by Scott Kaelen
His shoulders slumped. “It was worth a try.”
“Anything is,” Krea agreed. “But for the choice your friend has made, there is no hope on Verragos of him surviving. You’ve already been told as much by Gorven, and by Sabrian.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I know.”
“So, then.” She gazed up at him.
“Listen, Krea. I like you. I mean that. In other circumstances I think we could have been friends.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps more.”
“Hm.” She planted a hand on her hip. “What are you telling me?”
“I’ve been giving the whole thing a lot of consideration since I arrived in Lachyla, and, admittedly, I’m not entirely surprised to hear myself say that I’d prefer living as you do to being dead. In that regard, me and Dag are on opposite ends of the rainbow. Something Sabrian said got me to thinking; I’ve spent nine years travelling Himaera, the last five as a freeblade, and the last three only in Caerheath till we came here. I’ve been wandering around with my eyes closed, and I think it’s about time I opened them.”
Krea remained silent, pondering him curiously.
“I’m saying that I love my freedom,” he told her, “and what I’ve experienced here has taught me two things. One, that I need to stop being so presupposing about the world around me. And two, that if I ever get the cancer or some such, I may just decide to return.”
“Is that what it would take for you to come back?”
He shrugged. “Right now, I don’t know.”
After a pause, Krea reached into the satchel and withdrew a piece of folded black cloth. “A little something I made for you,” she said, holding it out for him to take. “Maybe you won’t wear it, but once in a while it might remind you of me.”
He accepted it from her. “What is it?”
“Unfold it and see.”
Taking a corner of the thin but strong material, he shook it out and it spilled almost to the ground. Cream and tan and white threads were weaved into the edges in interlacing patterns, and at the top end the crossed blades of the Freeblades Guild had been embroidered into the corner. “It’s beautiful. Is it a scarf?”
“If you like. Or a sash. However you decide to use it.”
Oriken drew a shuddering sigh, surprised at the wave of emotion that hit him. The thought that Krea had put into the gift… “I will wear it,” he promised, “but not for the journey home. Thank you, Krea. I… I have nothing to give you.”
She flashed a brief smile. “You have already given me more than you know.”
He looked at her. “I do have something to give you.” He unclasped the button of an inside breast pocket of his jacket, dug his fingers inside and took out a small pouch. After a moment of hesitation, he held it out for Krea to take. She loosened the drawstring and upturned it, dropping a delicate silver chain with tiny charms onto her palm.
“It’s an anklet,” he said. “It belonged to my ma. I’d like you to have it.”
“I will treasure it,” Krea said. “Well then, my outlander. If you ever decide to return, don’t leave it too long. You wouldn’t want to spend the rest of eternity all wrinkled and hairless, would you?” The black rims of her eyes glistened with moisture. “If you did, you might find me no longer interested.” She curled her finger at him. “Come down here.”
Oriken leaned down as Krea rose to her tiptoes. Her hands reached up to wrap behind his neck as his crossed behind her, and they embraced.
He crawled beneath the portcullis to find Dagra sat with his back to the outer wall, staring silently out into the heathland. Jalis stood a distance ahead, her petite frame seeming somehow smaller than usual. He recalled two evenings previous when she had stood in the same place, covered in gore and eagerly awaiting their emergence from the graveyard. Now, instead of the tattered chemise, her soft cotton garment billowed like clouds around her breasts and upper arms, her leggings a vibrant green. Red scratches laced her calves and ankles from her ordeal on the ladder, and she looked as unwilling to take another step into the heath as he did.
“Krea gave me something,” he said.
Jalis looked at him flatly. “Mm-hm.”
“Aren’t you the lucky one,” Dagra said as he climbed to his feet.
“It’s not for me.” Oriken deigned to mention the sash. “It’s for all of us.” He reached into his jacket and took out the jewel.
Jalis’s eyebrow raised a fraction and she gave a brief nod.
