Other moments made him laugh, especially those with Balatin and Sutter. The feelings of love and togetherness felt as strong as when they’d first occurred. Tahn tried to speak with the memory of his father—it was so real. And though he thought he spoke, he heard nothing.
But he gloried in the recollections, so many lost to him. He reveled in the carefree smile Wendra so often used to wear. He watched Balatin smoke his pipe and sing and tell stories. He watched Hambley put down another contender in a game of shoulder-wrestling and then help the man up to buy him a cup of bitter. He saw light falling through the aspen trees on the Naghen Ridge during a hunt years ago.
Then the mist shifted, and Tahn watched the journey that had brought him to Tillinghast. He felt his own worry, those first stirrings at the sight of Mira, the bite of manacles in a prison cell. He recalled an empty city and the unexpected defense he’d made for Sutter with an empty bowstring.
Most of all, he remembered his failures to Wendra. The first time because he hadn’t believed he should release on the Bar’dyn. The second time because he believed he was in love. The latter was his most painful single memory in Tillinghast. But the choice didn’t sting as it had before, and Tahn knew it was because of Mira’s sacrifice.
Then a great rushing began, mists flowing in toward him, gathering speed as they came. He watched in astonishment as a thousand varying paths from a thousand different choices sped through his mind. He saw countless versions of himself that he would never be. He felt gratitude for small victories, and guilt for missed opportunities.
With it all came a sense of the meaningless measurements of time and space. It was like standing atop a grand mountain where he could see countless trails all leading toward the summit. Or perhaps he was standing atop a thousand mountains all at once.
The mists produced flashes of light and wellings of darkness. Frightening images emerged, interleaved with peaceful moments. The many moments became less difficult to experience, and Tahn relaxed at the center of the storm. Everything began to gather close—his memories, his choices—touching his mind with possibilities, some things sure and inevitable, others unlikely but understandable.
The mists licked at him, through him. They invaded his senses and lulled him to acceptance. It all became deafening, filling him until he was no longer capable of thought. There was only a resonance inside him. A vibration down deep.
He floated in the abyss and simply was.
And that was enough.
Then it ended, and the silence shocked him. His eyes already open, he could suddenly see again. He found himself where he’d stood to shoot toward Tillinghast, his feet still rooted in the loam.
He felt … peace. Then collapsed and fell unconscious.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
A Solitary Branch
The Sheason wear the three-ring. But it was not their first sigil.
—Notes from Estem Salo symbology and semiology studies
The smell of rich soil awakened him, as fresh as a pot of brewed cloves. For a moment, Tahn imagined Sutter holding a handful of roots beneath his nose in jest. The thought of his friend brought a weak smile to his face, and he held it there a moment. He sensed if he opened his eyes, the fancy would shatter. He breathed deeply, and felt the cool density of the air as it rushed into his lungs: mist.
The abyss.
Tahn opened his eyes. A few strides away, Tillinghast. The graceful billow of the clouds. He didn’t rush to get up, and stared vacantly outward. Ripples in the mist threatened to coalesce into familiar shapes, as though drawing on his thoughts. But the mist swirled onward.
Then, like a pail of river water poured over him, he remembered Zephora and Mira. He pushed himself up, a wave of nausea and unsteadiness sweeping up from his belly to his head. When his vision cleared, he searched about him, frantically looking for Mira, remembering her last stance as she created a barrier between him and the Draethmorte.
Silent gods, I left her here alone with him.
He struggled to his knees and crawled to where he’d last seen her standing. A form came into view. The figure lay motionless. He tried to hurry. His arms gave out, and he went face-first into the soft dirt. He took a mouthful of soil.
He spat it away. “Mira!”
Tahn got to his knees again, slowly moving toward the body. Closer, he saw it wasn’t Mira. But he still tugged the shoulder to turn it over: Zephora’s gaping maw and vacant eyes stared back at him. Tahn’s hands began to burn. He thrust them into the loam, scrubbing them as with soap. The pain subsided.
But Mira was nowhere in sight.
