by Scott Kaelen
She accepted the leather-bound tome, her brow furrowing at the words that were heat-stamped into its faded cover. “What is it?”
“Merely a token. A farewell gift, given your love of languages.”
She opened the book and leafed through the pages. “Old Himaeran?”
“Precisely. It’s not an original, but it’s old, and was written by one of my friends here in the city. She was actually quite overjoyed when I asked if I could gift it to you.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” A sad smile touched Jalis’s lips. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”
Sabrian grinned and reached again into his longcoat, this time producing a small package which he passed to Oriken. “I hate to impose, but if you ever find yourself in the southern fringes of Grenmoor, between Grenmoor Forest and the River Huhe, there’s a village called Harrowstone. You might have heard of it. I expect it could even be a town by now, after all these—”
“I’m sorry, Sabrian,” Jalis interrupted. “The village of Harrowstone was razed by bandits from the forest eight years ago. It’s gone.” She caught Oriken’s questioning look. “Maros and I were sent to assist in the aftermath,” she explained.
Sabrian’s shoulders slumped. “Well then,” he sighed. “There’s little sense in sentimentality so long after the fact, I suppose, but…” He gestured to the package. “It’s just a memento. Of my previous life. A wooden toy.” He chuckled in remembrance. “My son would never let me leave home without it. For good luck.”
“Perhaps,” Dagra said, his voice heavy, “its presence drove you on when you fled Minnow’s Beck. Perhaps it brought you some luck after all.”
“Yes, you may be right. Do what you will with it,” he told Oriken. “I made my peace long ago. I’ll at least be happy to know it is leaving the Deadlands.”
Oriken nodded and stashed the package into his jacket. “I’ll make sure it does,” he promised.
“Ah, I almost forgot.” Sabrian fished around in his trouser pocket and pulled out a tiny metal contraption with engravings and a hinge. “A joke, if you will,” he said as Oriken took the proffered item. “It was made for me many years ago by another friend here in Lachyla.” He chuckled. “Yes, I have a few. I’m sure Cleve made it to torment me, but he maintains he did so to remind me that the higher the mountain, the more satisfying it is when one manages to reach the summit.”
“Cleve?” Oriken frowned. “He was at the meal, right? Where else have I heard the name? Wait, did he write a book?”
Gorven cleared his throat and glanced indifferently across the garden.
“Why, yes, he did,” Sabrian said. “A tome on minerals, apparently. Not that I’ve read it. He misplaced it some centuries ago. I wasn’t aware there was another copy. Have you read it?”
“Ah,” Gorven interrupted. “I’m sure Cleve will have immense pleasure tinkering with his new light-source. No sense boring our friends here about some old book on the nature of minerals.”
“That’s it,” Oriken said. “I saw it just before—”
“Well, we had best be off,” Gorven said. “Don’t you think? Sabrian, you mustn’t keep our guests.”
Sabrian shrugged, conceding the point. Pointing to the rectangle of metal in Oriken’s hand, he said. “It’s yours.”
“Thanks. But, er, what is it?”
“Cleve calls it a heat lens. Flick the top open and you’ll see a circle of glass. Don’t ask me how it works, but if you hold the glass facing the sun it will glow hot within a minute or so.”
“Ah, okay. And this is good for…”
“Why, for lighting your tobah, of course! But then, the idea, in Cleve’s devious mind, is to keep hold of it to permanently remind you not to light one. The philosophically-minded of the city call it temptation therapy. I can’t say that it worked for me, but my new temptation will be that half of a roll I saved. You might enjoy better luck.” He shrugged, then smiled and glanced from Oriken to Jalis. “If you’re ever in this neck of nowhere again, don’t be strangers.” To Dagra, he said, “May the gods go with you, friend.” And with that, Sabrian turned on his heel, his longcoat swaying as he strode off down the path, and was gone.
They continued on their way, and when they reached the street, Gorven touched Oriken’s arm for him to fall behind the others. He did so, and Gorven leaned in to quietly say, “I know Krea would have liked to say goodbye.”
