These things at the last Tahn did hear. He opened his eyes to see Mira standing between him and Zephora, invoking some ancient promise and holding one of Quietus’s great ones at bay, if only for another moment.
His body and mind were spent. There was nothing left but what his will could muster. Tahn put his ravaged hand out and clutched his bow with fingers dirtied by the loam of Tillinghast. The movement brought to mind Sutter and a flood of memories: Wendra, her lost child, fathers left behind. In the barrage of so many sacrifices, Tahn remembered Rolen and his Standing, and heard the man’s small, soft voice. Rolen, a servant unto his own demise.
Tahn pushed himself to his feet behind the prayerful and broken-sword defense of the Far. As Zephora shrieked out madness, Tahn finished his own prayer:
… the Will allows …
And released an empty string.
Not at Zephora.
But into the Abyss.
With it, he was swept away, carried into the roiling mists, the arrow of his own shot.
A great roar erupted behind him, making Tahn think of the dying of nations. Then it was gone, shut out by Tillinghast.
He disappeared into the clouds, seeing not himself, but only the rush of forms accreting and dissipating all around him in the empty mist. He sensed that he had left his body behind, becoming something more pure, more vulnerable. A feeling of motion captured him, but not physical movement, movement through time, through possibility.
Faces appeared before him, as though sculpted from the mist. Some of the faces were smiling, some frowning, others talking, though Tahn could hear no words. Then suddenly, a flood of images descended upon him. So strange were they, that though he thought they were familiar, he could not name them. But more than that. He had the feeling some things were being hidden from him.
The will of the Will.
His mind raced on, streaming through the abyss, light and dark swirling in close and flitting away again. Each time, he saw a choice, a word, a deed, a way of responding that directed him to other choices. He marveled at the winding of his own path through this matrix of interconnected moments.
Some of these brought him shame, causing him to turn away, though he could never escape the scenes playing before him. More painful yet were scenes from his past where he did nothing, choosing inaction that resulted in hardship for others. These brought further images showing the lives of many cascading in dark consequences resulting from Tahn’s indecision. He knew immediately the raw feelings of people as they struggled with sadness or loneliness, because of his inattention in a crucial moment. Opportunities to make a difference cascaded in wild succession before him, opportunities he’d passed up, too selfish to render aid.
Other images made him laugh, especially those with Balatin and Sutter. The feelings of love and togetherness felt as strong as when they had first occurred. Tahn’s longing to speak again with his father caused him to cry out to the memories. Though he thought he spoke, he heard nothing. Nonetheless, he gloried in the recollections, so many lost to him, and reveled in the carefree smile Wendra so often used to wear. He watched Balatin smoke his pipe and sing and tell stories. He watched Hambley put another contender down in a game of shoulder-wrestling and then help the man up to buy him a cup of bitter. He saw light falling through the aspen trees on the Naghen Ridge during a hunt years ago. He’d waited on dawn there as he always did, taking a small pleasure in the birth of a new day, feeling somehow a necessary witness to the event.
Then the mist shifted, and Tahn watched his journey out of the Hollows that had brought him to Tillinghast. He felt his own suspicion and resentment. He was reacquainted with his first stirrings at the sight of Mira. He felt again the manacles and the bite of steel on an open wound while imprisoned where he believed himself forgotten. He recalled an empty city and the unexpected defense he made for Sutter with an empty bowstring.
Most of all, he remembered his failures to save Wendra. The first time because he hadn’t believed he should release on the Bar’dyn. The second time because he believed he was in love. The latter was his most painful single memory in Tillinghast. But the choice did not sting as it had before, and Tahn knew it was because of Mira’s sacrifice.
A great rushing began, mist flowing in toward him, gathering speed as it came. He watched in utter astonishment as a thousand varying paths from a thousand different choices sped through his mind. Against the increased awareness of who he had become, he was suddenly being shown countless versions of himself that he would never be. By turns, he felt gratitude for small victories, and guilt for missed opportunities. With it all came a sense of the meaningless measurements of time and space. He likened it to standing atop a grand mountain where he had a view of every trail and its intricacies as each one led upward to the summit. Or perhaps he was standing atop a thousand mountains all at once.