He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled, and he collapsed back to his knees. His mind filled with panic. The Draethmorte must have killed Mira before dying himself.
They’re all dead. All his loved ones. Tahn turned a hateful eye toward Tillinghast.
The sacrifices—most of them by others—raced in his head. All to bring him here. To remember.
But something more had happened. Something he couldn’t explain. Something he could feel at the center of him.
Did it get inside me?
After a moment, Tahn crawled back toward the cloudwood tree. He meant to get the fallen branch and use it like a cane. At the base of the tree he found a shallow makeshift basket woven of nearby brush. In it were a few dozen stones.
You’re not the only one.
And yet none had survived. A stone for each of the dead.
Tahn picked up a rock and tossed it in. “Seems fair.”
He grabbed the branch and struggled to his feet. After retrieving his bow, he shuffled toward the edge of Tillinghast. He felt ashamed and angry that so much had been lost on his behalf. One way or another, he wouldn’t let those offerings go unrewarded.
He moved to Zephora’s body. Paused there. With sudden fury, he rolled the dead heap toward the ledge with his makeshift cane. Though tall, the Draethmorte weighed very little. Just before he pushed it into the mists, a silver necklace bearing a pendant fell onto Zephora’s pale, thin neck.
Using his knife, Tahn moved it around, trying to make sense of the glyph. A single hoop of dark metal hung from the necklace, and at its center lay a small disk, creating a sort of bull’s-eye. But nothing connected the inner piece to the outer ring. Tahn thrust his dagger into the emptiness around the center disk—it passed through unimpeded. When he tapped the centerpiece itself, it didn’t budge from its place.
Tahn pulled the necklace off the dead Draethmorte and dropped it in his tunic pocket. Then he pushed Zephora into the abyss with his branch. The body fell soundlessly, dropping away from the ledge and out of sight.
Tahn pivoted and began to ease away from Tillinghast. Just past the ridge, he thought he heard, far off, the sound of leaves being trampled underfoot. He paused, unsure if it was the stirrings of the wind. The crunching became louder.
Hope leapt in his breast, and he began to hurry. “Wendra, Sutter … Mira?” he hollered as he stumbled forward, his legs threatening to drop him.
From the other side of the field, voices rose in response. He couldn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear enough. At least some of them had survived!
He hurried on, ignoring the burn in his chest as he fought for breath. He came around a tangle of roots from a fallen cloudwood and saw his friends running at full stride. He collapsed, exhausted, but with relief and a smile.
Their boots kicked up the hard leaves, crackling others underfoot. Mira reached him. She took him in a tight embrace, and held him for long moments. She then dashed past him toward Tillinghast. He assumed she went to check on Zephora, but he hadn’t time to tell her what he’d done with the body, or ask her how she’d killed the Draethmorte.
Then his friends were there. Sutter fell into a slide, shoving a pile of leaves between them and into Tahn’s lap. “Woodchuck, my skies, I never thought I’d be so glad to see you.” Sutter planted a big kiss on Tahn’s cheek, and flung some leaves in the air as if showering him with festival streamer
s. The leaves plunked down on Tahn’s head like small stones.
Tahn grinned. “And I’ve never been so glad to bear the company of a man who plays in the dirt.”
Sutter laughed, but then his face drew taut. “When I saw you disappear from the pass, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.” His friend took Tahn’s hand in the familiar Hollows grip, clasping him tight. “Not that I doubted you. But I wish I could have come.…”
“You’d love it,” Tahn said. “The loam there is six inches soft, and rich with the smell of growth.” Then Tahn gave Nails a mischievous grin before wrapping him in an embrace.
Braethen came up as the two broke their hug. “It’s good to see you, Tahn.” The sodalist hunkered down on Tahn’s other side. “It would seem you’ve proven yourself at Tillinghast.”
Tahn took Braethen’s hand in the same Hollows shake.
Wendra came next, slowing to a stop a few strides away. She held his gaze long enough to say, “I am glad you’re alive, Tahn.”
