“You’re back.” Yuba smiled and wrapped his arms around them both.
“It took a little longer than I thought. Sorry.”
He kissed her. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. Did it go all right?”
Did it go all right? Flying across the entire continent, chasing criminals, hiding from the authorities, meeting a goddess, and fighting off a cult of assassins with burning swords full of enslaved souls? Did that “go all right”?
Taziri smiled. “Yeah. It went all right. We got the bad guy and came home in one piece.”
“Good work, honey.” He kissed her again.
“I missed you, Mommy,” Menna said. “Did you bring me something?”
Taziri laughed. “No, I’m sorry sweetie, I didn’t bring you anything. But I do have a story for you.” She looked up at Yuba. “And I have a new invention that’s going to pay for all the new greenhouses you could want.”
He smiled. “Sounds nice. How long are you home for?”
She shrugged. “I’m home for good, or until someone else needs my help to save the world.”
“Fair enough.” And he kissed her again.
“Mommy! Tell the story!”
Chapter 32. Qhora
They buried Don Lorenzo Quesada de Gadir on a snow-covered hill in a small churchyard half a mile from the old Diaz estate where the hidalgo had lived and trained with his students. The service was brief but well attended. Most of the neighborhood was there, along with a dozen or so city officials from Madrid. Tradesmen and craftsmen from all over the area came to pay their respects, including a young cobbler, two glovers, a tanner and glazer, three blacksmiths, a silversmith, one elderly horse surgeon, two barbers, and four doctors.
A short line of young men with old-fashioned espadas on their hips stood along one side of the grave during the service as though guarding their dead master. A longer line of young ladies from town stood behind them.
Mirari held Alonso’s hand, except when the young man produced his guitar to sing a short song he had written to mark the day.
Qhora stood alone with Javier bundled up warmly in her arms, listening to the Espani priest leading the gathering in their blessings in old Italian and Hellan.
They sang together in soft, mournful voices.
They made the sign of the triquetra.
In the name of the Father, the Mother, and the Son.
They each came to Qhora to express their condolences.
And one by one, they all left.
Alonso and Mirari lingered by the wrought iron gate of the churchyard, talking to each other but always glancing back toward the grave and their mistress.
Qhora bounced Javier gently. She looked down at the fresh mound of black earth and its thin blanket of fresh white snow. “Good bye, Enzo.”
“Hello, princess.”
She turned slowly and saw him standing in the snow a few feet away. The edge of his figure was hazy and tattered as the wind rippled through the aether, and his boots left no marks on the face of the snow, but it was him. Whole and beautiful and perfect. He smiled.
“Enzo.” She could barely whisper his name. “You’re free. You’re home.”
“Thanks to you. And to our friend, the captain,” he said. “How is our son?”
“He’s fine. He’s perfect.” She swallowed. “What was it like? When you were trapped in the seireiken, did it hurt?”
“No, but it wasn’t pleasant.” He smiled sadly. “It was a bit crowded.”
“I don’t know what to do now, Enzo,” she said. “The boys will all leave soon to find other teachers. I’ll probably sell the house and move south somewhere warmer, and cheaper. But after that, I don’t know what to do. How will we live? I don’t know how to earn a living for us. I don’t know anyone here. We’re all alone now.”
“No, you’re not.” He nodded at the gate where the masked girl and her young man were waiting. “You have them. And you have me. I’ll always be here for you. For both of you.”
She shook her head slowly. “You know that’s not true. And I know that’s not true. Death is still death, even in Espana.”
“I know.” He nodded at the old medallion on her chest. “But I could touch that triquetra and be with you always. If you asked me to, I would.”
“I know you would. But it wouldn’t be right. Not for you or me or Javier.”
He nodded again.
“I still know a few people at court,” she said. “Perhaps someone could use a Quechua translator for the merchants visiting the New World.”
“Perhaps.” He winked. “See? The future doesn’t look so impossible after all, does it?”
“No,” she said.
Not impossible. Never impossible. Just long and bleak and hard and lonely.
She looked down at the fat-cheeked baby in her arms and then she looked up at the sound of Mirari’s laughter.
Or maybe not so lonely.
“I’ll look in on you, from time to time,” he said.
“I’d like that,” she said.
Enzo came forward, and the shape of his long black hair and long black coat shuddered in the wind as long streamers of aether tore away from him on the freezing wind. He looked down at her and then down at their son. “Good bye, Qhora. I love you.”
She looked up at him and then down at their son. “I love you too, Enzo. Good bye.”
Qhora bent down to kiss Javier, and waited a moment to be sure that her lover’s ghost had vanished before she turned and left to go home.
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