Description
The journey’s end.
Despite years of searching, Iliff has neither seen nor felt the one Mountain rumored to climb beyond the clouds to the Sun, and Skye is fading. Now the challenge before Iliff is clear: complete his quest or lose Skye forever. With time short and hope waning, his looming journey will demand everything of him. But clues are few and cryptic and all seem to point toward the last place he ever expected, or wanted, to venture.
Final Passage is preceded by Escape and Lights and Shadows.
Appropriate for ages 10 and older
The Prisoner and the Sun III
Final Passage
by Brad Magnarella
Copyright 2012 Brad Magnarella
Possum Creek Publishing
Electronic Edition
For my niece and nephew
Chapter 1
Iliff set his palm on the flagstone and let the small creature with the black, shining shell climb onto the back of his hand. He stood with it, barely breathing. The creature walked to the edge of his thumb and paused. Carefully, Iliff rotated his hand. He watched the creature perch atop the knob at the base of his thumb and continue its ambling journey, its six rigid legs pricking over his palm, the round clump of earth held high in its mandibles.
It was a beetle, Iliff knew. He had seen many of them in his years among the Fythe, but none like this. Not since his search for the five-pointed crevice at the prison’s bottom so long ago. He remembered how he had nearly given up his search that night, how he was preparing to ascend the steps and seek his cell, when the beetle appeared in the light of his candle like an omen, bearing a similar clump of earth.
When it reached the far side of Iliff’s hand, it stopped before the void, its pinpoint eyes hard and unmoving. It pricked its way along the brink, then turned and made its way back toward Iliff’s thumb. For several minutes Iliff followed the beetle’s methodical steps, back and forth, up and over. He wondered whether it had any sense that it was covering the same ground again and again, that it would only ever arrive back where it began.
But on the creature’s fifth pass, it paused and raised its head as though noticing the spring morning for the first time. Iliff leaned nearer. Suddenly, the shell over the beetle’s back split apart, and two sets of transparent wings fanned out and hummed. Iliff laughed in surprise. The beetle hovered for a moment, still holding the clump of earth in its jaws, then sailed northward.
Iliff looked after it, the black glint of it becoming smaller and smaller.
Finally, Iliff stood alone. He drew a tremulous breath and ran his hands down the front of his coat. He became aware of the township at his back again, heavy in its silence. Not even the marketplace stirred. Iliff raised his eyes to the ramp of the bluff and shifted his weight.
He studied the relics of the former gatehouse high above. Two pillars stood there now, two monuments to represent the Fythe. And though Iliff could not see them, he knew that on the far side of the bluff stood two identical pillars, tall and true, to represent the Garott, who had settled here from the Hinterlands in the east. And were he only to step back a pace or two, he would see the pyramidal capstones of the north and south pillars. The northern one stood in tribute to the generations of Fythe who had been delivered to the Great Sea and the restful lands beyond, places known to the living only through stories and songs. The single pillar opposite honored the fallen Garott, for their dead journeyed to lands of their own stories, fiery lands far to the south. Skye told him that following the Great Battle, the Garott had waited two days for the winds to blow strong from the north before lighting their funeral pyres.
Iliff smoothed his coat with his hands again and straightened himself. It was time.
He watched his polished boots fall upon the ramp, the flagstones now gray with use. With each step, he felt as though he were losing something, that a part of him was falling farther and farther behind. His desire to turn and look became stronger until, midway up the ramp, Iliff slowed, then stopped.
The township appeared as empty as it had felt against his back moments before. He traced the main lanes with his eyes, from the silent workshops to the rows and rows of cottages where the only returning gazes were those of darkened windows. The lonely lanes that dipped beyond where his walls had once stood did not appear again, becoming lost amid the clusters of newly tiled rooftops.
But no smoke drifted from the cottages’ stone chimneys now; no farmers labored in the surrounding fields.
The image made Iliff ache. It had been a long time since he had experienced solitude like that. It was the solitude of his prison cell, of the mines and swamp, of his tortured years in the township when he had hidden himself from those he loved. He did not miss that solitude, no. And yet, a part of him now reached for it.
Iliff let out a quick breath, then turned and continued his journey up the ramp. The high bluff loomed ever nearer. The township and yearning fell away behind him and became small. And now, paces from the top, Iliff heard fluting, so sudden and pleasant that the song seemed to issue from beyond the clouds themselves. The fluting was soon joined by a lyre’s gentle strumming, the tap of drums.
Iliff’s heart sped as he hastened his steps.
And now he was passing between the twin pillars and emerging onto the high bluff. Although the courtyard was large, encompassing each towering pillar at the bluff’s cardinal points, it could hardly contain the people amassed there now—Fythe and Garott, young and old, most from the township, but many from afar. Iliff looked on the great tide of them rising to the low wall around the courtyard, their expectant faces turned toward him, the hum of their voices falling to an excited hush.
At the courtyard’s entrance, someone awaited him. From where Iliff stood, the tall figure in the white shirt and blue surcoat bore powerful semblance to the late King. Thin lines creased the edges of eyes that smiled and shone as he came forward to embrace Iliff.