Dagra barked a laugh and threw his hands in the air. “I was so wrong about that cursed chunk of crap. I actually thought it looked nice at first glance. Now I know it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” He grabbed his pack and wandered past Jalis, muttering to himself.
Oriken understood their reactions. In both cases he felt the same. Jalis turned and he stashed the jewel into her backpack. Tying it tight, he set off on Dagra’s trail, and Jalis walked at his side.
The ragged landscape of the wide valley stretched into the distant hills. Days of nothing lay ahead of them; nothing but walking, sleeping, eating whatever luck happened to bring their way, and waiting for the inevitable.
Jalis’s eyes were fixed on their friend’s back. Her thoughts were no doubt similar to Oriken’s own – black thoughts that refused to leave, just as Dagra refused to stay.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SAND
Maros swung along on his crutches behind the mill owner. His leg felt miraculously good today. Must be all the exercise, he thought, casting a glance to Henwyn who strolled a distance to his side.
“The burned building and the cravant corpse back-a-ways were definitely fresh,” Maros said. “My gut says it was the work of our girl and the lads.” With a grunt, he added, “Don’t know why they’d burn a house down, though.”
“It was a pretty big breadcrumb to leave us,” Henwyn said. “Not that I’m complaining; their tracks are getting harder to spot since the downpour. Harder, but not impossible.”
“You’ve the eyes of a hawk,” Maros said. “Better’n these failing orbs o’ mine. If premature old age don’t take me first, I swear I’ll end up as blind as a halfblood mole-bat.”
“Ah, boss. Self-deprecation don’t become you. I tell a lie; it does. But at least you’re still the deadliest bastard with a greatsword in all of Scapa Fell.”
Maros barked a laugh. “Hen, you do me a disservice.”
“We should camp soon,” Wymar said. “And by the way, just because I’m not mentioning it constantly, I am still hating every minute of being stuck out here with you freeblades. It’s like being forced to endure a monotonous epic by a tireless, two-man theatre troupe.”
Maros grunted. “If you can’t beat ‘em—”
“Which you can’t,” Henwyn added.
“Then you’d be best to… Oh, stars.” Maros felt a sneeze brewing. “Ha… Haa… Ha-akh!”
“Aveia’s teeth!” Wymar whirled on him and leaped backwards. “Would you do that in another direction? Or do I have a sign on my head asking to be covered in giant’s phlegm?”
“Some folk pay good money for a philtre of halfblood humours,” Maros said. “You could be onto a money-earner.”
Henwyn chuckled. “No they don’t, boss. Fairy tears, yes. But never Maros mucus.”
“On with you,” Maros told the mill owner. “That’s it. Oh and you do complain every minute, but I think you’re warming to us.”
Wymar grumbled to himself as he trudged onwards.
“Don’t hold his natural disposition against him,” Henwyn said with a wink to Maros. “The two of you will be fast friends when we’re back in the Folly.”
Maros snorted. “I’d be as likely to marry a goat.”
“Here, what’s this?” Wymar paused to stoop over and reach into the low grass. Turning to Maros, he held up a leather strop.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” Maros said. “Let me see that.” He snatched the strop from Wymar and brought it to his eyes. “It’s Jalis’s.”
<
br /> “You sure, boss?”
“A strop is a strop, but the boys don’t use ‘em, and who else would be wandering this hinterland with a care to give their weapon a fine polish?”
Henwyn nodded. “We’re on the right track, then.”
Wymar hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Not for long. We’re almost out of road.”
Maros squinted against the sun and peered ahead. The mill owner was right; fifty yards along the overgrown road, the aged flagstones disappeared beneath short thatches of reed that marked the edge of a swamp. “Rutting stars,” he growled. “Hen, how far does that bog stretch?”
Henwyn scrutinised the landscape. After a moment, he said, “It’s impassable, boss. We’ll have to go around.”
“Damn it!” Maros stamped his crutches into the grass. “In which direction?”
“We’ve got a few hours of daylight left,” Henwyn said. “We may as well make camp here while I search around.”
“I’ll gather some firewood,” Wymar said, wandering across to a nearby stand of trees.
