by Val Gunn
With blade in hand, she broke from the cover of the trees. The fallen kayal were moving as she came upon them; despite their injuries, they groped for their weapons. Without mercy, Marin plunged her sword into the first, and then silenced the second with a fierce blow to the neck. There were two more, fallen beside the brambles, and at least three morenearby that Hiril had taken with his parting shots. How many others? Were the rest caught in the skirmish that approached down the smoldering track through the trees?
Marin barely saw the kayal as it dropped from the branches of the pine and came at her with a long, jagged blade.
She hadn’t counted on this one.
9
THE KAYAL attacked Marin with incredible fury.
Its blade sang through the air. She parried and riposted. The thing struck back, hooking her sword, forcing her arm aside. She feinted and gashed her enemy’s sword arm with a twisting lunge. Blade dripping with black blood, she slashed again and lopped off its head.
She turned in a slow circle, calming herself. Five other kayal lay sprawled on the ground. The one that had taken Hiril’s arrow through the head would never move again. Marin quickly dispatched the other four, then headed toward the sounds of fighting.
The smoking branches where the úathir had passed still stank of Maeros’s charred flesh. Marin breathed through her mouth as she watched for signs of friend or foe. The battle sounds seemed to be moving farther north.
Except—
Something ran toward her in the gloom, too light for an unhorsed rider in chain mail, too fast even for Hiril. Marin raised her blade as the kayal appeared. Its blind haste signaled flight rather than attack—until the thing fixed its gaze on her. Even in the dark, its black eyes gleamed red. It raised a jagged blade, swerved and charged. Something about this creature—its scent? its hatred?—told Marin she was confronting the butcher she had tracked from Darós.
The kayal-witch.
And Torre Lavvann would spare it? Not while she faced it here alone!
Marin launched herself at her adversary, slashing deep into itssword arm. But her enemy pushed back with even more fury than the one she’d fought moments earlier. It struck her blade as fast as she could parry. Saving strength while seeking advantage, Marin gave her enemy more ground as it tried to back her into a tree trunk. Her own battle fury gave way to a chill that spread from the pit of her stomach.
She might not survive this fight.
Suddenly two arrows pierced the kayal from behind. With a grunt of shock and the snap of bone, it dropped its sword and fell face down, arrows protruding from its back and the base of its neck.
Marin dropped to her knees and closed her eyes, gasping. Footsteps pounded the forest floor, and she smiled at the welcome clink of chain mail. Someone gripped her shoulders. With a sigh, she dropped her sword and began to tremble.
“It is over,” said Lavvann. Marin looked gratefully up at her captain. “TWO are dead: Jarrle and Sarsca.” His voice was raw with grief. “We will bury them this night.”
“Brave men, both,” said Marin softly. “I will miss them. But… did Hiril Altaïr reach you?” Worry sharpened her voice. “Have you seen him?”
“I am here.” And so he was. Marin was unable to see how Hiril had fared in battle, but his step was heavier, and weariness weighed down his voice. “The rest of your company is running down the last of our enemies. The úathir was gravely wounded and its fire is flickering. It fled, but will not escape.”
“We are in your debt, Hiril,” said Lavvann. “But one more favor, if I may. Please stay with Marin Hanani while she gathers her strength. My duty lies elsewhere.”
“Of course.” Hiril waved a gracious hand. “See to your fallen soldiers.”
Lavvann retreated into the woods, leaving them alone.
Hiril slid his hands under Marin’s arms and lifted her to her feet. “You fight fiercely, Marin Hanani.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Have you, now?” A smile lurked in Hiril’s voice.
An ominous gurgle interrupted them. The dying kayal-witch writhed, groping at the arrow in its neck.
Marin stared down at her enemy, grieving for her fallen comrades, sickened by the memory of the slaughtered prince. She kicked the creature onto its back, pushing the arrows deeper into its throat and chest. Its mouth gaped wide, and a stench of rot blew up at her.