Like a storm, the mists produced flashes of light and wellings of darkness. Frightening images emerged, interwoven with peaceful moments. The interplay of conflicting images became somehow less difficult to experience, and Tahn relaxed at the center of the maelstrom. Everything began to gather toward him—his memories, his choices—touching his mind with possibilities, some things sure and inevitable, others unlikely but understandable.
The mist licked at him, through him, invaded his senses, and lulled him to acceptance. It all became deafening, filling him until he was no longer capable of conscious thought. He floated in the abyss and simply was, and that was enough.
Then it ended, and the silence shocked him. His eyes already open, he suddenly could see again, and found himself where he’d stood to shoot toward Tillinghast, his feet still rooted in the loam.
He felt … peace. Then he collapsed and fell unconscious.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
A Solitary Branch
The smell of rich soil awakened him, as fresh as a pot of brewed cloves. For a moment, he imagined Sutter holding a handful of his roots beneath Tahn’s nose in jest. The thought of his friend brought a smile to his face, and he held it there, sensing that if he were to open his eyes, the fancy would shatter. He breathed deeply, and felt the cool density of the air as it rushed into his lungs: mist.
The abyss.
Tahn opened his eyes and saw, but a few strides away, the place where the Heights of Restoration became nothingness, obscured by the graceful billows of the clouds. He did not immediately move, suddenly aware that he had not rested in quite some time. As he stared vacantly outward, ripples in the mist threatened to coalesce into familiar shapes, as though drawing upon his thoughts. But the mist swirled onward.
Then, like a pail of winter river water poured over him, he remembered the coming of Zephora, and Mira. He pushed himself up, a wave of nausea and unsteadiness sweeping up from his belly to his head. When his vision cleared, he looked frantically for the Far, remembering her last stance as she created a barrier between him and the Draethmorte.
Will and Sky, I left her here alone to contend with him.
He struggled to his knees and forced himself to crawl to where he’d last seen her standing. As Tahn crept ahead, a form came into view. He could not be certain, but the prostrate figure lay utterly motionless. He hastened, pushing himself beyond his strength, and went facefirst into the dirt. The soft earth cushioned his fall, and he took a mouthful of soil.
He spat it away. “Mira!” The cry rasped from his throat, which felt as bruised as Wendra’s had last sounded.
At the thought of Wendra, his heart stopped.
The last he’d seen, an explosion of dark and bright had ripped out of the summit pass, and the only one to follow Tahn to Tillinghast had been Zephora. He pounded his fists weakly into the loam as salty tears streamed down his nose and into his mouth. “No,” he whispered. “No. Not you, too, Wendra!”
Tahn again rose to his knees. With resignation, he moved toward the body. In his grief, he paid no mind to caution, and coming upon the lifeless shape, tugged the creature’s shoulder to turn it faceup.
&nbs
p; The gaping maw and bony ridges of Zephora’s face smiled its death back at him. Tahn recoiled, scrambling back. Instantly, his hands began to burn. He thrust them into the loam, scrubbing them as with soap. Slowly, the pain subsided, and he was left in the company of the ancient being. Mira was nowhere in sight.
He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled, and he collapsed back to his knees. His mind raced with panic, mostly in response to his growing belief that he was now truly alone. The Draethmorte must have somehow consigned Mira to the mists before dying. All his loved ones were now surely gone. Kneeling just strides from the end of the world, Tahn turned a hateful eye toward Tillinghast.
The sacrifices that had brought him here, most of them by others, raced in his head. Of what use or purpose was this place to him, to anyone, when it could restore nothing save what had already come and gone? It seemed to Tahn an instrument of pain, and he shuddered with loathing for it. He looked into the roiling mist.
Something more had taken place here. Had Tillinghast gotten inside him?
The ability to understand it was beyond him, and he was left able to do nothing more than stare emptily at the abyss as it moved before him.
After a moment’s reflection, Tahn tore several long twigs from nearby brush. He wove them into a shallow, makeshift basket. When he finished, he rose shakily to his feet and, using his bow for support, took the basket to the base of the cloudwood. There, he eased himself to his knees again and placed the basket near the trunk between two large roots. Then Tahn rummaged around for a small stone. Finding one, he dropped it into the basket. “And one for every visit I pay Tillinghast, my friend.” Somehow he thought he’d be back.
