He didn’t know where he was going. It was almost as though he wasn’t the man walking out of that field. He was someone else. And he was somewhere else, looking down at himself from some high vantage. It was all too confusing. And he was too dazed to wonder at it.
He trudged into the forest, his feet snapping twigs, crunching on pine needles and oak leaves. Somehow, he ended up on a dirt path that meandered alongside the scar of a stream. It led him deeper into the forest, through a dusty oak grove. Shadows closed in overhead, the branches thickening. Light streaked down to dapple the ground. The air was filled with the scent of forest loam and leaf litter. For some reason, those details seemed important to him.
Gradually, the forest thinned. Blinking, Darien glanced around and realized where he was. He’d journeyed much deeper into the woodland than he’d thought. He turned slowly around, as if waking from a dream, struggling to get his bearings. If he remembered right, there was another footpath just to the east, past a stand of fir trees. He started toward it as if compelled.
He found the path without difficulty. It wasn’t very familiar, but he remembered clearly where it led. It ended at a small clearing surrounded by a grove of sycamores. Ahead of him sat a small cottage made of old, rotted planks and bitter memories.
Darien stopped in the clearing and stood looking at the structure for a moment. Then, with a defeated sigh, he walked toward it. He paused before entering, resting a hand on the doorframe. As though the feel of the rough, splintery pine would make the cottage seem more real.
He pushed the door open, letting it swing, moaning, on its hinges.
Immediately, he was confronted by a great heron hanging low from the ceiling on the other side. He stood still, staring at the bird sadly. It looked half-rotten. Many of its downy feathers were loose and falling out. He reached up to touch it, sending the bird spinning on its string.
He ducked under the heron and entered the cottage.
Dozens of birds hung from the ceiling, no two alike. They spun slowly above him, wings outstretched. Sadly, more than a few had fallen to the floor. The air had a rotten smell to it he didn’t remember from before. Soft feathers were scattered everywhere, collecting in the corners and captured in the cobwebs.
His eyes scanned over the Bird Man’s bed, coming to rest on a chest pushed up against the far wall. The chest was covered in more birds: some upright, most not. All appeared in various stages of decomposition. Darien felt saddened, remembering how lovingly Master Edric had cared for his collection.
Curiosity impelled his feet toward the chest. He’d been too distraught to open it two years before, when he’d woken from sleep blazing with power, a dead old Master lying next to him on the floor. His only thoughts then had been of escape.
Darien knelt before the chest and lifted the first bird, setting it aside. One by one, he removed the birds from the lid, trying not to disturb the feathers. Despite his best efforts, soft down collected on the floor at his feet. The birds were far too decayed to be handled, even gently.
He removed the last small finch and, using both hands, lifted the cover of the chest. The strong smell of cedarwood jarred his nose. Darien scrubbed his shirtsleeve across his face then reached within. One item at a time, he began removing the chest’s contents. An assortment of clothes was soon stacked next to him, all neatly folded. An old leather-bound tome wrapped in cloth and tied shut with hemp cord. A bone-handled knife in a leather sheath. Two chipped ceramic plates. And a folded, age-yellowed note.
Addressed to him.
The feeling left his hands as he picked the note up. He unfolded it carefully, running his fingers over the parchment to smooth out the crease.
Darien,
I hope one day you can forgive me for what I did to you. I knew that one mage could never make a difference in this war, and I was too old and weak to help you. But perhaps my legacy—and my research—can serve you better than they could ever serve me. I am leaving you my journal. Study it well. Perhaps, one day, you can realize what I never could. I did not have enough of the gift in me to bring my dreams to fruition. But now you do. I have every faith and confidence in you, just as your father always had.
Your Friend,
Edric
Darien lowered the note, setting it on the stack of clothing beside him on the floor. He knelt there for a while, staring ahead with a confused, unfocused gaze. He had never understood why Master Edric had forced more of the gift into him than one man could ever endure. It had been a death sentence. One that had never made any sense to him—it was one of the great mysteries of his life. Perhaps, now, he could finally have an explanation for it.
He reached down and lifted the cloth-wrapped tome, holding it in his hand. Delicately, he untied the hemp cord and folded back the fabric. The thick leather cover was old. Very old—far older than the normal lifespan of a man. He opened it carefully and gazed down at the first page. A single date was written there in blue ink: 1621-.
