Together we can rule this world.”
He bent his head to her neck and drove his fangs deep into it. She gasped, and lashed her body around, trying to get free. It was no good. Besides, the blood was burning round her body, bringing with it a glorious warmth and exhilaration.
How had she had resisted this? Why?
Crovax removed his hand.
“You see?”
“Yes,” she said, staring into his liquid eyes. “Yes.” She drew his head down to hers, and began to suck at the wound she had made in his neck. No longer did it taste bad: rather, it was the sweetest nectar she had ever drunk.
“Mirri!” The voice came at her out of the fire that her world had become. She ignored it. Nothing mattered, nothing but slaking her thirst. “Mirri!”
She knew that voice. It burned into her, burned brighter than the searing delight that coursed around her body. She looked up.
Gerrard was fighting in the Garden beyond her. She could see him; she would have known him anywhere. He was fighting…battling the misshapen one who had attacked Weatherlight when first they entered Rath. Greven. That was his name. Greven il-vec.
Even as she watched, he slashed at Gerrard and opened a wound in his shoulder.
Rage poured through Mirri. Her Gerrard. His blood was hers. She had rescued him from the Spirit Way for this? No!
“See,” Crovax murmured. He rolled away from her, and pointed up at the fight in the upper branches. “See, he spurns you. He gives his blood to another. He is not the chosen one.”
“Yes,” she said. Gerrard should be hers. That was right. That was what she had been promised on the Spirit Way.
She remembered the breath of the great cat on her, rancid with rotten meat, and warm. Your time with him will not be long, and when his end comes, it will come at your hands.
She stared at her hands. The fur was matted with Crovax’s blood and her own, and there were shreds of flesh under her claws.
Her claws, tearing into Gerrard’s flesh, she thought. It was hard to think, with the warmth still pulsing through her, burning out logic, searing her senses with its white-hot power.
How it had hurt. Crovax had hurt her. He would have killed her. He would make her hurt Gerrard.
“No!” she screamed and rolled away from him. Crovax was smiling now.
“Will you hurt me, now? When I’ve shown you the way to power? You can have anything you desire, Mirri. You can have Gerrard.”
It was hard to think. Gerrard’s face. Gerrard’s eyes. Gerrard laced in blood, slumping in her arms on the Spirit Way.
His end, when it comes, will come at your hands.
If thinking was too hard, then she must not think. She launched herself at Crovax, in a fury of slashing and biting and punching.
It was sweet, his blood on her tongue. But not as sweet as Gerrard’s would be. No reason she couldn’t have both. The trick was not to do what Crovax told her, but to do those things that pleased her anyway.
“Mirri!” It was Gerrard’s voice, calling her again. He’d seen she and Crovax battling. Now Weatherlight was dropping ropes to haul up those who’d emerged from the Stronghold with Gerrard: Sisay, Starke, and a red-haired woman who Mirri did not recognize. All that stood between Gerrard and his ship was Greven il-Vec.
And all that stood between Mirri and Gerrard was Crovax, and he was nothing, nothing at all.
But from the edge of the Gardens, a shadow emerged, black against the deep purple of the sky. Predator was coming. Mirri saw that it was almost upon Weatherlight. In a moment it would be alongside the smaller ship, and this time, Mirri knew in her heart, there would be no escape.
Mirri saw Gerrard beat down Greven’s sword and kick Volrath’s commander away. The twisted features of Predator’s captain were contorted with rage; Mirri saw his lips moving as he shouted commands to his ship, though it was still too far away to hear them.
Crovax slashed at her with a bit of broken branch he’d got from somewhere.
Suddenly, Mirri understood. He was trying to delay Gerrard. If Crovax couldn’t kill him, at least he could slow Weatherlight down long enough for Predator to catch her.
If Gerrard remained, Mirri could have him. How sweet it would be, to finally possess him. And then there would be the others on Weatherlight. Perhaps even on Predator as well.
* * *
—
Gerrard’s blood. He had fallen into her arms on the Spirit Way, coated in his own blood. But when they had come next to the fires of the Chitr’in warriors, there had been no blood on him. Nor on Keilic, who was also unharmed. Shakily, she had told the shaman her decision. He had nodded slowly and had taken off the mask of the Great Cat he had worn throughout the ceremony.
