“The Palietkun are no more. They stood here,” Darl repeated, “so that the others might flee. The eldest and the lame—those too weak or slow to run—armed themselves and did what they could.”
Katherine realized then what had been bothering her while she’d made her way through the camp. All the Palietkun bodies she’d seen scattered among the burning tents had been old men and women. Those who had been left behind, who had stood to defend the younger generations as they escaped what had come. “But…then that means some still live.”
“Yes.”
“Then…then your tribe, Darl,” Katherine said, “it still exists.”
The Ferinan shook his head slowly. “They have killed the oldest, Katherine. The wisest. And in doing so, they have severed us from our past, from what made us who we are.” He sagged, seeming to shrink before her eyes. “The Palietkun are no more.”
“But Darl…” She trailed off. She looked up at the sky and saw that the light was beginning to fade, casting the world around them in shadow. And she stood by her friend, sharing what she could of his grief. It was all she could do.
***
“It’ll be dark soon.”
Katherine nodded. “I know.” They were low on supplies, so they were scrounging the remains of the camp to see if they could find any water, or food that would travel. Not that they knew where they would go now. After all, their plans had rested on the Palietkun, on the help they would give. But all that was left of what had once been one of the most powerful tribes of the desert were children. She had asked Darl where they had gone, if they were safe, and it had been one of the very few things that had managed to get an answer out of the Ferinan. He’d told her that one of the Whisperers, the youngest, still lived—at least, her body had not been found among the dead. And that she would have led them to one of the other tribes who would take them in. The children were safe.
After that, he had lapsed into silence, closing his eyes and weeping silent tears, and no words of Katherine’s had been able to stir him to speak again. Rion, too, had tried, but it was as if the dusky-skinned man hid somewhere within himself, away from the world and its pain. Katherine paused in rummaging through a leather pack she’d found to glance at him and saw that Darl still knelt as he had for the last hour since they’d arrived at the camp.
The tears threatened again, but she forced them away, wiping her eyes and turning back to the pack. Supplies. She might not be able to help her friend with his grief, not now, but she could find them supplies. That, at least, she could do.
Clothes, a small stone knife, nothing else that would prove useful. She set them down with a sigh and walked to where Alesh lay on the litter a short distance away. After it had become clear that Darl had no intentions of moving—but soon, please, gods, soon—she and Rion had gone back to get Alesh and bring him to the camp. Katherine had asked Marta to keep watch, ostensibly in case anyone should come, but more because she did not want the girl witnessing what had happened here. There had been a look in Marta’s eyes that made Katherine think she knew her true motives, but she had voiced no complaint, only nodded silently.
Katherine lay her hand on Alesh’s forehead and jerked it back. “The fever’s getting worse.”
“He needs a healer,” Rion said.
And that was true. That was one of the reasons they’d been in such a hurry to get here, for Darl had said that the Whisperer would have been able to heal Alesh. That, sadly, was no longer an option, and Katherine didn’t know what they could do now. The closest healer she was aware of was miles and miles away, and Alesh would not make it that far. She doubted if any of them would.
After all, they were nearly out of supplies—less than half a day’s worth of water and food left—and, so far, their scrounging had turned up nothing. The Redeemers might have been monsters—were monsters—but they were thorough ones. And among the more mundane worries of food and water…night was coming. The fires the Redeemers had lit still burned, but they were dying down. How much longer would they last? A few hours? Less?
Still, that concern, she believed, could be put off, at least for a time. For while their searching hadn’t turned up any food or water, it had turned up clothes and simple tools easily enough, plenty that they might burn, if it came to it. The greater concern was the Redeemers. She and the others had escaped Celadra, but how long until the Redeemers, until the tattooed man with the bladed staff, caught up to them? They were coming—that much she didn’t doubt. And each minute she and the others wasted here brought them closer. It was a cold thought, battling with the empathy for her friend, but one that could be ignored no longer.
“I’m going to go talk to him.”
“Good luck,” Rion said, the tone of his voice making it clear that he wasn’t confident in her chances of rousing the Ferinan to action.
As she walked toward Darl, Katherine thought of what she would say, of the words she might use to make him understand the direness of their situation. She never got to try. There was a scream from behind her, and she spun to see Marta sprinting down the dune as if the Keeper of the Dead himself were after her. She was shouting something, but the wind of the desert and the unending susurration of the sand rendered the words unintelligible.
As she drew closer, Katherine could make out some of them. “Air ear!” the girl screamed, her eyes wide with panic, and Katherine frowned. Air ear…it didn’t make any sense.
She frowned, walking toward where the girl was coming from, struggling to listen, and Marta shouted again, her words making Katherine’s skin go cold. Not “air ear.” They’re here. The Redeemers had come.
***
He was barefoot. The grass he stood in was laden with dew, and the coolness of it against his skin felt good, was a relief from the constant, terrible burning. And the pain, the feeling of poison coursing through his veins, consuming him from the inside out. There was none of that. Only the wet grass on his feet, and a slight breeze, cool and kind against his skin.