It only fueled her anger.
“Your kind belongs on the other side of the veil!” she shouted. “Plague your precious Jnoun and leave us alone!” She almost picked it up and shook it, but the pallid, ashy skin looked diseased.
The kayal made a rough, gurgling sound as blood pumped from its wounds. It was laughing at her! Beyond rage, Marin lifted her sword. The red gleam flared in its black eyes, first at her, then at Hiril. Thick silence fell as a shadow lashed out in the darkness, stretching from the kayal-witch to coil around Hiril. A hollow, dead voice rang from the tendril of shadow.
“Little time will you live in peace. Then you will be cut down to rot, forever a lost spirit without release. Dark are the words I place on you.”
The shadow faded. The kayal-witch’s eyes went dull; its body collapsed on itself with a faint sucking sound.
“You have committed your last murder,” Marin said, slashing at the carcass with her sword. Ashes whirled up from the kayal and settled again.
“Come, lady.” Hiril took her hand, pulling her away. “Do not dwell on the hollow curses of a dying thing.”
Marin let him lead, the day’s exhaustion weighting her body like wet sand. The rain returned, rattling in the trees above them. All she understood was Hiril at her side. Marin promised herself that a curse would never rule her fate, but the thought of Hiril’s death twisted a knife in her heart. She wished that the kayal had chosen her instead.
Hiril pulled her close, sensing her thoughts. Time stopped as they held one another under the woods’ dark canopy, rain dripping around them but not on them. Marin wondered at that. She wanted the rain to wash away the foulness of killing and the uncertainty of what lay
ahead.
Gently, tenderly, Hiril put his hands around Marin’s neck and tilted her head back.
Then he kissed her.
10
THAT FIRST kiss was no dream.
Marin still tasted it on her lips, warm and promising, two years after that wonderful, horrible night. The memory lingered even as she held Hiril’s ashes in her hands.
She had been standing at the ship’s bow ever since they’d rounded the northern tip of Mornós. Both suns were high in the sky, dazzling her as she turned east to watch the Tayar Mountains rise out of the sea. Their sharp purple outline faded to soft lavender as the morning progressed, as the Hayl coastline rolled past the port rail and they approached the crowded ships’ masts of Messinor.
Marin’s bag, packed hours ago, lay at her feet. Beyond occasionally asking the sailors how soon they would dock, she said nothing. Her year of mourning ended tomorrow, and she still had ground to cover. It was all very well to lose herself in memories and dreams while confined to a ship, but now she focused her energy on the long walk ahead.
The ship sailed into the harbor, and soon she departed, walking onto the quay without a word of farewell, although she felt their curious eyes on her back. She moved along the pier, weaving her way around stevedores, merchants, and stacks of cargo. Foot traffic thickened as she left the waterfront and plunged into the heart of the city.
Like any port, Messinor was a lively place, bright with the colors of many lands, the music of many languages, and the aroma of many foods. Marin remembered that it had been some time since
breakfast. She stopped to buy a wedge of cheese and small skin of local wine from a street vendor, eating her meal as she walked through the city with her eyes on the mountains beyond.
This was a peaceful place, in its way, and the simple pleasures of eating fresh food and being on a mission again nearly brought a smile to her face.
Almost.
Still she wondered, always and endlessly, what she might have done to prevent that curse from falling on Hiril. Throughout this year of mourning, it had been difficult to eat, to concentrate, to keep on pretending that she was whole.
“Why didn’t you kill the wretched thing when you had the chance?” She had asked herself this question a thousand times. “What made you claim it as your prize? Why did you think you deserved one last word instead of simply cleaving its foul neck with your sword the moment it fell? Then it would never have come to this. He would have been spared. You would hold him in your arms right now.”
Marin shuddered as she tormented herself with these questions yet again. It was the same voice with which she’d always said, “I’ve seen worse,” but without the lightness of a casual boast. In the past year, that voice had accused her with the fierce edge that once challenged fate, now focused with all its scorn on her hesitation that night in the wood.
