Hymn

by Ken Scholes

  “What is happening at the portico?”

  Esarov shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. But it seemed important.”

  Winters sighed. On an afterthought, she lifted a blue stone from her desk and slipped it into the pocket of her robe. Then she left and made her way to the stairs.

  Few people stirred at this hour, and she reached the main doors and the portico quickly. Neb tossed her a large piece of fruit that looked like an orange but tasted like a plum. “Good morning,” he said.

  She caught the fruit and closed the distance between them, kissing him hard on the mouth. She could taste the sweetness of breakfast plucked from a tree. “So you let Esarov off the hook for today?”

  He smiled. “I did. I told the others. I hope you don’t mind.” He pointed. “Lasthome is still high in the sky,” he said.

  She looked to it and then to the twilight jungle that stretched around them, slowly stirring to life with the songs of birds that were new to her ears. “We have a lot of work to do,” she said.

  Neb took her hand. “We’ve always had a lot of work to do, Winteria bat Mardic. We will always have more work to do.” Then he pulled at her. “But when else will we have a jungle to run before the sun comes up? On the moon?” He grinned.

  “Tomorrow, Nebios ben Hebda,” she said. His grin faltered at the name, and she winced. Hebda and Renard, along with Tertius and Captain Endrys Thrall, hadn’t made the Seaway before Vlad Li Tam collapsed it. She bit her lip and corrected herself. “I’m sorry. Nebios Whym.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “All of it is who I am, for good or otherwise. And we’ve talked some. They’re going to stay with the library, he and Renard and Tertius. Perhaps if I can heal the bargaining pool, we’ll see each other again.”

  He blinked the cloud from his face and forced a smile. “But enough of that. I have something to show you. If you think you can keep up with someone who’s run the Churning Wastes.”

  She heard the challenge in his words. “I’ve run with the Gray Guard and drawn first blood on a magicked Y’Zirite scout,” she said.

  Neb kissed her again and then fled, running south along the canal. Winters glanced at the temple and the waiting work behind her one more time and then followed after him.

  She caught up, and for a time they took turns running ahead. It was a new trail, and though she’d ventured out into the jungles with him before, they’d never taken this route. As they ran, Winters looked at the flowers and the trees, rainbow shades of color all bordered by a thousand hues of green. Here and there she saw the mounds of foliage with the bits of exposed crystal reflecting back the dim light of Lasthome those few times they were not buried in the jungle canopy.

  And finally, as the sun rose, the trail ended at a pool of water fed by a waterfall. Neb dropped to the stretch of long, green grass near the shore and flopped onto his back.

  “We’re home, Winters,” he said as he opened his arms to her.

  She went to him and lay beside him in the grass looking up. The Named Lands were above them. She could see the horn and the gray barrens of the Churning Wastes. She could see the rivers and the mountains. The scar where she thought Windwir stood and the nine massive forests set apart in their prairie sea. She saw the Marshlands where she’d dreamed for her people and ridden to war for her kin-clave. And later, she’d found their Homeseeker and he’d found their home. And all of them had found a new dream.

  And had lost and found so much along the way. She felt the hollow ache of loss and wondered about her friend, Jin, and how her ending had changed. She remembered Charles, too, and for a moment even thought about the sister she’d never known she’d had. So much loss. So many goodbyes and a handful of hellos, but it was the way of things.

  “Yes,” she said finally as she kissed Neb’s hand. “This dream is of our home.” She remembered this place, had dreamed of it before she’d even known it was on the moon.

  “I found it while I was running with Petronus,” Neb said.

  “It’s exactly like our dream,” she said. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out the stone. “Speaking of dreams; I have something to show you, as well.” She pushed it into his hand.

  “What is it?” But as their hands met upon the stone, Neb swallowed his question.

  “It’s the dream you missed,” Winters told him as the plain and its myriad people and its tree white with promise flooded their senses.

  He made her take them through the Final Dream three times before he sighed. “Thank you,” he finally said. She heard the emotion in his voice and saw the tears in his eyes. And this time as she watched the dream and saw the white seeds upon the air, she thought of those dark seeds rising up from the lunar sea and wondered where they might land and bear fruit. And she wondered about the d’jin who had left and what kind of home they would build for the people there. Alongside that, she wondered what they would build right here. And what Rudolfo and Isaak and the others would build there in the sky above them. Whatever it was, she hoped it would be a home full of light and love.

  “This dream,” she said again, “is of our home.” Then Winters rolled over into Neb and kissed him slowly. She savored him, letting her hands wander his body and delighting as his hands wandered her. The urgency of the Calling that had filled every night they’d spent together since arriving had faded into something assured and constant, and now they made love slowly while she watched Lasthome above them, reflected in his eyes those times that they were open.

  When they finished, they swam in the pool and talked quietly and ate fruit until they were sticky and hungry for one another again. And then after, they napped like cats in the sun.

  When Winters woke up, she thought at first that she was alone and perhaps dreaming. But the warm breath upon her neck and the hand that gripped hers there flat against her stomach assured her that her dreams had been realized and home had surely and finally been found.