And there was the darkness. But this darkness did not seem cruel or malevolent. Instead, it felt comforting in a way he could not understand. He was still puzzling on that when something caught his eye, in the distance. A flicker of orange that could only be a flame. And, judging by the size, not just a flame, but a campfire. There was no fear, for he felt that such things as fear or worry did not—could not—belong in this place. Not fear then, only curiosity and, yes, excitement. The sort of excitement a stranger might feel after having been gone for a very long time and finally returning home.
He took a step toward that distant fire, and the next he knew he was standing on the edge of the firelight. A gray-robed man sat on a log by the flames. He had long white hair to his shoulders and held something in his hands that Alesh couldn’t make out, for the figure’s back was to him. Alesh was just about to speak when someone else stepped out of the darkness. An old woman dressed in the sleeping clothes of a peasant. “Hello,” she said, a nervousness in her voice.
“Hello, Adeline Harcren,” the gray-robed man said, his voice soft, kind. “Please, will you share my fire?”
“I…I suppose so,” the woman said. She was wringing her hands anxiously, but she stepped forward and sat primly on another log situated opposite the old man. “Where…where am I?”
“You know, Grandmother,” the man said in a patient voice.
Alesh frowned at that, but the woman nodded slowly. “I’d thought as much. I was asleep though…wasn’t I?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Well. That’s a blessin’, I suppose.”
The man did not reply, and they sat in silence for a time. Alesh felt guilty, watching the two of them from the shadows, but it was as if he could not speak, could not even move.
“My son,” the woman said finally. “I hope he’s alright. I worry for him, you know.”
“Yes, I know, Grandmother,” the man said. “Would you like to tell me of him?”
The woman studied the figure seated oppos
ite her for several moments then finally nodded and began to speak. It seemed to Alesh that she spoke nearly of her entire life, of all her worries, her concerns, and the gray-robed man listened. He did not speak, barely moved, yet he seemed to share in the joy and the pain that the woman’s memories brought. Then, finally, the woman trailed off, as if she had said all that she would, and there was nothing left.
“A good life,” the old man said.
“Yes,” she said, nodding, a small smile on her face. “I s’pose so at that.”
The robed man waited for a time, then, “Are you ready, Adeline?”
She swallowed, her eyes going to whatever object the man held. “Will it hurt?”
“The dead do not hurt, Grandmother,” the man said.
She rose, and the stranger rose with her. Then he reached out, and Alesh realized with a shock that he held a brand, one that glowed white-hot. It touched the woman’s arm, searing a mark into it, but she did not cry out, only stood with a curious expression on her face.
Finally, the man pulled away, and the woman looked up at him. In her old, wizened features Alesh saw the innocence, the hope of a child. “What now?” she asked.
“Now you walk, Grandmother.”
She nodded, staring off into the seeming perpetual night around the fire. “It is dark.”
“Yes, but you will find your way.”
“To where?” she asked, not scared, only thoughtful.
“To memories, Grandmother. New and old alike.”
She gave another nod then stepped away from the campfire and, in a moment, disappeared into the darkness. Alesh’s heart rampaged in his chest as he realized what this was, where this was, and who the gray-robed man must be, as an old verse, learned when he was little more than a child, came to him.
And the fire’s red; he keeps it hot
For those who’re dead and those who’re not,
If you don’t see him wait a while,
He’s up ahead, a foot, a mile
Waiting, watching, his brand in hand
You may run or crawl, sit or stand,
But no man ever leaves his land.
The man seated before him was the Keeper of the Dead, and this was his land. “You burned her,” Alesh said, his anger seeming to break whatever paralysis had taken hold of him. He found that he was angry, angry that even in death, mortals must suffer the unjust cruelties of the gods.
The figure turned to regard him. His face looked like that of a kindly grandfather, one who spent his time bouncing his grandchildren on his knee and telling them stories. But when he saw Alesh, his eyes went wide.
“You are not supposed to be here.”
“No one should be here,” Alesh spat. “Isn’t it enough that you torture us in life? Now, we have to suffer in death too?”
The God of Death frowned at that, as if confused, then his eyes opened in realization. “She felt no pain.”
“You still burned her.”
“Yes. So that she might have a light to find her way.”
“Then why not give her a damned torch?” Alesh demanded.
The man gave a slow smile. “The dead, Alesh, Son of the Morning, have no belongings, no possessions. They have only themselves, can have only themselves, and in that, they are blessed.”
Alesh tensed. The god knew who he was. “Why have you brought me here?”
“You have brought yourself. You dream, Alesh, and in your dreams you travel. As your mother did before you.”
“My mother…” He was stunned to silence by a grief that was overwhelming in its strength, a grief he had thought long buried. Growling, he gave his head a shake. Damn my dreams, he thought. For surely this must be a dream, one brought on by the fever. Just as he had had the premonitory dream of Ilrika’s burning so long ago. Just as he had dreamed of Amedan. If only I could control it, he thought. But it was too late for such worries. The Keeper of the Dead was watching him, knew who he was, and if there was anyone who would be on the side of Shira and the other dark gods, then surely it was he. The last line of the old nursery rhyme returned to Alesh then. You may run or crawl, sit or stand. But no man ever leaves his land.
