I should be upset. But no. I will close my eyes and accept these last sensations. I will hope the darkness heals me, and that if we should make land in Thillria again, I may walk beneath the grey sky a final time. I think I would like that. Just the clouds, the quiet, the darkness and me.
The Window
Andelusia awoke beside a window.
Her lips were dry.
Her stomach was empty.
As the rain fell, she stared through a pane of glass and dreamed.
Thirteen days at sea.
Felt like thirteen years.
Half-starved.
Delirious.
I remember little. Leaves in the wind. Captain Daed ordered his men to run us aground. How did we survive the ‘Haunt? Does it matter? We had no stars to see by and no wind at our backs. Even so. Daed conquered the sea. He delivered us back to Thillria. He drove Shiver’s Pride straight onto the beach. His men leapt over her sides and made love to the sand.
I wish I could have smiled with them.
Other than a few lonely fragments, everything that had happened during the long journey across the Selhaunt was forgotten. She stared through the window and tried to remember. The smell of the water, the taste of the wind, and the feel of her itchy bed felt so close. But every time she blinked, her memories shattered and she had to start again.
Daed carried me. She breathed, and the window fogged. Down the plank and into the shallows. Maybe it was him. Maybe someone else. The others splashed like children in the water. Was I glad for them? No. I was sad. For they know nothing of what is to come.
I should have gone to Cornerstone without them.
She sat and watched for hours as the clouds walked a miserable path across the day. At dusk, they bruised the heavens black, and before long, night conquered the world.
She sank deeper in her chair and gazed into nothing.
Safe.
Secure in my uselessness.
My friends are dead.
Grim has won.
I sit now in the oldest, creakiest chair in what must surely be the most ancient residence in Lyrlech. Daed’s tower. Tall and narrow. Made of stone. On the western edge of town. I am his guest, at least for now.
She closed her eyes and remembered what she had seen before nightfall. She had spied Lyrlech’s wharf, the merchants meandering along the sea and trading wares beneath the greying eve. She remembered Father Sun falling down to his death beneath the horizon. The moods of sky and sea had looked identical. Still as death. Waiting for the Ur.
With a yawn, she flexed her fingers. She wanted to write in her journal, but the tired, salt-stained book lay on a bed across the room. I have no will to fetch it. Nor ink to write with. Nor quill to dip in the ink.
Besides, what would I say?
How I long to jump from the window and walk forever in the sand?
How I ache to become shadow and spear myself into the ‘Haunt.
But no, I cannot leave. I am wounded still, and the Nightness is fragile.
Lyrlech is home. Until the end.
She looked her room over. She wondered how long she had lived in it. The round tower chamber had walls of white stone and floors of pale, creaking oak. A half-loaf of bread sat on the table beside her, and a decanter of water stood on the floor. All was silent. Only then did she realize she had lived in the room for many days, and that each day she had woken thinking she had only just arrived.
Poor Daed, she remembered. He dotes on me. He stops at nothing to make me comfortable. Braces of spring flowers, he brings me each morn. And each night he piles my plate high with sweetmeats and freshly-cooked fish. He never asks anything of me. Not even the kiss I promised him. He is good to me, too good. I deserve none of it.
She looked at the window again. In the inky pane, she saw her reflection. Her hair was smooth and sable, falling like black water over her shoulders. Her cheeks were pale as mountain snow.
Staring at herself, she remembered a conversation she and Daed had shared. Was it yesterday? she wondered. No. Earlier today. How could I forget?
“We’re bunkmates for now, m’lass,” Daed had told her.
She remembered being puzzled. “Where did your crew go?”
“To the countryside. They’ve mourning to do. Nothing worked out the way we hoped. Even so, they’re not angry with you or me. They just need time.”
“Not angry…” she had marveled. “Surprising.”
She remembered that he had pulled his chair close to hers, his eyes gleaming the same as lanterns. “M’lass…” he had looked sad. “None of this was an accident, you see.”
“What do you mean?” she had asked.