Maros flashed a brief smile at the mill owner’s back. Taking Henwyn’s pack, he said, “That man is more amenable with each passing day. Not what I’d call convivial, but it’s an improvement.”
Henwyn bent to one knee to attach a string to his longbow. “I’ll find their trail, and I’ll grab us a meal while I’m at it,” he said with confidence.
“I’m mighty glad I brought you along. Fancy a promotion?”
Henwyn rose with a grin. “You’re funny, boss. The only promotion ahead of me is to become a quill-scratcher, and I ain’t ready to fill your boots just yet.”
“Quill— Bah, away with you!” He swung his crutch in a wide arc, and Henwyn easily danced out of its reach. With a sigh, Maros looked down at the leather strop in his hand. “We’re coming for you, lass,” he said as Henwyn moved off along the swamp’s edge. “We’re on our way.”
Killed by a puffball. A sodding puffball. The thought churned within Dagra’s head as they trekked across the lowlands. He’d accepted his fate, and yet a part of him still clung on to the dim hope that he might make it out of this bog-ridden backwater alive. He allowed himself a flight of fancy, imagining the three of them returning to the Folly and drinking a cup or five of Redanchor to celebrate achieving their objective.
Sod the cups, he thought. Dust the tankards off. This is a celebration, not a damned wake. He choked back a cry and rubbed a hand across his eyes.
“Dag?”
“I’m fine.” He drew in a breath and stuffed his hands into his pockets. From the west, the sighs of the ocean drifted amid the warm breeze. “I want to walk along the coastline.”
“Sure thing,” Oriken said. “Whatever you want.”
Dagra grunted. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m—”
“Like you’re what, Dag?” Oriken bit back. “Dying?”
“Come on, boys.” Jalis stepped between them and wrapped her arms around their waists. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
The sun was dipping closer to the ocean by the time they reached the coastline. This far from Lachyla, the air sang serenely with the cries of birds as they circled over the shallows. Jalis pulled her shoes off and ran onto the beach, curling her toes into the sand. Nearby, a crab scuttled into a rocky pool, and Dagra absorbed the scene with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. With their boots still on, he and Oriken stomped through the soft grains to join Jalis, and together they crossed to the tide and set a casual stroll along the wet sand.
“I’ve been thinking about the cave,” Dagra said.
“Which cave?” Jalis asked. Her shoes dangled from her fingers, and her feet splashed along the water’s edge to leave ephemeral prints that soon would be gone forever.
“I know which he means.” Oriken shrugged his jacket off and draped it over his arm. “The one we found his sword in, seven years ago. Right, Dag?”
“We were seventeen,” Dagra told Jalis. “Barely a year after leaving Eyndal.”
“I didn’t mean to start that rockfall,” Oriken said.
Dagra shrugged. “At least between us we managed to get me out of there. I never blamed you for it; not really.”
“I know. There were no ghosts in there. You realise that, don’t you?”
“I know what I felt, and what I saw and heard. Look back there at Lachyla.” He glanced over his shoulder at the shoreline far off to the south, where it climbed gradually from sea level to a steep promontory. They were a day and a half out of Lachyla and at this extreme distance the city was hidden from view, save for a spectral glimpse above the cliff’s edge. But, for a moment, as Dagra regarded it, his bond with the dwellers in that place strengthened a touch.
He turned his attention back to Oriken. “Things exist in this world. Things that you’ve always doubted. They exist in the corners and between the cracks, in the darkness and the depths, and, sometimes, in the light. Remember that, Oriken. You’ll need to remember. For me.”
“You’ve been calling me Oriken a lot lately.”
Dagra sighed. “Maybe because I’m not entirely myself any more. Maybe because I’m about to die, and the time for endearing appellations is over.”
“Apple whats?”
“I’m a part of the blight,” he explained. “Connected to the people, and to the Mother. I hate it. I didn’t belong there, and it’s fading, but it’s still a part of me”—he tapped a finger to his temple—“in here.”