“What do you intend to do with me?” he said. “Are you working for Shira?”
The god gave a small, sad smile. “No, Alesh. My mother’s crimes, those of my sisters and brothers who have joined her…they are theirs and theirs alone. I am my father’s son, now as I have always been.”
Alesh grunted. “You expect me to believe that the God of Death, is on the side of the living?”
“And why wouldn’t I be?” the god asked, as if genuinely curious. “Oh, I know the stories that are told of me, Chosen. I know that people fear me. But death is not evil, is not even an ending. It is only a transition, and I do what I can to give comfort to all those who must make it.”
Alesh frowned, wanting to argue, but he remembered the way the god had spoken to the old woman, remembered how he had helped ease her mind. “You’re…not like other gods,” he said, the words out of his mouth before he realized it. Still, they were true just the same. Alesh had met several of the gods now, and all of them seemed to wear power about them like a cloak, seemed to make the very air shimmer.
The Keeper nodded, smiling. “The dead are not proud, Alesh. They have no use for pride. They are humble and so I, their guide, am also humble. Now, you must leave. Your task is not yet finished, and your friends need you.” The god raised a hand, waving it in the air, and suddenly a murky vision appeared in the darkness in front of them.
Alesh’s breath caught in his throat as he noticed the corpses. “What…what happened?”
“Death,” the Keeper said sadly. “It came on them before their time.”
Alesh started to speak then the vision seemed to shift, and he saw figures standing among the wreckage. Katherine, Rion, and Marta. And Darl, a short distance away, crouched and as still as if he were carved from stone. But the strangest thing of all was that Alesh saw himself, too, lying on a litter. Then the perspective shifted again, rising over a nearby sand dune like a bird in flight. He felt a vertigo, thought he might be sick, but then the terrible shifting stopped, and he saw them. Redeemers. Men in black armor and red cloaks, men who would bring death to any who opposed them. And at their front walked the man he had seen in Celadra, the Ekirani. “T-they’re coming for them,” he said. “They have to get out, I have to warn them. But…” He hesitated, looking back at the god. “I don’t know where to take them…”
“There is a place,” the god said. “A man who might help.”
And suddenly, knowledge appeared in Alesh’s mind as if from nowhere, and he knew of where the god spoke. “But how—"
“The dead have their own secrets, Son of the Morning,” the god said. “Now, go. There is little time.”
Alesh swallowed, started to turn, then hesitated. “Keeper, there is a girl…Sonya. She’s like a sister to me. I was wondering—”
“She lives still. The one I have shown you, he took her back from the shadows. He watches over her even now.”
Alesh breathed a heavy sigh of relief, feeling as if a great weight had been taken from his shoulders. “Thank you.”
The Keeper of the Dead nodded. “I wish you luck, Alesh. Now, you must hurry.”
Alesh gazed around at the perpetual darkness surrounding the small glow of the campfire. “And just how do I do that?”
“You know how,” the Keeper said. “You know the path you must take.”
And—just like that—he did. “Alright. Thanks.” He turned and started into the darkness.
“There will be pain,” the god said from behind him.
“It’s okay,” Alesh said, gritting his teeth. “I’m getting used to it.”
And then he ventured into the darkness.
Chapter Thirty
“Damnit,” Rion hissed, “they’ll be here in a few minutes. We have to go. Now!”
“Darl,” Katherine said, ignoring him and speaking to the Fer
inan. “Please. There’s no time. We have to leave.”
“And go where?” Darl asked. “My people are here, Katherine. There is nothing left for me. And if these Redeemers could so easily defeat them, then any tribe we travel to will stand no chance. We would only bring death to their door. No,” he said, shaking his head, “I cannot do that—I will not.”
“Well we’ve got to go somewhere,” Rion snapped, “otherwise, we’ll be having this argument in the Keeper’s Fields. It’s about to be dark, and if the Redeemers don’t kill us the nightlings will.”
Katherine turned and glanced at the man, at the girl standing beside him, her fear writ plain on her face, before looking back to the Ferinan. An optimist, Rion had called him, but he was not that, not any longer, and she began to understand how much she had come to rely on the Ferinan’s unflappable hope during their association. “Darl,” she tried again, “there’s got to be somewhere we can go, somewhere—”
“I think I’ve got the answer for that.”
They all turned and Katherine gasped as she saw Alesh standing there. He looked ill-used, and it was clear that it was all he could do to stay upright, but he was standing. It was only then that she realized she had not thought to see him awake again, had feared that he would slowly slip into death. She was embracing him before she realized it, not bothering to try to hide the tears that came to her face. “You’re alive.”
“Sort of,” he said, laughing tiredly. He grabbed her shoulders gently, pulling her away. “We should talk…later. But right now, we’re out of time. And I think I know of a place we can go.”
“Not that I’m not glad to see you awake,” Rion said, “but how would you know anything? You’ve been unconscious the whole time we’ve been in the desert.”
Alesh winced. “The Keeper of the Dead told me.”
The Truth of Shadows Page 35