Even with her words hanging between them, Tahn’s throat closed with emotion at the sight of her. He wanted to stand and take her in his arms, apologize. He wanted the closeness they’d always shared.
Wendra moved aside as Vendanj came up next, Grant trailing him close behind.
The Sheason looked deathly ill. He sweated as they all did, but his flesh hung slack on his face, dark circles ringing his eyes. His hood was back, revealing dark hair slick with perspiration that clung to pallid skin. His shoulders hunched deep as though the weight of his own cloak was too much to bear.
He stopped, and made no quick attempt to speak. Looking at Tahn, he leveled his eyes, which never seemed to dim, even now. Again, Tahn had the feeling he was being measured, weighed, by the penetrating gaze of the Sheason.
Then Vendanj asked Grant’s assistance in helping him to sit. The exile eased him to the ground, and propped a large fallen branch behind him so he could recline.
Standing straight again, Grant gave Tahn a look both proud and relieved, but said nothing.
When Vendanj had recovered his breath, he folded his hands in his lap. His first question caught Tahn off guard. “What stick is this you carry?”
Tahn looked into his hand, finding he hadn’t let go of the cloudwood branch.
“A walking cane,” Tahn answered, confused.
“It’s cloudwood,” Vendanj stated. “But not greyed yet.” Without lifting his stare, he pointed at the tree behind Tahn.
“There’s a live cloudwood at the edge of Tillinghast,” Tahn explained.
A look of relief showed on the Sheason’s face.
A small silence stretched between them all, broken by Mira returning from the ledge.
“Tahn rolled the body into the abyss,” she said, as if answering a question Tahn hadn’t heard.
“Good,” Vendanj replied. “The Quiet have their ways of reclaiming their own. In the abyss, Zephora is forever lost.”
Shifting, Tahn looked up at Mira. “Why did you break your sword? And why did it call you oathbreaker?”
“It’s not important right now,” Mira said, then shared a strange look with Vendanj.
Clearly it was important, but Tahn hadn’t the energy to pursue it. He did have one question, though. “How did you kill him?”
The Far stared back with her bright grey eyes. “I didn’t kill Zephora, Tahn. You did. When you fired into the abyss, things started to change around us. The mist pulsed with reflections of light like lightning streaking inside a cloud. At the ledge, each pulse changed the landscape, the position of rocks and trees. One moment, the air was fragrant and new, the next burnt and sharp. The ghosts of cloudwood trees flickered around the edge as though showing the possible gardens that might have grown there. At times, the ledge itself extended, leaving me and Zephora standing in a dense wood. In other moments, our feet hung over the abyss, the cliff far behind as the mist swirled around us.”
Mira looked back in the direction of Tillinghast. “In some moments, Zephora wasn’t there at all. In others, he lay dead in the loam.”
She stopped, turning her gaze directly at him. “And in some moments … I wasn’t there. Or if there … I was dead in the loam.”
Mira went on. “But you were always there, Tahn, staring into the clouds as though you saw things I couldn’t see.
“Then the flashes of light quickened. The mist began to whip and lash over the ledge, stabbing at Zephora. I jumped away as the clouds rushed in a thick streamer and wrapped around him. They shot through his cloak and skin. They wove in and out of his mouth and nose, streaming from his ears and seeping from his eyes. The mist seemed to find every pore, passing through him as though he weren’t there.
“Zephora cried out. His howl shattered stone and made my body ache. He was trying to transfer the pain of what was happening to him. The ground shook. Dark light began to shoot from every part of him. He blazed a bright darkness and then stopped. Fell to the ground.” She shook her head. “You never moved.
“The mist became still and drew back. The wind was gone. The ground quiet. No flashes of light or dark. Only the soft light of the mists.
“Then you collapsed. I couldn’t revive you. So went to look for Vendanj.”
“What happened in the pass?” Tahn asked. “The last I saw, there was some kind of explosion. It pushed me to the ground.”
Sutter chimed in, his eyes eager with a tale to tell. “Zephora shoved his hand into the soil. A circle began to spread, stripping color from the ground. His eyes blackened and a great burst threw us back. It felt like…” Sutter swallowed hard. “It felt like that time when Haley Reloita, Shiled’s son, got trapped in the well just before the rains came. Do you remember?”