“I am so proud for you,” Stype said. “And so pleased for this day. We all are.”
Iliff’s thoughts warmed with his nearness, with their mutual feelings of respect and kinship.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
They clapped the other’s back, and with a final bow, Stype withdrew and rejoined his wife. Iliff worked to calm his heart. He looked over the people, who, in his excitement, appeared mere halos of color.
The music shifted now, becoming strong and slow. It was a song Iliff had heard before, though never in his honor. Coats and gowns rustled before him, and then, as if by magic, a narrow aisle appeared among the attendees and proceeded to the circular dais at the courtyard’s center. White flowers, newly blossomed, showed among the sprays of leaves on the bluff’s large, lone tree.
Before the tree stood Skye, a pale green gown flowing from her shoulders to the stone at her feet.
Deaf now to the music, blind to the faces passing to either side, Iliff started down the aisle. Twelve days. Twelve days since he had last seen her. Custom or no, it had been nearly unendurable, each day seeming to stretch out farther than the one before. But despite their separation, despite that it had seemed without end at times, the sight of her now calmed him.
Skye smiled at his approach, her bare arms resting at her sides, her blue eyes projecting their warmth.
Iliff floated over tidal swells, his legs slow moving and insensate. As he ascended the steps, he became aware of the lake below, its silver expanse mirroring the cloud-coated sky. Wind pushed from its waters, stirring sweet fragrance from the tree’s blossoms and the small sprigs in Skye’s hair. In his buoyant state, Iliff half-expected the wind to turn him from his course. But then he was standing
before Skye, and his legs were beneath him again, and she was lifting her face to his and taking his hands. Familiar waves of feeling, unique to Skye, unique to them, swelled from Iliff’s chest and swam throughout his awareness.
He pressed her hands in return.
* * *
The wedding feast was held that night in the marketplace. Townspeople had labored the day before, taking down their stalls, sweeping, then scrubbing the cobblestones clean and sprinkling them with fresh wood shavings. Now crowded tables filled the lantern-lit space, tables bedecked with platters of roasted meats, fresh winter vegetables, and enormous baskets of bread from kitchens whose cooking fires had been burning since the morning’s ceremony.
Iliff and Skye sat at the high table at the head of the marketplace. They had finished eating, and now, hands clasped, her head to his shoulder, they watched the community before them.
“I would have given much for my parents to have been here,” Skye said, a minnow of sorrow in her voice. “Not only to witness our ceremony, which would have overjoyed them both, but to see this.”
Iliff’s eyes roamed the marketplace where Garott ate and laughed among the Fythe, as though it had always been. There had been disputes in the last two years, of course, some to do with land rights, others over representation in matters of governance, but none that were not eventually resolved to the satisfaction of those concerned.
At the neighboring table, Stype sat with Severna. She was the eldest daughter of a Garott captain and among the first to arrive in the township following the Great Battle. Her gentle nature belied the hard angles of her handsome face. Severna’s eyes now flashed with affection as she and Stype spoke. Their marriage had done much to build hope and trust between the races.
“Why, your parents are here,” Iliff said, hugging her shoulder. “They are present in the security your father always desired. In the peace that your mother long believed possible. They are here in you and Stype.”
Skye raised her face to his. “Put in that way, you make contemplating leaving here even more difficult.”
“Tradd is still young,” he said. “There is time.”
“He is growing fast.”
Iliff followed her gaze to where Troll’s son knelt on the edge of the square near the tailor’s workshop, a circle of Fythe and Garott children pleading with arms outstretched that they be next. Tradd picked out a wisp of a Fythe girl and lifted her onto his shoulder. The girl squealed and burst into color as she rose up and up, the children around Tradd’s legs shouting and chanting. And now the girl was high enough to touch a parchment lantern that swung from a string of them.
Iliff laughed. “There is still time.”
Skye smiled and rested her head back on his shoulder.
“I wonder if it will be fair, though,” she said at length. “Asking him to come with us. He loves the town as they love him. It will be hard on both.”
He nodded. The Fythe had embraced Tradd immediately, Iliff remembered, but the Garott had started out wary, perhaps sensing his similarity to the giant who had rampaged through the town the night of their defeat. But such concerns had been short lived. During the first plowing, a recalcitrant ox had twisted from its yoke and gone charging in the direction of a Garott child. All of the farmers cried out in warning, but the child, so consumed with pushing his small boots into the freshly turned earth, did not hear them. Tradd dropped his spade and gave chase. It appeared hopeless to those watching. The ox had too large a lead. But each one of Tradd’s strides became larger, longer, until, mere steps from the child, he had the oxen’s horns in his fists and was dragging the beast to the ground.
“It will be his choice,” Iliff said.
“You know well what his choice will be,” Skye replied. Iliff could hear the smile lingering on her lips. “He will want to go wherever you go. Even if it is to the end of this world.”
Iliff watched Tradd lower the Fythe girl to the ground, then pick out another to lift to the lantern. “He is still a child with a child’s longings,” he said. “That will change as he ages. Now, come!” He stood and took Skye’s hands. “This is our night, and that is our music.”