Hesitation that had cost Hiril his life.
“Little time will you live in peace, then cut down to rot,” the kayal-witch had cursed him—and cut down he was.
The curse had come true.
11
MARIN WAS SILENT.
The memories were flooding back into her mind. How irreparably her life had changed. That fateful day played out once more in Marin’s head as clear as it did the first time.
A messenger reached the door; his eyes were downcast and his hands were folded together before him in respectful sympathy. He’d just informed her that her husband Hiril was dead.
Marin had been at their home in Steffra when she’d received the news. What had been a pleasant evening alone had turned into the longest night of her life. The next morning, sleepless and still in shock, she was almost happy when another messenger arrived with a summons from the Rassan Majalis. Traveling to Ruinart was better than doing nothing.
After her ship arrived from Eliës, she was greeted in Cievv as a hero’s widow. Officials and functionaries consoled her, invited her into their homes—but told her little about the hero’s murder. Despair followed disbelief, and Marin grieved in solitude for days before agreeing to see any visitors.
It was weeks before Hiril’s remains reached Cievv, and he was not cremated until some months after his death. Marin was, of course, puzzled by this, but all anyone would tell her was that it had something to do with how the assassin had marked Hiril’s body. The Rassan Majalis’s alchemists came and went, murmuring among themselves but saying nothing to anyone else. Finally, Hiril received the funeral rites reserved for a member of Ruinart royalty, although he was not a citizen of the kingdom. It was a sad and solemn occasion, and still no one discussed the circumstances of his death.
After the funeral, Hiril’s ashes were kept for weeks in the royal family’s citadel before Marin was permitted to take them away.
Meanwhile, she lived in two worlds at once—an inner realm of abject blackness where her spirit withered away, and a city of flowers basking in the glorious light of an early autumn. That world belonged to someone else, even though she walked through it every day. Her inner darkness grew; some mornings, despite the rich golden sunlight, she lay in bed as if waiting for a dawn that never came. The burden of staying in Cievv without her husband had become too much to bear.
At last someone arrived to offer her hope.
Torre Lavvann.
It was as if both suns had finally burst through the clouds. Lavvann’s rugged face and gruff smile reminded her that she still had a place with the Four Banners, and that there was always work to do; and they could certainly use her help again. That was hope enough for Marin. The next day she left Cievv with her captain and returned to her company.
In the months that followed, Marin pursued dangerous paths with her brothers in arms. She rode north into Keafel beyond the Soller Mountains, to a gently rolling landscape of green and golden fields crisscrossed by strips of woodland. She hunted down ruffians and dark things without mercy, and fought fiercely in battle, no longer caring for her own safety.
Her company met with worried officials in the royal city of Hohnn, and at their bidding rode southwestward into the Tarkh Hills, a desolate region of high, rounded tors, broad ridges, and hidden vales. There, above the city of Limmún, Marin helped rid the area of a behrraun, a vicious predator that stalked and killed livestock and farmers. She nearly died in this fight, yet it seemed as simple as a child’s game.
The Four Banners company boarded a ship to Cevar and lingered a while in the crown city of Enneri, its walls set on high cliffs overlooking the sea and the nearest of the Seven Islands. The rumored pirate attack never came, and Lavvann joked that Marin’s fierce reputation had frightened them away.
The company sailed east to Nórra and then south to the island realms of Laval. They had no reason to make landfall on Aeíx this time, and Marin looked on the accursed island with bleak fury as they passed, hoping the outlaws and the kayal were busy slaughtering one another. Torre Lavvann saw the look on her face, and ordered her to take a furlough when they reached the kingdom of Falasan. There he knew a healer who might offer her help.
The healer’s treatments relaxed and strengthened Marin’s body but did nothing for her spirit. She craved a return to her company and its dangerous missions, but her next journey would be to Ruinart and Cievv.
