“No sun today, girlie. Just the rain.” The woman eyed her like an owl watching a mouse.
“I know. But not like last year,” she sighed. “Just a regular summer storm.”
“Well,” the old woman grumped, “if you’re Lady Ande, you might as well come with me. Go and grab your things. I’ll wait. And bring a hood if you have one. Rain’s so hard it hurts.”
She drew back in her chair. Questions took shape on the tip of her tongue, but before she could utter a syllable, the woman stood, pulled her cowl close to her ears, and swept away to the door. With a last scowl into the Barrelhouse, the old woman walked straight into the rain.
Strange, thought Andelusia. But still...probably nothing.
She slid out of her seat and took to the stairs. She bounded two stairs at a time, but then slowed, admonishing herself not to hope for anything. In short order, she ambled back downstairs, frayed satchel in hand and hood dropped over her brow.
“Who was that?” Mirra stopped her in the commons.
“I wish I knew,” she sighed. “Soon enough, I will. Watch my tables for me? Like as not, I will be back before midday.”
With a wave to the innkeep and a peck on Mirra’s cheek, she pushed out the door and stood beside the old woman. The rain had slowed, but curtains of grey mist still haunted the air. The woman gave her a curt nod and walked off. She looked like a tired stone skipped across a river.
“You never said your name.” She hurried to catch up.
“Alai. Alai of Muthem,” the woman answered without slowing.
“And what do you want? Are you Ilmun’s wife? Are you a messenger from…my friend in the Undergrave?”
“Hrmmf.” Alai seemed bemused. “A friend, to be sure. Just follow, Lady Ande. You’ll see soon enough.”
She tried a half-dozen more questions, but Alai replied with nothing useful. Swift on her feet as flowing water, the old woman seemed driven to escape the city, never minding any pleasantries. At length, Ande fell silent. Like a shadow she followed in Alai’s footsteps, trailing as the woman led the way down and out of Muthem, through the refugee camps, and out into the pastures beyond the walls.
By the time she reached the damp, windblown fields outside the city, the rain ended. The wind weakened and the clouds cracked, the grey sky carved to tatters by swords of sunshine. After pausing for a breath to take in the sight, Alai advanced across the fields to a path between two farmsteads. Andelusia followed her across a soggy meadow whose green and gold grasses tickled her legs.
“Here we are,” said Alai finally, many thousand steps from Muthem.
Breathless, Andelusia looked all around. On all sides, she saw grass, sunshine, and small, simple farmsteads. She wondered where exactly here was.
“We seem to be nowhere.”
“Didn’t my boy ever bring you out here?” Alai’s demeanor became gentler. “Not once, in all those years? That lad of mine, always talking, rarely thinking.”
She shut her eyes and slipped into a moment’s thought. Her mind felt filled with clouds, her feet fastened to the earth like tree roots. Only after the sun slid across her cheeks and her eyes snapped open did a face come to mind. She saw a smile in her head, hearing laughter given up for lost.
“You cannot mean Marid, can you?”
“And supposing I do?” said Alai.
“Are you his mother?”
Alai beamed, the hard lines in her face easing. Yes. Ande’s heart pounded. Marid’s mother. Of course!
“Marid? Here? You mean it? Why not tell me right away? Which house is yours?”
Alai pointed to one house among the few, a sturdy cabin built at the junction of three farms. Andelusia’s heart soared just to see the place. A wisp of smoke trailed out of its chimney, a pair of cattle meandered at its side, while leaning against its door was a rusted, rot-handled shovel, the very same she and Marid had so often used to clear the snows in Sallow.
She stood frozen at Alai’s side, eyes wide and blood pumping hot beneath her cloak.
“Go on,” Alai urged her. “Door’s not locked.”
After a last breathless moment, she sprinted toward the house. She vaulted the short fence in one leap and skidded to a halt outside the door. Stop, Ande, she told herself. Be calm. The windows were shuttered, yet a glimmer of golden light shone through the slats. She closed her eyes, hearing the sounds of men’s voices on the other side. She grasped the doorknob and pulled.