“I’ve kept secrets from you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry for it.”
And he had told her everything:
He knew who I was long before I ever came to Lyrlech. He knew of me more than five years ago. My father murdered King Orumna and arranged for the Undergrave’s excavation. Grim captured thousands of Thillrians to work as slaves in the Sallow mines.
Daed and his crew were among those enslaved.
“They hauled us down into the underworld,” Daed had told her. “Our families, we never saw again. We worked night and day under threat of death. We hammered at the stones until the skin melted off our hands.”
“Grimwain…” she had exhaled.
“But we managed not to die. And that’s something,” Daed had clapped his hands together. “We were model prisoners, men who knew our place, like old Lord Degiliac used to say. Damn shadow soldiers with their hollow eyes, we stayed away from them. And we lived.”
“How’d you escape?” she had asked.
“Well, m’lass. It was you. You freed us. Don’t you remember?”
I do remember.
It was in the direst of hours I entered Daed’s story. While he languished in his pit, I arrived in search of Father. The Undergrave…I freed as many prisoners as I could. Daed had to be one of the first. I do not remember him. I was afraid. No names or faces adhered to my mind.
“Well I remember,” Daed had offered. “You peered down our hole and we thought you were some kind of spirit. As in a walk-us-into-the-afterlife ghost. But then…after you took my hand and pulled me up, I knew.”
“You knew what?”
“That I loved you, m’lass.”
She had thought he meant to be funny.
But no. Dead serious.
The night deepened, and she felt more of her memories returning. Much that had eluded her crept back into her mind. Ever since the Undergrave, she thought, Daed hoped he would meet me again. He knew I lived in Muthem, and he longed for the chance to be together. When I came to Lyrlech, he made certain he was the first sailor at my door. When he learned I was after Grimwain, he saw a chance like no other.
To think…all these years and I knew nothing.
I had a watcher. A protector.
I live only because he waited for me.
Else my bones would float atop the ‘Haunt.
But now she was in Lyrlech again, besieged by the greyest of springs, purposeless but to pass the time. When Daed comes tomorrow morning, what will I tell him? He had colorful ideas in his head, she knew, notions she felt powerless to dispel.
“Heal up, m’lass,” he had told her. “Get your spryness back. We’ll leave Shivershore, we will. We’ll forget all about Grim. I’ve an uncle in Kilnhome, you see. He’ll put us up in a mountainside tower. We’ll never want for nothing.”
“Why?” She remembered gazing blankly at him.
Even though I knew the answer.
“M’lass, I know the White Island’s still fresh for you. I know you’ve lost your husbands. But—”
“But?” she had pressed.
“We could be married. You and I. We’ll have a brood of black-haired, moon-faced little ‘uns. You’ll tear me away from sad old Shivershore. I’ll help you forget all this…death.”
Oh, how terrificall
y bizarre, she had thought. How could he even think such a thing?
Even if there were no Ur, no Undergrave, no Grimwain, I could never be his.
For I am dead.
In the morning, she awoke in bed. How she came to be under the covers, downy pillow clutched close, she could not recall. I tucked myself in. She looked to her window on the far wall, through which the grey dawn offered little light. Or maybe Daed...
No. He would never.
Daed knocked on the door, and she went still.
“Morning, m’lass.” He crept in with a lamp and a platter of bread cakes and tea. “Sorry I’m late. Streets are busy. We’re expecting rain.”
She sat up in bed. At least I am wearing a nightshirt, she thought. Though who put me in it?
Daedelar pulled a chair close to her bed. He offered her a cup of tea, but she shook her head.
“How long have I been here?” she asked.
“Well…” He thought hard. “Sixteen days, I think. Yes. That’s right. You ask the same question every morn. You’d think I’d remember better.”
Every morn? She sank a little. My mind…I am losing it.
She took the tea and sipped. Daedelar leaned back in his chair, his smile broad, but his bravado long gone.
“What is that under your arm?” she asked.