The year of mourning was coming to an end.
12
MARIN LEFT her bed at dawn.
Beyond her window, the cityscape gave way to green hills that rose toward mountain peaks shaded violet in the early light. Other travelers had assured her that this road led to the shrine of Sey’r an-Shal—the Falls to Heaven. Many people came this way; the shrine was a source of drinking water for the lands below, as well as a place of pilgrimage.
The morning was clear and hot as Marin climbed the hills and wandered through forested valleys. Although she knew it was less than a day’s walk, she became worried as the suns passed noon and the shadows inched westward.
At last, rounding a bend near the summit of a steep hill, she saw the source of the stream that her road had followed for much of the day. Water sparkled as it flowed from the mouth of a small cave and tumbled down several steep falls, each issuing from the pool above it. The shrine was a larger cave cut into the hillside beneath the highest waterfall. A long flight of stone steps led from the road to the shrine and the promontory above.
Marin climbed the steps as they curved around the topmost pool. It seemed like a sacred place, yet she felt no peace. One year ago today, Hiril had died. She had lingered in mourning until this moment. Something was supposed to change—exactly what, she still had no idea.
The shrine was cool after her day in the hot sun, its floor and walls smoothed and polished, echoing with the gentle splash of water. Cut into the stone floor were five shallow channels running the width of the cave. Five springs gushed from the rock wall to Marin’s right, one into each channel. The water trickled across the cave toward the far wall. There, each trickle left its individual channel to join a wall of water that flowed upward as if ascending to heaven. Was it magic? Was it an illusion? Marin felt as if she should stand in awe of this miracle, and feel inspiration or be at peace.
She felt neither.
No matter. It was time.
The silver urn was cool in her hands, though it had spent the hot day under her cloak. Kneeling by the nearest channel, Marin drew a deep breath; it came out a sob. Her powerful, slender body curled around Hiril’s ashes and slumped to the floor. A broken, breathless keening shook her. She’d wept often throughout the past year, but never like this, never with the desolation of a widow who finally knows—with the shattering of her heart—that she is truly alone.
The storm of emotion swept through her and was gone. She was empty again, her world filled with the noise of the inverted waterfall and the rapid beating of her heart.
She straightened and drew another long breath.
It was done.
>
As was the custom in most of Mir’aj, her period of mourning was at its end. Hiril had been born in a small village not far from this shrine, and Marin was carrying out his wishes that, should he fall, this should be his final resting place.
She tipped the urn, pouring the contents into the running water. Each particle of ash seemed to represent a moment they had spent together. All too soon the urn was empty—just as their time together had run out. With tears streaming down her cheeks and splashing into the channel, she watched as the water swirled his ashes away toward the far wall and into the waterfall that rushed up to heaven.
Even as a silver urn full of ashes, Hiril had been a presence in her life.
Now she was alone.
13
“SPEAK TO ME.”
Marin pleaded beside the waterfall within the polished walls of the shrine, in the scent of wet rock, as if Hiril’s voice could come to her just once more. Please… could he not whisper just a word?
She had carried out his final request, and according to custom, life would return to normal a year after his death—or at least move forward with some new purpose. Marin wanted to believe that here, in this place, at this precise moment, her pain could perhaps be transformed into something else.
But there was nothing here for her. Only the empty silver urn at her side. Only the watery silence of her solitude. Only her grief.
“Maybe Ala’i is not the one,” Marin said aloud to the shrine. “There are other gods in this world that I can seek.”
Though holding vast sway, Illam was not the only divinity in Mir’aj; there was also Jovah, Njambe, Himnnaríki, or Vijayu. Their practices might seem strange to her, but she had seen much on her travels; and she knew there were many ways in which people could worship and find solace. But in truth she knew this was an empty challenge to Ala’i—that professions of strong or waveringfaith were nothing more than words intended to appease her loneliness, to justify the emptiness that Hiril’s loss had left in her heart.