Striding into the cabin felt like wandering into a dream. The first room glowed with the light of many hanging lanterns, their glass painted the same hue as the midday sun. The scents of bread, pie, and fresh cider washed over her, staggering her before she took her second step inside. In the room’s center sat a trestle table piled high with apples, sweetmeats, wine, and a huge wheel of cheese.
But all that mattered was that two men were seated at the table. And one of them is Marid.
He was on her before she mouthed a word. Smelling of grass and cider, he hugged her and pecked her cheeks and forehead with a dozen worshipful kisses. She wept none, but soaked in his affection and hugged him half to pieces.
When he finally pulled away, she found herself grasping his shoulders and shaking him. “You. You made it.” She clutched at his hands to make sure they were real. “How come? Why not find me sooner?”
“I only just made it back.” He grinned.
“Just today?”
“Just yestereve.”
She looked him twice over. He was gaunt and tired-eyed, his black hair framing his pale, pale face. He looked like a man, no longer a boy. For a half-breath, she swore he even resembled the Pale Knight, but for the fact he’s smiling, not smirking.
“Ande, your hair…” He touched a strand of it.
“I know. Red, like it used to be. Before I came to Thillria.”
He looked bewildered. “How’d you make it back? How’d you survive the storm, the cave, the Wolde?”
“A story for another time. What about you? How did you…?”
Her emotions washed over her. She trembled, tongue falling stiller than stone. Her heart beat hot and intense, her eyes pleading.
“I need to sit.”
Marid helped her into a chair at the table. Dizzy, she sank into it. If he lets go of my hand, she worried, I will float away.
“Ande, this is my father.” He kept firm hold of her hand while nodding at the man seated across from her. “Aruund of Muthem. We settled here from Dray when I was just a boy.”
Aruund rose from his seat at the table’s head. A smallish man, Marid’s father’s eyes were bright with the knowledge of many things. “Mistress Ande.” He bowed. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She blinked hard. She meant Aruund no disrespect, but her heartbeat drowned all sensation. “Aruund, I wonder…” she exhaled, “does your son have something to tell me? Something important? Something a woman should not have to bear waiting for?”
Aruund sat down again. The light in his eyes dimmed.
Say it. She could have died. Please, just say it.
“Why yes, Mistress Ande. I believe he does.”
Her gaze fell upon Marid. He cracked the slightest smile for her, shattering her to pieces.
“Follow me,” he told her, and she obeyed.
Wordless, she wandered after him. She passed Aruund, who looked at her, but who said nothing more. Marid opened a door at the back of the first room, guiding the way into a shadowed room smelling of wood, apples, and fresh rain. Walking into the shadows felt like swimming through cold water. Her eyes no longer aided by Nightness, she glided through a shaft of sunlight gleaming through the room’s only window. She sensed another person in the room, but could not yet see him.
“Marid…” she pleaded.
“Ande, is that you?” said a voice in the darkness.
She wished for a moment’s Nightness to see by. After five achingly slow inhalations, her eyes took to the low light like candles fluttering to life. She blinked twice, disbeli
eving what awaited her.
Saul.
She felt a surge of happiness.
And a crush of despair.
She stopped in place and stared at Saul as though he were a ghost. He reclined on a chair in the room’s far end, beaming up at her, unsurprised to see her. His beard was gone, his arm still in a sling, and his broken staff mended into the likeness of a crutch. He looked hale as ever.
“I told you she’d make it,” Saul said to Marid. “The Graefolk are made of hard stuff. Her more than most.”
Her body disobeyed her. She wanted to rush him and pour her happiness atop him, but found herself paralyzed. Her next words were but whispers.
“Saul, I…I was sure the Wolde caught you.”
“No. Not even close.” He shifted in his seat. “The Pale Knight’s men collapsed on the Undergrave. It was you we were worried about.”
“No.” She breathed, barely audible. “Still alive.”
“And none are as happy as we.” He smiled for the second time without his beard.