Leaving their seats at the high table, they hurried down to where the marketplace was being cleared of tables. The musicians had struck up a familiar song, and guests, both Fythe and Garott, formed a circle. Laughing and clapping in time, they ushered Iliff and Skye into their company to dance the first of what would be many, many rounds of the Trotalog.
Chapter 2
Two years following their wedding, Iliff and Skye packed their saddle bags and, shrouded in cloaks, steered their horses toward the lake. Though it was still dark, here and there cottage windows glowed, and Iliff could hear the furnaces of the foundry being stoked near the bluff.
They skirted fields where the dim figures of farmers and oxen moved in the far mist. Iliff searched for Tradd, but decided he must be working in the fields west of the township.
They fell into a quick trot as they descended the slope of the land. By the time the remaining darkness had slipped from the early morning sky, their horses were clopping over the timber bridge where the waters of the swamp spilled down. They soon entered the clearing where Skye had awakened Iliff long ago. Here they dismounted, tethering their horses to twin saplings. Iliff spread a blanket and Skye gathered their breakfast from her saddlebag—fruit, bread, and cheeses—and they ate quietly, as they did every time they came this way.
They had come this way many times in the last years. Following the Great Battle, the Garott who had not surrendered scattered eastward and reassembled in small, starving settlements. When word of the first joint harvest reached them—an especially bountiful one—some groups returned to the far side of the lake to settle and trade across the waters. Iliff could hear the echoes of their labors now, away to the north. The whereabouts of the remaining Garott became rumor, though it was believed that many returned to the land of their original exile, the Hinterlands. The rest huddled into small settlements along the rivers.
After dismantling his stone walls, Iliff relinquished his role as Master of Walls and joined Skye to become the township’s first ambassadors. They did not travel as far as the Hinterlands, or even as far as the Fythe’s former Kingdom, for these were distant lands indeed. But their travels took them to regions they had never seen. In the north, Iliff and Skye rode along the great cliffs that fell hundreds of feet to the shores of the Sea. They explored the lands to the south as well, all the way to the verges of the swamp, which stretched on and on before becoming damp plains where herds of enchanted horses lived and grazed. Sometimes they went west into feral lands where, here and there, they encountered a simple farmstead. But mostly Iliff and Skye explored the interior lands, hilly hardwood forests that rose among the many rivers east of the lake.
They located several Garott settlements in the first years. Most of them were mean and suspicious, headed by former soldiers. Fortunately, their suspicions gave way to relief at Iliff and Skye’s message. On one occasion, a leader set down his sword at their feet and clasped their hands in turn, his head bowed low. “There’ve been such fears your soldiers would descend on us now that we are weak and scattered,” he told them, his voice shaking. “We believed it was only a matter of time.”
Iliff and Skye assured him that this was not so, inviting him instead to move his people nearer the township, or within the township itself, if he so desired, for this was the message they carried to all of the settlements.
But they found that the more remote the settlement, the more distrustful were the Garott who lived there. Their leaders preferred to remain and trade from afar, appointing members of their settlement to the Trade Council, which met at the township on the first day of each new season. Though none of the leaders said so, Iliff sensed that they still feared the creature that had devastated them on the final night of the Great Battle. His former companion, Troll.
Iliff turned now to Skye, who was rewrapping the food. He watched th
e skin over her slender fingers, which had begun to pinch with age.
“You worry for me,” she said without lifting her head.
“The mission is dangerous,” he said. “More dangerous than the others.”
Iliff reflected on how the settlement they now sought, believed to be the final one in the interior lands, was said to be especially closed. And it was little wonder, he thought. Their leader, a former captain, had witnessed the assassination of their general at Lucious’ hands. Following the Great Battle, he had settled his followers in a deep river valley, remote and well guarded.
“But this is not what worries you now,” Skye said.
When she raised her face, strands of pale hair fluttered against her cheek. She looked on him with bold, though dimming, eyes.
“I am still strong,” she said.
“You would tell me if you were not?”
“You would feel it,” she said, reaching out and touching his chest. “Here.”
Iliff became aware of the warmth inside him, its slow, strong motion. But though he nodded, he was remembering the time so long ago when he had gone to Adramina’s room unbidden and discovered that she was aging. It was only creases in her skin at first. But then…
“Come, love,” Skye said. “We’ve far to travel.”
The first night, they stopped at a Garott settlement where they had already established good relations. They dined beside the dim fireplace of the leader, where they spoke of trade and meetings upcoming and of their respective people’s doings more generally. What rumors trickled in from farther east were largely benign, the leader assured them. “The Hinterlands want nothing more to do with the Fythe,” he said. “Or even the world beyond their borders, it seems.”
“And the settlement we seek?” Skye asked.
The leader shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot speak for them. It’s said their sentry nearly wiped out a Garott hunting party last winter. The party had the misfortune of wandering too near the settlement and being mistaken for spies. That’s how we even know of its presence, from the two who survived.”
Final Passage (The Prisoner and the Sun #3) Page 1