  Smiling, Winteria bat Mardic let sleep carry her off again to dream whatever came next.

  Postlude

  When Behemoth began slowing, Marta knew to be quick or be last. And now the vessel that had once felt so large and empty felt crowded and constrained. When Isaak had talked about their quest for Xhum Y’Zir’s lost Death Choir, she’d thought it would be the two of them. Or maybe Ire Li Tam would come along.

  But when the New Espirans reunited them with the Blood Guard, she had a small group of men and women with her, all covered with the same ritual scarring and all fresh from the New Espiran holding cells where they’d been carefully interrogated. “These are my brothers and sisters,” Ire Li Tam had said.

  And suddenly they were a family at sea, with Marta in the role of the youngest. Isaak assumed command easily, and the only good thing about the increase in crew was that it meant she could sleep in the corner of Isaak’s room now. That and more hands to keep the vessel tidy and everyone fed. Still, she missed the days when they were alone with only the sound of Behemoth’s engines and plates clanking.

  And so, when they started to slow, she threw on her clothes and grabbed the pack she’d kept waiting. They’d been outfitted thoroughly by the New Espiran Council, including with a type of clothing that she’d never seen that she was told resisted cold, heat and water. The council had also given them blades of Firstfall steel and thorn rifles and tents that could be magicked.

  Even now, a few of the Knives of Tam—that’s what they’d called themselves—were moving about the corridor prepping to disembark. Isaak had never come back to their room last night after the meeting with Ire Li Tam, but she knew where she would find him.

  She could hear the mouth grinding slowly open beyond a round hatch that was slightly ajar; she followed the sound and climbed through the hatch.

  The water had drained from the floor of Behemoth’s mouth, and she made her way across it to where Isaak waited and watched the line of land beyond the jagged teeth. It was white with snow and specked with dark forms that moved.

  M
arta stood on her tiptoes to see over the teeth. “What are those?”

  Isaak leaned out. “They are people. They are watching us.”

  “There are people this far north?” She squinted, but they were too far away.

  “The New Espirans assure me there’s a village nearby where we can double-check our maps and hire a guide.” He held up a blue stone to the light and then slipped it into a pouch he wore over his robe.

  “Are you ready, then?” she asked. They’d not talked much since they’d left the Grandmother Tree. He’d quietly accepted his part in the final bargain and hadn’t discussed what had happened in Y’Zir since. She knew he wasn’t finished processing the weight of it all, but she suspected he was done longing for repurposing.

  He has found a greater purpose than his sorrow. And now he would somehow fashion a song from the ingredients of desolation and turn it toward life. She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t need to. She loved him, and so she loved his purpose, too.

  Even the darker aspects that accompany it. He looked at her. “I think I am ready, though I am no psalmist.”

  She felt her brow furrow. “What is a psalmist?”

  Isaak chuckled, and it was a musical note in shades of metal. “Someone who writes psalms,” he said.

  Marta looked back to the people gathered in the snow and watching them. They were closer now, and she saw they wore bulky furs and held spears. Then she looked to Isaak. “And what’s a psalm, then?”

  “A sacred song,” he said, “or a hymn.”

  “Like the song we heard in the Final Dream?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And the one you heard on the moon?”

  “Yes,” he said again.

  She nodded and thought about it. “Maybe you are already a psalmist, Isaak, and we are the psalms you’ve written ahead of this time. Maybe this Psalm of Life you seek lives somewhere beneath all of that. Maybe it is more than a song.” She didn’t know, but she also didn’t know why she suddenly felt so strongly about it. “That would make me just one of the psalms of Isaak,” she said. “And Rudolfo another. Petronus and Neb, too.”

  Isaak looked to her. “I do not know, little human. It seems a bit much for a mechoservitor tasked with cataloging and translation.” He sighed and corrected himself. “Marta.” He looked back to the people gathering upon the shore. “But I know that sometimes you have surprised me with your wisdom. And I also know that we will face danger again soon. Yet I’ve resisted the urge in my scripting to insist that you return home.”

  She laughed. “Good. Maybe it means you’ve finally accepted that my home is with you.”

  Isaak nodded. “Maybe I have. But I do not know if you are my hymn or my heart for that matter,” he said. “And I do not know if I can find the last of the Death Choir or write the Psalm of Life.”

  “Time will tell,” she said, “and I believe that you can, Isaak.” She reached and took his cold metal hand to squeeze it. “You can and you will.”

  The moon was low on the horizon and the sky was an odd twilight cast in tones of blue and green. Stars throbbed in the gray, and the people on shore kept pace with Behemoth as it sailed around a bend and slipped into a natural bay. Squatting at its edges was a village of wooden longhouses, smoke trickling into the sky from mud chimneys. There were more men and women in furs down at rough-hewn docks that were not currently in use.

  The Knives had joined them now, two of them taking up positions in the open mouth with thorn rifles as Isaak raised his hands. When he opened his mouth, Marta didn’t recognize the words he used, but they did and an exchange ensued.