Tahn nodded. No one had been able to get Haley out. The well was too narrow for men, too dangerous for a child. Haley’s fall had brought loose well stones down on him, half burying him in the stagnant, shallow water at the well’s bottom. Hours later, it began to rain, swelling the river, and from an underground tributary, the water in the well, too. They watched as the water rose, and Haley cried. Frantic men lowered ropes that Haley couldn’t hold firm enough to pull him from the stones. Eventually, the water covered him completely.…
Nails smiled weakly. “Just give me my roots back.”
Vendanj caught Tahn’s eye, and looked like he had a question. But he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “Give me your cane.”
Tahn handed the branch of cloudwood to the Sheason, who took it and hefted it twice in his upturned palms. He then clasped his fingers around it and closed his eyes. The wood began to reshape itself, coming alive in Vendanj’s hands. Slowly, it turned, moving as though alive, drawing itself into a definable shape. Within moments, the branch had become a sleek bow, fashioned of the ebony cloudwood.
“The branch still courses with Tillinghast.” He handed the bow to Tahn. “That might prove valuable to you.” Vendanj then took a deep breath and slumped back, closing his eyes.
Tahn admired his new bow for a moment, then patted his tunic where he’d pocketed the necklace he’d lifted from Zephora’s dead body. Both reminded him of choices he’d witnessed at Tillinghast. And the way one choice echoes forward to the next.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
A Refrain from Quiet
If you look long enough, the stars will seem as familiar as friends. Because they are. They’re your possibility.
—Common expression for astronomers from Aubade Grove
The stars still held sway when Tahn stirred awake. Gentle dew coated his face with freshness he took a moment to enjoy. Around him, the hulking shapes of fallen trees rose up. Tahn folded back his blanket and crept past his companions to the end of a nearby fallen cloudwood. There, he used the snakelike roots to climb atop the tree, where he stood and surveyed the world around him.
In that broad valley, he became the highest point, and quietly mourned for the forest now blanketing the ground. The sky shone with stars Tahn didn’t remember ever seeing. They were
comforting all the same.
Standing there, he imagined the coming of the sun, a slow, beautiful dawn that turned the vault of heaven a hundred shades of blue.
He shut his eyes and took deep, deliberate breaths. He didn’t let other thoughts in, and felt a bit of the peace these moments used to give him.
“There’s a kind of glory in it, isn’t there?”
Tahn’s eyes snapped open, and he turned to see Vendanj standing a few strides behind, watching him.
“Glory in what?” Tahn asked.
“The coming of another day.”
Tahn turned back to his view of the valley. “A small comfort, yes.”
“And why small?” Vendanj asked, his tone calm, fatherly.
Taking a moment to survey the dead forest around him again, Tahn said, “I used to love the morning sun. The look of it on a planted field. The hazy way it falls through leaves.”
He waited, feeling suddenly ungrateful. “But now … now it just warms the air, helps me see my feet so I don’t trip.”
“And where’s the smallness in that?” Vendanj persisted.
Tahn exhaled a deep breath, watching it cloud the chill air. “I don’t know why I get up for sunrise. I used to feel I wasn’t watching it alone.”
“But now you don’t?” The Sheason kept silent for a long moment. “The Council of Creation is said to have ended with the First Ones abandoning their work on behalf of men. They thought the work was lost. Once Quietus had been Whited and sealed inside the Bourne, they left it all behind. Left us few protections. But even among ourselves … we war.” Vendanj turned to Tahn. “So perhaps you wonder if we deserve another day.”
Tahn nodded. “And what difference can the bow of a simple hunter make when added to the armies of nations … against the Bourne?”
Tahn saw something in Vendanj’s eyes: knowledge, perhaps comfort. The Sheason spoke of neither. “There’s more to you than your bow, Tahn. You know this.”
His mind turned back to something Zephora and other Quiet had called him. “What is Quillescent?”
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