by Val Gunn
Well, that was easier said than done, but with some help from her friends—Torre, Sallah, and of course, Ilss Cencova—she would eventually break through the wall of tears and try living again. For now, she was mostly content. Perhaps, one day, love would come again. There would be a man who would treat her with all the love and respect she could wish for.
Marin gazed at the many ships in the port. Right here, right now, she was at peace with herself—and ready, she hoped, for whatever should come next.
The past was gone, and the future loomed before her.
She chuckled as she pondered this, remembering the words spoken by a close friend at her wedding: “Marin… Hiril… listen to me,” he’d said, waving his finger at them to underscore the seriousness of his tone. “The past never returns, and the future
never arrives.”
She’d found that amusing and, to a certain extent, profound. Although she’d never forgotten the words, neither had she ever really given them much thought. Until now. She reflected on the point he’d been trying to make, and suddenly, it became crystal clear.
All we ever really have is the present.
Epilogue
A SHELTERING SKY
26.4.793 SC
1
THIS WAS the seventh time he had been in the cave.
The ink was nearly dry as he finished the last stroke. He slipped the vial of russet ink into a pouch that fit perfectly in an inside pocket.
He was not the only one who had been here. The rough walls were covered with signs that others had come here and, therefore, knew of its existence. Amber light poured in from the opening above, washing over the painted wall. He studied each of the signs briefly before returning outside.
Rain had not fallen for many days, and it would be some months before it came again. He looked up and saw not even the slightest smudge of white in the cobalt sky. Somewhere above, he heard the call of a kiyeh falcon chasing away two burial kites. At his feet he saw the indentation of scales in the rough soil. It had been a black-hooded asp—aggressive and lethal—but it had passed some time ago. The valley floor just outside the cave opening was littered with many prints. He could make out tracks from small game as well as those of a nimhr and a haloc. Both of these sets had been made recently.
He was not alone. Others had come here with him, but they were gone. The battle was over, the last sounds fading away in the early hours of the morning. At first light they had carefully searched for anything of value that might have been left behind. But An’sut remained in the Valley of the Cave as he had always done.
His kind had, for as long as anyone could remember, trailed behind the wanderings of the White Palm and, at times, the Haradin hunters as well. There was an ancient, unwritten understanding between them; they were not to interfere, and in doing so were free to claim what they could find. It was the way of the desert.
Intuition had brought him here—more than just the memoryof the cave and the ritual of painting his mark. An’sut had felt this once before when he’d found a man still drawing breath as the hot, dry wind drained the last traces of life from his broken body.
He remembered taking his staff of rosewood and prodding the man just under his ribcage. He’d watched as the man quivered and then writhed weakly. An’sut made a tracing in the sand around the man—his claiming pattern. He’d thought that perhaps the man could be saved. An’sut was not a strong healer, but there was some hope. He understood that what mattered most of all when it came to healing was the strength of the wounded one’s spirit.
An’sut had soaked long strips of soft linen in a balm made from citrus honey and healing oils. Then he wrapped the cloth around the man, binding his wounds. He’d covered him with palm fronds and laid him in a canvas hammock. Later, with the help of others, he’d carried the wounded man southward into the deep desert.
Therefore he would walk through the valley before seeking oasis of Waha al-Ribat once more. Noon shadows followed the contours of the cliffs, forming layers of myriad colors that clothed the rock walls from the base to the crest. An’sut tracked the feeling through the wash of gravel and sand that curved away from the cave. The heat here was not unbearable, as the suns’ radiation could not penetrate completely into the basin. He passed through a narrow opening between two boulders, noticing the tracks of predators that had come here before him.
The breeze carried the stench of a dead camel. An’sut heard the patter of small feet as something darted into cover. Small rocks and pebbles tumbled from above as the unknown creature scrambled higher into the cliffs. So this is what I was to find, An’sut thought.
It was then that he saw the man.
2
CIRIS SARN looked up at a sky the color of sapphire.
A sound in the distance roused him, and his vision blurred as he turned his eyes from the suns. Their heat engulfed him, though they had not yet reached the meridian. He tried to move his arms but could not. He felt something firm and warm make contact with his head as he turned it.
He lay beneath the carcass of a dead camel.
His memory returned slowly. He was in pain.
He was somewhere amid an ocean of sand. The last thing he remembered was digging a hole along the back of the camel in an effort to use it as cover against the blazing heat.
Marin had left after the ghuls had been slain, taking the horses northward, back toward the oasis. After she was gone, Sarn realized that some of his strength had returned, and attempted to find shelter. He had been hoping to make it to a ridge of low, broken hills a half day’s journey to the east. If fortune was with him, there would be caves in which to shield himself from the suns until their setting brought the cool evening air.
However, the distance had proved too great and the dunes unforgiving. Falling into a basin, he’d rolled up against a wounded camel that had crawled off to die. Sarn knew of the water sack deep within the beast’s hump, yet he could do nothing, as he had no blade in which to cut it out.
He’d sensed a presence nearby and smelled the musky scent of an animal, but saw nothing, although he heard a low, guttural growl and soft pads hitting the sand. Whatever it was, it was nearby.
Sarn had little doubt that it was a nimhr, a fierce, solitary desert cat that patrolled the dunes in search of prey. It was very close: it had caught the scent of death. It had come for him.
From the opposite direction came a different sound—short,erratic, and high-pitched. Another predator had come to claim the kill. Yet as suddenly as he had heard them, both were gone again.
There was nothing Sarn could do, and he had no will to care. His body was broken, but worse were the deep, suffocating waves of loss and pity that had wrapped his spirit in a shroud of remorse.
Marin had left him. And she was right to do so. He would die here without the peace he had longed for, the world fading out of time and memory. Yet he was not sad. Sarn welcomed death—and the final release it would bring—with open arms.
Still he remained quiet and did not attempt to move. There had been no further sounds. Sarn was vulnerable, lying on his side with his weak legs folded awkwardly beneath him. He was wounded, in pain, and had no weapons or protection—not even the strength to stand, let alone run. Barely able to focus, he looked up and saw two black canine legs just a few steps away. A haloc or dire? Maybe it had killed the cat.
Sarn rolled onto his back. His head began to swim. He saw something else in the dimming light: a flutter of indigo cloth, the color of a deep ocean. “I’m hallucinating,” he gasped. He could not tell if his eyes were open or shut. But he could see nonetheless.
The air was full of chants whispered in an unknown language. Was it real? Or had he fallen into a mirage of dreams brought about by exposure and thirst? Against the contrast of a bright, washed-out sky, Sarn looked up at the shadowed face of a jackal.
He closed his eyes again.
About the Author
VAL GUNN, as his wife enjoys saying, is a jock-nerd. Both sports and pros
e seemed to come natural for him–though he wrote off the writing for a time to pursue a playing and coaching career. He has been fortunate to travel and live in many exotic places around the globe. As an on-again, off-again expat; Val is cursed with a perpetual case of wanderlust. This was tempered a bit in 2003 with the birth of their triplets. For the moment he and his family live in northwest Florida– but don’t hold your breath.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Acknowldgements
Map
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Epilogue
About the Author