She gulped hard, swallowing a mouthful of air as though it were a stone. She felt her breath caught in her throat, her tongue dry as dust.
“Garrett?” Her only word escaped.
The wind blew the shutters open.
In the silence afterward, she knew.
The Last Tower
At Maewir’s footsteps, she waited alone. Twilight reigned, the stars sharp and bright between the clouds, the pale moon watchful. In the autumn air, crisp and cutting, she almost felt at peace.
Almost.
When the guards opened the gates, she walked up the stairs and across the courtyard, a ghost in a peasant’s dress. The guards said nothing to her. They knew she carried the Duke’s summons, and they stepped aside without a word. Steady and silent, she trod the green grasses and still-warm stones, gazing skyward, the moon lighting her verdant green eyes.
She felt nothing.
The doors of Maewir were wide, wide open. Thillrians streamed in and out, most too busy to notice her. When she strode into the castle, she nearly fled back outside. Too close, these walls, she winced. I hope the Duke’s room has a window.
Inside, friendly faces greeted her. Some looked puzzled by her scarlet tresses. Others whispered under their breaths, not seeming to believe she still lived. To each person she recognized, she doled out small, gentle smiles. She knew deep down she loved them, but she dared not stop to talk for fear her darkness would spread to them.
In the stewardship of a young squire, she ascended the stairs to the Duke’s tower. She remembered her last walk upon the curling stairway, sulking and stricken under the weight of her exile. With each step, she did her best to remember Ghurlain in the fairest way possible. He did right to exile me. If only he had not waited so long.
And then she came to Ghurk, Duke of Muthemnal. She traversed a last hallway and pulled an oaken door open, and she saw him sitting at his father’s long-table, looking far more regal in his red robes than ever she would have guessed. The tower room, lit by a hearth-fire and a few scattered lanterns, smoldered with shadows much the same as twilight. Ghurk looked at home.
So handsome. So grown up.
He stood for her, eyes wide and welcoming. She wended past the door guards and embraced him.
“Your letters spoke truly.” He smiled the same as Father Sun. “Your hair’s red! And your eyes!”
She paled beneath his fawning. Though happy to see him, she had no smiles, not yet. “I am as I was before Thillria,” she said. “It will not last, I fear.”
If he recognized her meaning, he said nothing of it. He pulled out a seat for her, and she slid into the tall-backed chair, marveling at the stacks of paper and scrolls scattered across his table. She worried for her busy friend. He looked tired and drawn, the Ghurk of days long past whittled down to a man.
“So your letters are true?” he said after she settled. “You wish to stay?”
She felt her throat tighten. “Somewhat true. Saul leaves for Gryphon on the morrow. Marid will go wherever I go, I fear.”
“I’ve half a mind to appoint Marid as my house captain.” Ghurk sank into his chair. “His deeds in Sallow are famous already. But no…I’ll not ask. Heroes deserve their peace.”
Heroes. She folded her hands in her lap, remembering the Pale Knight. They rarely want what we think they do.
Ghurk smiled again, either unaware of her melancholy or unwilling to acknowledge it. “Will you live in Maewir?” he asked.
She blinked. “For a few nights. Maybe.”
“Where will you go afterward?” he pressed. “Denawir, perhaps? It will be chaotic. They’re electing a new king. A cousin of the Degiliacs, they say. Not exactly what we expected.”
She looked at him. The weight of Dukedom wearied him such that his shoulders sagged and dark circles lived under his eyes. She saw a tired man, and a tired woman reflected in his eyes.
“No. Not Denawir,” she said.
“Ande,” he sighed her name, “ah, it’s good to see you. Why not stay the winter? Your old tower’s still empty. Aera can scrub it out for you.”
She exhaled. “The tower, yes. But no longer than a few nights. I have work to do. It will take me far from Thillria.”
“Work?”
“Yes. Much of it.”
At last, his smile wore off. He gazed at her, and she knew what he was about to say. “I read your letters.” He hung his head. “I know what happened.”
“No one knows what happened.”