Oriken quirked an eyebrow. “Really? That’s surprising after her comment last night, when she left the house.”
“Ah. You should pay it no mind. That’s just my daughter’s way of… relieving her pent-up stress, you know?”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, I do it myself sometimes, but not so much these days. Krea though, she practices twice a week without fail.”
“Practices?”
“Why, of course. Grandmaster swordswomen don’t stay grandmasters if they don’t train, do they?”
Oriken grunted. Swordplay. So that’s what it was.
“Oriken, you didn’t think she—”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” He drew a breath. “Listen, about Dagra…”
“There is no easy way to say it,” Gorven said as they strolled a distance behind the others. “He will likely survive a night or two, perhaps even three, but it’s unlikely. The two who returned to their village, they’ve been away from the city for, what, ten hours now? Being in reasonable proximity to Lachyla, Wayland may live a few days, since he died only from blood loss. Eriqwyn though, her wounds were altogether more grievous.” He squinted at the low morning sun. “She may not see this hour tomorrow.”
“I don’t care a jot about those two,” Oriken said. “Only Dagra.”
Gorven stopped, and Oriken turned to face him. The man’s expression was solemn. “You will lose him soon, Oriken, and forever. Are you and Jalis prepared to face that?”
Prepared? Of course I’m not prepared. How under the stars does anyone prepare to lose their closest and longest friend? “I understand his choice, but it’s based on a skewed – and popular – perception of what’s real. I wish I could convince him of that, but after all these years of knowing him, and especially after our talk last night, no words from me are going to change his mind. Short of locking him up somewhere in Lachyla, there’s nothing that’ll shake him from his conviction. And he would resent me forever for that.”
Gorven gestured for them to resume their walk. “Conviction in the gods,” he mused. “Well, three centuries of ruminating over the world’s ifs and maybes, I still can’t say with absolute conviction who is right and who is wrong, which gods exist and which do not, if any at all. Some would presume – mistakenly, I would say – that the Mother is a goddess, or that she is a personification of the goddess. But I don’t think even the First Mother can claim that title. Are Dagra’s gods of the Dyad waiting, ready to guide him into his next life?” Gorven shrugged. “I can’t say. But he believes it, and has always believed it, and that, my friend, is what matters.”
Oriken nodded. He stared ahead at Dagra’s back as the bearded man walked beside Jalis. “I’ll do what I must,” he said, promising not just Gorven, but also himself. “Whatever he needs of me, I’ll be there.” His throat clenched, and he forced the rising emotions back down, down into the pits of himself; they would have their moment, but this was not it.
They opened their stride and caught up with Jalis and Dagra. When they reached the Litchgate, they stopped and Gorven turned to them. “There is one thing I must ask of you.”
“Name it,” Jalis said.
“We’ve spoken of what events could unfold if the truth of this place became widespread. It would be nothing short of chaos, for all of Himaera. Word eventually would reach the Vorinsian Arkh. In the worst case, war would break out between Himaera and the lands of the Arkh, perhaps even those beyond. Jalis, coming from Sardaya, you know this better than your friends do.”
She nodded. “You have our word we will say
nothing of you to anyone. The city was deserted, but for a few ancient, emaciated corpses, and fungus.”
“Deadly fungus,” Dagra muttered.
Gorven inclined his head in gratitude, then gestured to the sword at Oriken’s hip. “Wear it well and with pride,” he said, “but I would advise displaying it with a little more discretion.”
“I’ll wrap the scabbard and the grip in leather,” Oriken said. “The pommel and crossguard might catch the eye, as certainly will the blade itself, but most folk who’ll be seeing the sharp bit are unlikely to live to tell the tale.”
Gorven gave him a rueful grin. “Very wise.”
“And what of me?” Dagra asked. “What tale would you have us concoct for my friends and family? That Dagra died a meaningless death while out on a fool’s errand in the arsehole of Himaera? Or, perhaps, Dagra died a hero’s death for a noble and worthy cause?” He barked a dire laugh and held his hands palm-upward. “Where is the truth?”