“Oh. This?” He produced a thin, wet pamphlet. Its pages were inked with grey letters, and she realized she had not seen written words in anything other than her journal since Muthemnal. “Just a bit of news, I reckon,” Daed continued. They’ve been printing a few thousand every month. New mayor’s idea, what with the Degiliacs being dead and all.”
“May I see it?” She reached for it.
“Of course. I brought it for you. Not as though old Daed can read it.”
He gave her the pamphlet, swallowed his tea, and moseyed to the window.
She read:
Pale Knight Invades! proclaimed the first page.
That name, she thought. Familiar somehow.
Wolfwolde Champion conquers upper Thillria! Denawir, Muthem, and Dray occupied! Spirit of a war long-lost! say the outlanders of the invader. But we in Lyrlech know better. Though the Pale Knight is the lone Thillrian among the Roma horde, his cause can only be vengeance!
“What’s it say?” she heard Daedelar ask.
She gave no answer. She gazed to the pamphlet, open-mouthed, devouring every word:
Pale Knight’s soldiers flock to Sallow! Nobles from northern counties force-marched to the Gluns! Shiver remains free! Militias gather! Many Thillrians’ opinion: the Wolf Men are satisfied with their plunder, and gather to abscond back to the west. Hope lives!
No. She shook her head. Fools. He will not go west. The Pale Knight will stay. He means to guard the Undergrave to the last. In the heart of darkness, he knows no one will attack. His patron is Grimwain. It must be. The Pale Knight knows nothing. Paid to kill, not to think.
She consumed the next two pages. Every word of it, top to bottom, spoke of a Romaldarian man with a black braid and moon swords. Though Grimwain’s name never appeared, she knew all the same.
The sly dog. He sailed into harbor seven days before me. He is already in Sallow or well on his way. Purchased Lyrlech’s favor. Gave gold bricks to the mayor. Piled stolen treasure from northern Thillria into the commoners’ hands. Promised that no soldier of the Wolfwolde would ever set foot in Shivershore.
No sense in being frugal. He can give all his possessions away. Come the world’s end, he knows he needs nothing.
Daedelar returned. He hovered over her, wanting to know why she had gone even paler than usual. She looked up at him, held her breath, and flipped to the pamphlet’s final page.
Hundred Year Moon to mark summer’s birth.
She read nothing more.
“Hundred Year Moon,” she murmured.
“Ah, that. They’ve a festival planned,” said Daedelar. “Warmest day of the year, least that’s what they say. The moon comes almost close enough to touch. Course, I don’t really know. My grand-daddy’s father might’ve remembered. Not me.”
“Not the warmest.” Her words were whispers. “Not in the way you think.”
Daed must have seen the look in her eyes. “Pardon, m’lass?”
“The Hundred Year Moon,” she said. “Not a celebration of Mother Moon.”
“Can’t say.” Daedelar shrugged.
“The Black Moon,” she breathed. “The pamphlet does not say it, but I bet some people in Lyrlech know it. I saw it in my dreams last night. It rolled in the sky, its bottom bursting through the clouds. A black marble, it was, perfect as any object ever created. I saw writing on its surface. Old words. Magic words.”
Daed scrunched his brow. He looked confused, and afraid.
“I bet I know.” She tossed the pamphlet aside. “The words, Daed. They keep the Ur imprisoned. Someone made the Black Moon. Someone raised it into the sky. Do you understand? A few rebellious souls. They hid from the Ur, I wager. Probably the last few left alive. They came from some remote corner of the world, flush with magic, and locked the demons away in the sky.”
Daed looked at her. Like I am crazy.
“M’lass…what’re you talking about? I thought you wanted to kill Grimwain. Because…well…because he killed Ser Rellen.”
“No.” She shut Rellen’s memory out.
“I do not care about Grimwain.
“He is just the first of many.”
Rain
Her heart fluttered to life.
Her body, cold as frozen silver, thawed.
Andelusia stirred to life in the cool, shadowy expanse of her room in Daedelar’s tower. She lifted her head from her pillow, swung her feet over the edge of the bed, and touched her toes like feathers to the floor.