  Within an hour, they were crowded into a longhouse filled with laughter and song and food and drink. The people—dark-skinned and brown-eyed—had never seen anything like Isaak and had never seen anything like the tools and clothing and equipment they’d brought. They’d also never seen anything like Behemoth and made strange symbols in the air when they said its name in their halting tongue. Within two hours, they’d arranged a guide and some form of pack animal in exchange for some kind of kin-clave ritual involving one of the young Tam men. Marta didn’t ask.

  Instead, she ate and drank her fill and tried to talk with the chieftain through Isaak, though the old man was too smitten with the metal man to pay her much mind. They spent the night eating and drinking what was before them—Isaak making a great show of pretending to eat and failing to loud guffaws—and at some point, everyone left but the chieftain, who pointed to a pile of furs in the corner before rolling off to his own.

  They slept there, and that night she slept close to Isaak and listened to the hum of his inner workings as he did what he insisted wasn’t sleeping, eyes closed with red light dancing beneath his metal lids. In the morning, their guide was waiting, along with the bleary-eyed Tam who’d purchased their hospitality and help in some ancient ritual or other.

  Behemoth was gone now, sent away to wherever it rested until Isaak called it next. And ahead of them were vast rolling hills of frozen forest and steep mountains of shimmering white.

  The guide pointed and said something to Isaak, who nodded.

  “He says it will be a long day’s walk.”

  Marta nodded. “Then we should get started.”

  The guide set out leading a large and hairy oxlike beast with long horns. Isaak followed him.

  And for the first time, she noticed the metal man’s limp was far less pronounced. Perhaps, Marta thought, he didn’t need it anymore to remind him of the wounds that had shaped him. Or perhaps he was simply too focused upon the dream ahead to lose time in the backward dream of pain and regret. Maybe someday, she thought, he would not limp at all. She hoped so. Regardless, she would walk with him wherever he went and be as much his heart and home as she could because she chose to love him—the first and second gifts of the People working hand in hand. And so Marta turned her collar up against the cold to hide her smile as she followed quickly after.

  Acknowledgments

  A novel—especially the last novel in a five-book series—is an awesome and terrible undertaking, and I want to thank as many as possible for helping me across the finish line.

  I wrapped my first draft of Hymn in April 2016 and sent the revised manuscript up in August 2016 … just a month ahead of the ten-year anniversary of starting Lamentation. It’s been a long decade in the Psalms of Isaak. If you’ve been following, you’ll know that each volume was dogged by major life events—parents dying, twins born, etc. This final volume was no exception, with the book interrupted at the mid-point by the passing of my close friend, Jay Lake. Jay was one of the two people who talked me into taking on this project. Until that night, I was going to focus on writing short fiction, where I was most comfortable. I will always be grateful to him and to Jen for that dare.

  I had a lot of support as I pushed through this final book, especially the second half. I wrote it while adjusting to a New Den of Ken made possible by some wonderful friends who helped me manage more major change. So once more, I thank the Endicotts (and Michelle particularly for being a first reader), along with the Maggis and Jana (also a first reader!). Pam for kid support throughout. Joy and Jerry for moral support and first reading help. Tracy, Rachael, K. C., Tiah, Chaz, and I’m certain to be missing a few others who kept an eye on the book as it grew. Katherine, you came to the table late but the support, encouragement, and care have been invaluable as I’ve gotten my feet beneath me. Thank you all.

  My inner circle worked hard throughout the last few years. Robert, Manny, John, and Alaina all brought wisdom and support to bear as I took the corners of change after change. I don’t know what I’d do without you all.

  Once more, the fine folks at Tor—with the world’s best editor, Beth Meacham, and copy editor, Deanna Hoak—have brought another of my books to life. And Chris, I love the cover with Isaak. Thank you all.

  I’d also like to thank my former agent, Jenn Jackson, for her support throughout the project. You are ever the 32nd daught
er. And I’d like to thank my current agent, Howard Morhaim, for inviting me to his crew. Now that I’m finished with this project, I can’t wait to see what we do together, sir!

  I’ve dedicated the book to Lizzy and Rae and to Dr. Eugene Lipov. My daughters have added more joy to my journey than I could have possibly imagined and Dr. Lipov, with his groundbreaking treatment of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, has given me the capacity to experience that joy. My PTSD has now been in remission since January 2015 after a series of treatments with him in Chicago. If you or someone you know suffers from PTSD, learn more about his work at http://globalptsifoundation.org/.

  Last, thank YOU, Dear Reader, for coming along for the ride. When I started, a decade ago, I had no idea how much change my life would experience as I wrote my first series about how people faced loss and trauma. It was a bumpy ride, but now we have all five volumes—around 750,000 words all told. And there are more stories to tell—dozens more—if time shows there is a demand for the stories or if the flash of inspiration strikes and I’m compelled to write them. Big thanks to all of you who’ve written notes, tracked me down on Facebook, come out to see me at events. These books have changed my life most significantly through the amazing people I’ve met along the way between here and France. So thank you all. If you had fun in my world, tell your friends!

  Now, more change is headed my way. In a month, after a decade in the small town of Saint Helens, my daughters and I are moving to Cornelius to see what Story springs out of the Next Den of Ken.