Jalis touched his shoulder, and he gently but forcibly pushed her hand away. “You said it yourself yesterday,” she told him. “Sometimes a lie is better than the truth. I know you agree that the reality of Lachyla must stay a secret, but where’s the harm in compromise? We’ll tell the truth, but only a fraction of it.” She looked pointedly at Dagra, her eyes agleam with tears. “You fell ill in the wilderness, and you died on the road. To the people who love you, Dag, it matters less how you died than how you lived.” The last words caught in her throat, but she held his gaze.
He nodded, and took her hand in both of his. “Aye, lass. You have the right of it.”
“In that case,” Gorven said, spreading his arms, “it leaves me only to fare you well. And, as Sabrian said”—his gaze flicked momentarily between Jalis and Oriken—“our gates will always be open to you. Figuratively speaking, of course. The portcullis will be lowered after you are gone. Now that the denizens are gone, the consensus is that from now on we will post lookouts on the ramparts as a necessary means of protection.” He gave Jalis a brief hug, then shook hands with Dagra, giving him a cordial slap on the shoulder and a nod of respect.
Taking the man’s hand in a firm shake, Oriken said, “Give our farewells to the others, won’t you?”
Gorven smiled, patted him on the arm, and walked away.
“Well,” Dagra said as he watched Gorven stride down the sloping street. He turned a resigned look on Oriken. “I thought I might get a nice new gladius from this lifeless legend of a city. Just a good and sturdy blade with a secret story.” His eyes flicked to the royal sword at Oriken’s hip. “In a twist of irony, it was you who got it. You both got a trinket or two from this merry little jaunt. And what did I get?” He spun about and dipped beneath the Litchgate to stride off through the graveyard.
“Dag!” Jalis gave an exasperated sigh and rushed to follow him.
Oriken watched her go, then turned for a last look upon the sprawling cityscape. Far to the rear, the colossus that was Lachyla Castle looked less menacing than it had done two days earlier. One of its spires had toppled from the anger of the beast beneath, crushing a lower domed roof. The charred remains of the king were likely already interred, though the stench within the throne room would endure for weeks. Few Lachylans walked the now-clean boulevard, but it was not deserted. Without the disease that thrived here, the city could be a good place to live. Ships could sail along the coast to Brancosi Bay or across the channel to the Arkh. The Kingdom Road could be restored for folk to travel freely to and fro. And Scapa Fell would no longer be marked with the death’s head symbol. It was a pleasing thought. Perhaps, one day, it might happen, but not in his lifetime, not while the secret of Lachyla remained kept.
He crouched beneath the iron spikes of the portcullis and looked ahead to Jalis as she walked briskly behind Dagra. He wants a moment alone with her, he thought, knowing with a sickening knot of certainty what he was to face out on the heathland. I’ll let them have their moment.
Setting off at a stroll, he gazed around the deserted graveyard at the rows upon endless rows of weather-worn headstones, their bases all crusted in that foul, black rot, at one lonely statue after another, some with neither arms nor heads, and he wondered if that had been a portent of what ultimately befell the statues’ long-undead likenesses at the hands of their equally undead descendants.
Or, he thought, at the hands of Jalis, Dagra and me.
The Chiddari crypt was a stone’s throw from the Litchway. As he neared it, he muttered to himself, “I wonder whether old madam CC would appreciate a final farewell.” He grunted. Unlikely. As his gaze lingered on the crypt, a diminutive figure stepped from the shadowed entrance into the daylight. Krea. He paused and waited as she crossed the distance to him. Her hair was tied up at the crown again, hanging like fronds and bobbing as she walked. A leather strap crossed her dress from shoulder to hip, and her face was set in a stern expression.
“Did you really intend to leave without saying goodbye?” she asked, coming to a stop before him and tilting her head to fix her scowling eyes onto his.
He drew a breath. “Krea…”
“I said I wanted to talk to you about your client. You never gave me the chance.”
“I… I was…”
“With your friends. Yes, I know.”
“And you—”
“Went to sword practice, you dolt. You could at least have woken me to say you were leaving so soon.”