Tahn picked up the fallen cloudwood limb resting near his basket, and with some effort stripped it of its dead leaves. Using it for balance, he rose, and began shuffling toward the edge. He felt ashamed and angry that so much had been lost on his behalf. One way or another, he did not mean to let those offerings go unrewarded.
As he came near to Zephora, he paused. With sudden fury, he began to roll the dead body toward the ledge with his makeshift cane. Though tall, the Draethmorte weighed very little. When he rolled the body over, a silver necklace bearing a pendant fell onto Zephora’s pale, thin neck. Each turn caused it to swing about, until Tahn stopped to inspect the token.
Using his knife, Tahn moved it around, trying to make sense of the design. A single hoop of silver hung from the necklace, and at its center lay a small disk, creating a sort of bull’s-eye. But nothing connected the inner piece to the outer ring. Tahn thrust his dagger through the emptiness around the center disk—it passed through unimpeded. Tapping the centerpiece itself, it did not budge from its place.
Tahn pulled the necklace free of the dead Draethmorte. Standing, he heaved the Given into the abyss. It fell soundlessly, dropping away from the ledge and out of sight in the space of a breath. The mist enshrouded it as completely as its every other secret.
Tahn pivoted and began to ease away from Tillinghast. Just past the ridge, the sound of leaves being trodden underfoot came to him as from a great distance. He paused, unsure whether he merely heard the stirring of the Cloudwood remnants on a subtle breeze. The crunching became louder.
Hope leapt in his breast, and Tahn began to hurry back the way he and Mira had come. “Wendra, Sutter … Mira?” he hollered as he raced, stumbling often, his legs threatening to betray him. From the other side of the field, voices were raised in response. He could not understand the words, but the meaning was clear enough. At least some of them had survived!
He raced on, ignoring the burn in his chest as he fought for breath. Tahn came around a tangle of roots from a fallen cloudwood and saw his friends running at full stride. He collapsed, exhausted, but with joy swelling in his breast. They came, each of them, Mira leading them all. Their boots kicked up the hard leaves, cracking others underfoot. Momentarily, Mira reached him. She took him in a strong, tight embrace, and held him for long moments. She then dashed past him toward Tillinghast. He assumed she went to check on Zephora, but Tahn hadn’t time to tell her he’d disposed of the Draethmorte, nor to ask her how she’d defeated him.
Then his friends were upon him. Sutter fell into a slide, shoving a pile of the leaves between them and into Tahn’s lap. “Woodchuck, my skies, I never thought I’d be so glad to see you.” Sutter planted a big kiss on Tahn’s cheek, and flung some leaves in the air as if showering him with festival streamers. The heavy leaves fell down on Tahn’s head like small pebbles.
Tahn grinned. “And I’ve never been so glad to bear the company of a man who plays in the dirt.”
Sutter laughed, but then his face drew taut. “When I saw you disappear from the pass, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.” His friend took Tahn’s hand in the familiar Hollows grip, clasping him tight. “Not that I doubted you, Tahn. But no one knew what Tillinghast held in store, and I wish I could have come.…”
“You’d love it,” Tahn said. “The loam there is six inches deep, and rich with the smell of expected growth.” Then Tahn gave Nails a mischievous grin before wrapping him in an embrace.
Braethen came up as the two broke their hug. “It is good to see you, Tahn.” The sodalist hunkered down on Tahn’s other side. “It would seem that you’ve proven yourself at Restoration.” Then he whispered, “Thank you.”
Tahn took the sodalist’s hand in the same Hollows shake.
Wendra came next, slowing to a stop a few strides away. She held his gaze long enough to say, “I am glad you are alive, Tahn … though others do not share your fortune.”
Even with her words hanging between them, Tahn’s throat closed with emotion at the sight of her. He wanted to stand and take her in his arms, apologize for his misdeeds, promise that all would be different. He wanted to feel her heart thaw, to regain the closeness they’d always shared.