Bitter smoke from the fires billowed about them. Gerrard, remembering nothing, strode off toward their tent; Keilic, more subdued, also went his way. Mirri considered following him. She was doubting her decision now. If anything in the ceremony held true, all of it did. Gerrard would die before long, at her hands.
But as she started after Keilic, the shaman’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist.
“You are troubled, child. The Spirit Way is often troublesome to those who follow it.”
“I am, Father,” she said. She could not look him in the eyes. The amber glints in them burned too bright, reminded her too vividly of the embers of the great cat’s eyes. “If I follow my heart, I will never have my love, and he will die before his time, at my hands. So said the great cat.”
“The great cat knows the hearts of his Chitr’in,” the shaman said. “But he does not know the hearts of men. And you were never his.”
Mirri started, remembering what she herself had said on the Spirit Way.
Before she could say anything, the shaman said, “Which worries you more: that he will never love you, or that you will kill him?”
“That I should kill him,” Mirri said. The shaman glared at her, implacable. “I will have what love of him I can,” Mirri finished at last.
“You are wise enough,” the shaman said at last. “Though I would have it that you had learned other lessons from the Spirit Walk. A Chitr’in without her heart is no Chitr’in. Nevertheless, I say to you: if you will pay the price, you can step away from the path the Spirit Way has decreed.”
That was it, Mirri thought. That was what she had striven to remember.
All she had to do was pay the price.
* * *
—
Gerrard was beyond her, between her and the rope leading to Weatherlight, hesitating. Another heartbeat and he would come for her. Weatherlight would be lost. The Legacy would be gone forever.
She stepped forward toward Crovax, her paws down, her neck bared.
He came toward her.
“Mirri!” Gerrard called from somewhere far off. Burning gold pumped through Mirri’s veins. She struggled to keep her eyes open.
Damn, she thought.
As through a red mist, she saw Gerrard’s face; he stared at her for an eternal moment and somehow read the message in her eyes.
He turned and leapt for Weatherlight’s ladder.
Go, she thought. Go with my love.
Here ends the Tale of Mirri
Beyond the high windows of the library, the soft light of dawn steadily grew. The rumbles of thunder seemed now no more than a distant backdrop against the morning. Amid the piles of manuscript and tremulously leaning books, Ilcaster sat silent, tears streaming down his face. His breath came in short, sobbing gasps. Before him the old man also sat in silence. His face, as he gazed at the young man, was filled with compassion, yet there was in it as well a kind of watchfulness, as if he were waiting for some thought, now barely stirring, to burst into full flower.
The light brightened slowly, and Ilcaster’s sob
s grew softer. At last he sniffled, pushed the damp hair from his face, and looked at the librarian.
“Why?” he asked, his voice cracking with emotion. “Why did she have to die? Why didn’t Gerrard save her?”
The silence again lay between the two, until the old man laid a hand on Ilcaster’s shoulder. Beneath the parchmentlike skin, the boy could see the veins, blue as sapphire, and the slender bones, worn and brittle with age. Yet he also saw, for the first time, an inner strength that he had not before recognized.
“I told you,” the librarian said quietly, “that a hero is not just an accumulation of deeds. He is also one who has sacrificed, who has given up something profoundly important to him. For Gerrard, Mirri’s death was the last step on the first stage of his journey. In that horrifying instant, as he stood caught between Weatherlight’s safety and the life of his friend and companion, in that moment he knew for the first time in his life where duty lay, where his road pointed. It was not a road he had chosen, but it was one that had been picked out for him long before he was even born. And now he knew that to take it would mean more pain than he had ever imagined.”
Ilcaster snuffled again, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “So what happened after…after Mirri died? Did they get out of Rath through the portal?”
The old man nodded slowly. “Oh, yes. But again, it was not a victory without cost.
“The ship sped over the Gardens. Gerrard, looking back, glimpsed the still body of Mirri lying on the ground, while Crovax, now only a shadow against the grass, flitted back toward Volrath’s Dream Halls. The ship gained speed, but Gerrard and Sisay, clinging to the rails, could see behind them the looming shape of Predator hurtling in pursuit.
“Gerrard shouted to Hanna to put on more speed. The navigator frantically clawed at the ship’s controls, but it was obvious that the larger ship must shortly catch up to them. Hanna gestured for Sisay to take the wheel and fought her way through the shrieking wind to Gerrard’s side.