“I’m sorry. It was a rough night.”
Krea nodded, her expression softening. “Yes, it was.”
“And Dagra was adamant he wanted to leave.”
She shrugged. “That’s his choice. Personally, I would have liked him to stay. That way I might have been guaranteed the occasional… visit from you.”
“Well—”
“Shush.” She grabbed the strap at her torso and shifted it around, drawing a satchel from behind her. Lifting the flap, she dipped her hand inside and pulled out the Chiddari jewel, then held it out to him. “Take it.”
“What?” He glanced to the distant figures of his friends far up the Litchway, then back to Krea. “Seriously? But what about Cunaxa? It belongs in her tomb, by rights.”
“It belongs in the Chiddari family, that much is true. Which is what I wanted to speak to you about. Your client is a Chiddari. Cela…” She said it as if tasting the word, then smiled. “It’s at least good to know that the line lives on.”
“I guess so. But how?”
“To that, there is only one answer. Cela has to be descended from one of the Chiddaris who fled before the turning. Only two escaped. My mother and my brother. Gorven’s wife and son. And now, none remain in Minnow’s Beck – that we know thanks to the Galialos women.”
Oriken frowned. “Why would your mother leave you?”
“She and my brother were among the last to leave. Gorven had been ill for several years. The wasting disease. He was house-ridden. He would have been dead within the next year or two. There was no way he could have left the city. Even walking to the garden gate was too much for him, back then. He forced them to leave without him.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t explain them leaving you behind. Or did you choose to stay, to care for your father?”
Krea gave a soft, shrill laugh. “No. I was the catalyst for them deciding to flee. I died, you see.”
Oriken’s mouth fell open.
“That’s right. I’d been dead for a night and a day when they left. I never did get to say goodbye.”
Great, he thought. Now I really feel like the arsehole of the hour. “You were dead.”
“Quite so. And rigid with the stiffness of death.” She fluttered her eyelids and flashed him a sweet smile. “You see these beguilingly blue eyes?”
He nodded. “How could anyone miss them?”
“They were brown before I died.”
“Okay, that’s—” He barked a laugh. “Actually, that’s not weird at all. Listen, Krea, I… I guess I just didn’t know what to say to you
. I mean, well, after everything.”
“Doesn’t honesty taste better than excuses?” She pressed the jewel to his chest. “Are you going to make me hold onto this thing forever? For the love of goodness, take it already.”
He closed his hands around the object that had given them so much trouble. His fingers brushed against Krea’s as he took the jewel from her.
“You can fulfil your contract after all.” She raised a finger. “But I’m only giving it to you because it’s the Chiddari stone, and it’s going to my”—she cocked her head—“great-great-and-so-on niece. Or something like that.”
“Krea, I have no idea what she intends to do with it. I can’t give you any guarantees it will remain in your family’s lineage.”
“Life, dear Oriken, comes with very few guarantees. What will be, will be.”
“What about its power? I mean, we heard the story of the woman’s dead boy in the village.”
“Ah yes, Daneira.”
“You know of her?”
“We had spies in the village, remember? Daneira was my last descendant. She fled Minnow’s Beck eighty years ago, with child. That child must be Cela.”
“Well, damn. You Chiddaris get around a bit, don’tcha?”
“Not nearly enough. As to your question, without a clone—”
“Wait, a what?”
“We call the jewels clones because they’re the fruits of the Mother. Flora are her hosts, and creatures are her vessels. You were told all this by the king, and it was witnessed by Ellidar. Do keep up, Oriken. The Mother’s reach alone holds no sway beyond the walls, but with the village’s proximity to Lachyla, the presence of a clone – the one that Daneira’s man took from the graveyard – made reanimation possible. If they’d procured it before the child died—”
“Hey.” Oriken brightened as a thought came to him. “If Dag stays close to the jewel…”
Krea shook her head. “No. Its effect was only temporary in Minnow’s Beck, and will be lost long before you leave Scapa Fell. Hold no illusion that it will be otherwise.”