Dawn’s dreariness came quick to greet her.
Subdued by Shivershore’s clouds, grey light crept through the seams of her windows’ shutters and pooled like cold water on the tops of her toes. She rather liked the look of the sad morning light. In it, she felt like a spirit returned to the world of the living, a wanderer at the edge of the very last dawn.
Another day, She blew a tangle of hair out of her eyes. And why not?
Gliding from beneath her sheets, she slipped into a ghostlike gown and padded to the room’s southern window. The storm, long awaited, lay upon Lyrlech. She smelled the air, thick and tangy, and she heard the wind rattle a downstairs door against its rusted hinges. She flung her shutters open, and the rhythm of the raindrops against Lyrlech’s cold stones assuaged her.
My rain is back.
Breathing deep, she gazed to the clouds. Her palms were uplifted in veneration, and her lips pursed as though to kiss the sky. Aroused, she dangled perilously over the sill, closing her eyes as droplets of water danced upon her cheeks, wept from her hair, and painted her palms. The sensations reminded her of home, of her room high in Gryphon tower, and of rainy springtime dawns not so much different than today.
This dawn, greyest of all possible dawns, marked the beginning of her twentieth day in Daedelar’s tower. In truth, she hardly minded what day it was anymore. Her mind was blank, my hopes absent. Gazing across Lyrlech, she wished for nothing beyond the next hour or two of life, for everything else felt too far away. She might have lived on the streets for all she cared, or slept beneath the dead and limbless trees as the rain washed forever over her.
It does not matter.
Soon, she knew, the rain will be ashes.
And so, accepting that the day would pass little differently than the previous nineteen, she gazed into the rain for nearly an hour before tugging her shutters half-shut and retreating to her chair and table. Her feet left little puddles where she wafted across the room, and her saturated gown dripped a river that followed her to her chair. She sank into her knotty, creaking seat, neither glum nor content. She took up a comb and began stroking its teeth through the wet, Selhaunt-like waves of her hair.
My only friend anymore, she mus
ed of the comb. A gift from Daedelar, she pulled it through her locks, pretending for a time its touch was that of a lover.
All I can do to pass the time.
The hours crawled. The rain fell harder still. With Daedelar gone on errands unknown, she slipped into an adjacent room, where a bath and cistern lay in total darkness. She lit none of the chamber’s lanterns. Eyes radiant with Nightness, she stripped down to nothing and sank like a stone into the frigid water. After soaping her body and working every speck of dirt out of her skin, she leaned back, utterly limp.
Let nothing disturb me.
An hour slid by, maybe longer. By the time she emerged from the water, her skin gleamed like the moon, while her hair swam down her shoulders like spilled ink. Her beauty was refreshed, her hour in the darkness having polished her prettiness and soothed her aches.
She knew only that time had passed, that tomorrow will be the same as today.
After toweling herself dry and curtaining her body in a waifish grey gown, she reentered her bedchamber and glided back to her table. The rain greeted her return by falling faster. She settled into her chair, dropped her chin into her palm, and gazed across the room and out of her window.
The storm was at its strongest.
Gathered over Lyrlech, oceans of rain drowned the top of every tower, Daedelar’s included, in clouds as grey as any Selhaunt wave. It was a beautiful sight, she thought, glorious in a way Father Sun could never match.
If only… she daydreamed. …it would last forever.
She might have lost the entire day gazing from the window, but at midday Daedelar returned. The tower door banged shut against its crumbling frame. She heard Daed curse the rain, his boots clattering against the stairs outside her room.
“M’lass?” She heard three taps against her door. “May I enter?”
“Yes.”
He stepped into her room. As though he had stridden right out of the sea, his long jacket leaked water from every fold while his brimmed hat dripped like the eave of every house in Lyrlech. In his grasp dangled a basket chock full of bread and cheese, saved only partly from the rain by a thin white coverlet. She gave him a slender smile, but then sent her gaze back toward the window.
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