“ ‘We’ve got one chance,’ she shouted in his ear. ‘The Skyshaper. Karn’s fitted it into the engine. I don’t know what it’ll do….’
“ ‘But it can’t make things any worse,’ finished Gerrard. ‘Go ahead and activate it on my mark.’
“Now Weatherlight plunged across the barren landscape. In the distance, the crew could see the steep walls of the canyon wherein lay the portal—and, perhaps, safety.
“ ‘Gerrard stood at the prow of his ship, hair whipped back by the wind. His face was wet with tears for Mirri—and for Rofellos, for Crovax, for all the souls lost to help him gain his Legacy. But now within his heart there was no more doubt.
“ ‘Now!’ he shouted to Hanna, and the navigator bellowed down into the deep recesses of Weatherlight, ‘Now!’
“The ship gave a great shiver, as if a giant hand had seized it. Then it shot forward, in a blinding burst of speed. The landscape rushed by, and now Gerrard saw the portal, light swirling within it. As he gazed, he seemed to see a ghostlike parade of figures flitting through, escaping the dark prison of Rath. Above the portal, clinging to a rope that swung from the arch above the portal, was the slender, blond, boylike figure of Ertai.
“ ‘Slow down so we can get Ertai!’ Gerrard shouted to Hanna.
“ ‘I can’t! she yelled.
“Weatherlight seemed to be moving even faster. Behind them, Predator had also accelerated. Gerrard even fancied for a moment he could hear the shouts of Greven il-Vec, demanding vengeance for his defeat. He looked up, and for a drawn-out second that seemed to go on forever, he saw Ertai’s face—white with fear, or anger—and then the ship shot through the portal.”
* * *
—
“That’s it? That’s the end? What happened to Predator? What happened to Ertai? What about—”
The old man held up his hand. “Quiet, lad, quiet. There’s more to the story, of course. But perhaps now you should get some rest. The night is over, and the dawn is breaking.” He looked out the window. The clouds were beginning to break up. He nodded slowly, as if to himself. “The storm is passing,” he said quietly. “But it is not yet over. There is another yet to come, one mightier than any we’ve yet seen. But for today, it has passed. Rest now, lad. Rest while you can, that you may be more ready for tomorrow.”
Ilcaster yawned tremendously. “Perhaps you’re right, Master,” he muttered. “I do feel awfully sleepy. Maybe just a little nap, just a little…” His voice trailed off as his head sank on a pile of books. He stretched his cramped limbs out, and a whiffling snore came from his throat.
The librarian smiled to himself and, poking in the distant recesses of a dark cupboard, came forth with a moth-eaten blanket, which he spread over the sleeping youth. Then he stretched as well, moving his neck about to work out the kinks. The library was brighter now, and soft motes of dust drifted in the early morning sunlight. The old man turned to go when one more paper caught his eye. He lifted it, studied the archaic script, and read softly aloud to himself.
“Weatherlight passed from Rath through the portal to a place unknown. Even as the wizard Ertai let go the rope above the portal, he saw, to his horror, the gateway slam shut. A split second later Predator slammed into the archway, its decks cracking and splintering with the impact. The arch crumbled and fell. Ertai tumbled downward, landed on something solid with a resounding thump, and gazed up into the angry visage of Greven il-Vec.
“High on a hillside overlooking the place where the portal used to be, Lyna of the Soltari stood. Beside her was a hooded figure, tall and silent. His face was hidden, but a beard bristled in the shadows of his cowl.
“Lyna turned to him. ‘It was good luck the portal closed when it did,’ she said.
“ ‘Yes,’ he agreed, and turned away.”
At the very bottom of the manuscript, in fading ink, the librarian read, “And so Weatherlight passed from Rath. Of its further adventures…”
The handwriting ended at the bottom of the page.
The rest of the manuscript was missing.
The librarian stood gazing at it for a moment or two. Behind him he could hear the gentle breathing of Ilcaster the pupil, who lay dreaming of heroes and quests, of brave deeds and sorrowful deaths, of tragedies and of triumphs.
“After all,” he said thoughtfully to himself, “what matters are memories.”
He let the last manuscript page of The Rath Cycle slip from his fingers and flutter gently to the floor. Then he turned his back on the rest of the library and walked through the doors into the sunlight.
THE SAGA CONTINUES
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