Wendra then moved aside as Vendanj came up next, Grant trailing him close behind.
The Sheason looked deathly ill. He sweated as they all did, but his flesh hung from his face, dark circles ringing his eyes. His hood was back, revealing dark hair slick with perspiration that clung to pallid skin. His shoulders hunched deep as though the weight of his own cloak was too much for him to bear.
He stopped, and made no quick attempt to speak. Looking at Tahn, he leveled his eyes, which never seemed to dim, even now. Again, Tahn had the feeling he was being measured, weighed, by the penetrating gaze of the Sheason.
Then Vendanj asked Grant’s assistance in helping him to sit. The exile eased the Sheason to the ground, and propped a large fallen branch behind him so he could recline.
Standing straight again, Grant gave Tahn a look both proud and relieved. But he said nothing.
When Vendanj had fully recovered his breath, he folded his hands in his lap. His first question caught Tahn off guard. “What stick is this that you carry?”
Tahn looked into his hand, finding that he had not let go of the cloudwood branch.
“A walking cane,” Tahn answered, confused.
“It is cloudwood,” Vendanj stated. “But not greyed yet as these fallen sentinels.” Without lifting his stare, he pointed at the tree behind Tahn.
“I’ve seen only one live tree. It grows at the edge of Tillinghast.”
A look of relief showed on the Sheason’s face. “One tree.” His look grew distant. “A forest, a world, can be sired from one tree.” Then his scrutiny blazed. “Tell me, did Zephora speak to you of Quillescent?”
Beside Tahn, Braethen flinched.
Tahn had been called this name, he realized, many times. He had no idea what it meant. The Sheason’s interest disquieted him, nearly as much as the name itself. But Zephora had used it to darkly ingratiate himself to Tahn, hoping to inspire Tahn’s allegiance or alliance.
“No, he said nothing of it,” Tahn answered. He watched carefully for another sign of relief in the Sheason’s face. Vendanj gave no indication of either relief or concern.
A small silence stretched
out between them all, broken thankfully by Mira returning from the ledge.
“Tahn rolled the body into the abyss,” she said, as if answering a question Tahn hadn’t heard.
“It is just as well,” Vendanj replied. “The One has ways of reclaiming his own. In the abyss, Zephora is forever lost.”
Shifting, Tahn looked up at Mira. “Why did you break your own sword? It drew Zephora’s attention and gave me time.… What did he call you? Oathbreaker?”
“It’s not important right now,” Mira said, then shared a strange look with Vendanj.
Clearly it was important, but Tahn hadn’t the energy to pursue any more mysteries. But he did have one question. “How did you kill him?”
The Far stared back with her bright grey eyes. “It was not I, Tahn. When you turned and fired into the abyss, things began rapidly to change around us. The mist pulsed with reflections of light like lightning streaking inside a cloud. At the ledge, each pulse changed the landscape, the position of rocks and trees. The very air was one moment fragrant and new, the next burnt and sharp. The ghosts of proud cloudwoods flickered around the edge as though showing the possible gardens that might have grown there. At times, the ledge itself extended, leaving Zephora and me standing in a dense wood. In other moments, our feet hung over the abyss, the cliff strides behind us as the mist caressed our bodies and lit our minds with flashes of opportunity.”
Mira looked back in the direction of Tillinghast. “And in other moments, Tahn, Zephora wasn’t there at all. In still others, he lay dead upon the loam.”
She stopped, turning her gaze directly at him. “In the flash of some moments … I was not there, either. And at times … I was conscious of my own lifeless body fallen deep into the soil.”
Mira went on. “You alone remained unchanged in your pose and permanence, Tahn, staring into the clouds as though you looked upon realities I could not see.
“Then the mist began to whip, the fluctuations of light nearly blinding me. Streaks of the mist began to lash over the ledge, stabbing toward Zephora. I jumped away just as the fury of the clouds shot in a thick streamer and wrapped Zephora in its fierce embrace. I watched the mist penetrate his cloak, his skin. It wove in and out of his mouth and nose, streaming from his ears and seeping from his eyes. The mist seemed to invade his every pore, passing through him as though he was insubstantial.
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