“It’s not for me to say.” He grimaced. “I wasn’t there. But Garrett could still be alive…still out there somewhere.”
“Yes. Maybe still alive. But if so, why not here?”
“I don’t know, Ande. I—”
“The reason is obvious. If he still walks the earth, he is far from Thillria. We who have the blood…we do not stay. We go. Whether he loves me or not, it matters none. Not anymore.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Nor does anyone, she thought. She had told him everything in her letter, everything save the Pale Knight’s end. Of the Nightness, the storm, the Black Moon, and even of Grimwain, she had inked the truth. And he believed me. Much as anyone could.
And still he has questions.
“So you’ll look for him?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I just…no. I will not.”
“You’ll go home? Back to Cairn?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“Away.”
“Away?”
“Yes. Far, far away.”
In the quiet afterward, the rain arrived. It came with a clap of thunder and a rush of autumn air into the room. Like a child drawn to her mother’s songs she rose from her chair and wandered to the nearest window. The rain slid across the sill and trickled in tiny rivers on the floor. For one instant, fast and fleeting, she wished for the Nightness.
Ghurk rose from his table and stood beside her. The shadows hung long and heavy across him, stretching like fingers across the floor, draping both of them in darkness.
“Ghurk,” she said to him, “I would have accepted your proposal. If not for Garrett. If not for…things.”
For a moment, he seemed no longer the Duke of Muthemnal. He was her friend again, just a boy she had pulled from the Undergrave. “I know,” he sighed. “Just as well, I guess. Half the county would have my neck for not marrying a Thillrian. Every night, they bring a girl from Dray or a maiden from Denawir. Twice in eight years our nation is invaded, and all they can think of is who to shove into my bed.”
She almost smiled. “A poor wife, I would make. Better to marry some lovely Thillrian thing.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he said.
For a time she fell quiet, and he joined her. The rain made a rhythm against the shutters and the sea roared against the rocks below the castle. The storm’s music plucked her heartstrings. She stood before the window, drinking th
e wind, adoring it.
“One day, not long from now, my hair will be black again. My eyes will go grey. The Nightness will return. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Saul does not. He wants me to go with him. As if what’s inside me can be cured.”
“He loves you. Like an uncle. Maybe like a father.”
With a quarter-smile, she shook her head. “He needs to love his wife and child. He needs to forget me. And he will, in time.”
Ghurk toed at the puddle growing beneath the window. “Well I’ll not forget you. None of us will.”
“Someday I will come back,” she said wistfully. “Of all the places I have wandered, Thillria is my favorite.”
“You will? Promise?”
“I will miss you more than you know,” she said. “I miss Aera, the stewards, and Marid’s family. I miss my friend in Shivershore, Daedelar. The same for Ilmun and the widow who never told me her name. I miss them all.”
“Then why not stay?” Ghurk sounded near to begging. “You’ll have a home here. Long as you like. You’ll never want for anything.”
She faced him. “That’s just it. I will always want.”
“You mean Garrett?” He looked wounded.
“No. Not just him.”
Ghurk bowed his head. She set her palms on the sill, closed her eyes, and felt the mist touch her face. Her Nightness may have been dormant, but darkness stirred within her, deep and cold as the sea.
“I died,” she said at length.
“Pardon?”
“Many times, I think. At Cornerstone. And other places, too. Grim must have known. He knew all along. And so he chained me. No sense in killing me. I would have come back.”
Ghurk looked lost. “You mean…your magic? I don’t…I don’t know what you’re saying, Ande.”
“Not the Nightness. Something else. It kept me alive. You know what this means? You see my point, yes?”
“No.” Ghurk shook his head. “I don’t at all. Are you well? Do you need to sit?”
She looked at him and stilled him to silence. Her calmness held him captive, her gaze like shadows falling. “You wanted to know where I mean to go,” she said. “I cannot say exactly. But what I do know is it will not matter. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I will be safe. I can never die. Not ever. You understand? Old age and disease…nothing to me. Swords and arrows…even less. I need only fear black fire, of which none exists right now.”
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