“What do you need from us?” Jalis asked.
“I want you to burn me when… when it’s over. I can feel the weakness already, I think. The voices are fading, and there’s a shadow in my mind.”
Oriken looked frustrated. “But, Dag—”
“When I feel that it’s close, we’ll head for the next copse of trees. If I can still go on, we’ll continue to the next. That way, we won’t be far from wood to build a pyre. Promise me you’ll burn my body. Send me to the Underland properly, and with dignity.”
“We promise,” Jalis said.
Oriken blinked and turned his face away. “Yeah,” he said, and Dagra heard his voice crack.
I know, my friend, he thought. I don’t want to lose you either. But I must. “Give me some minutes, will you both?” he asked softly. “I just need a moment to… finish making peace with a few things.”
Jalis nodded and dropped back beside Oriken, leaving Dagra to walk alone and use what little time remained him to make a deal with his gods.
“This is wrong,” Oriken said.
“How long are you going to fight it?” Jalis asked. “There’s nothing we can do. What will be, will be, and soon. I know it’s hard—”
Oriken whirled on her. “What do you know?” She glared at him. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “That was uncalled for. Look, I’ve said I accept his choice. It doesn’t mean I have to like it. It could easily have been any or all of us, Jalis. What would you do if it was you and not Dagra?”
“I’ve asked myself that question often over the last few days,” she admitted. “I agree with you. His choice would not be mine. But at the same time I wouldn’t want to live forever like Gorven and the others.”
“What then?”
“I expect I would stay there. For a while, at least. Wait until I was sure what I wanted to do. But that’s me. Dagra’s decision seems impetuous to you and I, but it is his to make. And remember, his philosophies of the world are not ours.”
“Bah! What Dagra has aren’t philosophies.”
“And yours are?”
He shrugged. “No, not really. I just know what I know. And I believe what I see. Where Dag’s going – in his mind – is Kambesh. He’s off to the Underland to be reborn as some… baby, I guess. Look, what happened back there, what we witnessed; at first it seemed unnatural, demonic, magical even. But at the heart of it, all the blight is is a parasite. Its only difference to a disease is that it doesn’t kill people… unless they stray too far from its heart.”
“A
mutually beneficial symbiosis,” Jalis mused.
Oriken shrugged. “Yeah, whatever that means.”
“Except that this time it took an incompatible vessel.”
Oriken bent to pick up a stone and skimmed it into the frothing water. “Incompatible by mind, yes. A shame it didn’t sense that and ignore him from the offset.”
“Just be strong, Orik.” Jalis linked her arm in his. “For Dagra, as well as for yourself. And remember I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He gripped her hand. “I hope you never do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
INTERCHANGE
Adri awoke with a start and sat upright in the chair. She cast a concerned glance to Eriqwyn who lay propped in her bed upon several pillows, a thick blanket draped over her legs. By the light of the room’s few torches, her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes were closed. Wayland was slouched in an armchair at the far side of the bed, a frown creasing his brow even in sleep. Adri rose to her feet and hurried across to Caneli who occupied a stool at the near side of Eriqwyn’s bed.
“How is she?” Adri asked, though she knew the answer.
The physician rose and motioned for her to follow to the door. Keeping her voice low, she said, “This is nothing that I’ve seen before, but I recognise the signs as sure as the last hours of the wasting disease. I’m sorry, Adri. She is on the way out, and Wayland fares little better.” Pausing at the door, she passed a hand over her tired eyes and stepped out into the garden. “It’s only a matter of time for them both, though I fear that Eri will not last the night.”
Despair clenched at Adri’s chest. “It is almost dawn.”
“Aye.” Caneli glanced to the purple hue that was rising over the eastern horizon. “It is.”
Further along from Eriqwyn’s room, the pantry door clicked open and the twins emerged, each carrying two steaming mugs. Laulani’s golden hair was loose, spilling around her slumped shoulders, and the green blush around Linisa’s eyes accentuated the shadows of worry and lack of sleep, even in the murky twilight.