Darien blinked. The date was over a hundred years ago. And yet it was written in the same flowing script as the Bird Man’s letter. Darien turned the page and scanned the first paragraph. He dismissed it quickly—the writing was a reflective piece, nothing of importance. He opened the text to a page marked by a frayed ribbon.
On the page before him was a sketch of one of the many birds that dangled over his head, along with accompanying measurements. The same bird was sketched again at the bottom of the page, only with wings extended and feathers and skin removed—a labeled diagram showing the bird’s musculature. Turning the page revealed another diagram, this one of the bird’s skeleton. Then another of internal organs. Another of lace-like vascular tissues, rendered painstakingly. The next pages were devoted entirely to mathematical calculations.
He didn’t understand any of it, much less why the Bird Man had gone to such lengths to explore the anatomy of a single warbler. As for the calculations … he would have to spend some time with them. Whatever problem they had been applied to solve, he couldn’t determine at first glance.
He closed the book and was about ready to wrap it back up in its cloth cover. But then he paused, for the first time noticing the elegant embroidery that had been sewn into the fabric. He traced a finger over it, admiring the minute details that had been worked into the wings, the vibrant colors of the scales—
“What manner of creature is that?”
Darien flinched, almost dropping the journal. He glanced up at Sayeed. He took a deep breath, seeking to steady his nerves. Then he rose to his feet, handing the embroidered cloth to his First.
“It’s a dragon,” he said. “They breathe fire, slay heroes, and ravage cities.”
Sayeed frowned, holding the fabric at various angles, studying the embroidered dragon with a look of grave concern.
He said, “I never knew such monsters existed.”
“They don’t. Except in heraldry.”
Darien took the cloth back and folded it around the journal. He tied it closed then looked around, making sure there was nothing left in the cottage of any importance. He gazed upward at the twirling birds that dangled on their strings: hawks and jays, ducks and woodpeckers. A great horned owl mounted in a corner stared at him accusingly.
“Who lived here?” Sayeed asked, ducking under a peregrine falcon. He reached up and poked the wingtip, sending the bird rocking.
“The man who saved me when I fell from the mountain.”
Sayeed touched another bird, making it twirl faster on its string. “A strange man.”
“Aye,” Darien agreed, remembering the three tiers of power the old Master had forced into him on top of the five he’d already had. “A very strange man.”
“I heard you came this way,” Sayeed said. He knelt and began replacing the contents of the cedar chest. “The men thought you seemed unsettled. Did you know some of the townsfolk who were slain?” He closed the lid of the chest, then set about returning the scattered birds back to their roost.
Darien n
odded, feeling the shame return to clutch his throat. “Aye. Every one of them.” He closed his eyes, dredging up their images in his head. “Mace Mullins taught me how to fish. He was an old farmer with six boys. Only three made it to adulthood. Lost his wife in childbirth.”
He moved toward the window, looking through the uneven glass in the direction of the grove. “Nat Flannon owned a farm up the road. He was the town chandler. We always did chores for him, and he always gave us treats. Dane Tirrel was the miller’s son. We used to set traps together—”
“Stop,” Sayeed commanded, standing up. “There is only one man alive who can defeat you, and that man is you. Do not surrender to him.”
Darien nodded, understanding. Sayeed was right. Yet he had no idea how to vanquish that particular foe.
Sayeed placed a hand on his shoulder and looked at him gravely. “Be the dragon, Darien. Breathe fire, slay heroes, and ravage cities.”
Staring out the window, Darien muttered, “I told you. Dragons don’t exist.”
Sayeed assured him, “They do now.”
20
Story’s End
Quin inhaled the cigar deeply and, closing his eyes, let the smoke out savoringly. He lifted a cup to his lips, chasing down the taste with anise-flavored arak, swishing it around in his mouth. He smiled as the alcohol scorched his throat. Arak was supposed to be a delicate beverage, well-watered and served over ice. Quin preferred it straight from the bottle, undiluted. He smacked his lips and nestled his head back to stare directly up at a garish blue sky.
He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, squinting through a wash of sunlight to see Naia moving toward him. Her face was set in the same, flustered scowl she had taken to wearing lately. She paused in front of his chair, hands on her hips, looking down at him with an air of disapproval. Quin adjusted his hat until the brim shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare. He could see her features better, now. She was even more agitated than he’d realized.
“Whatever’s the matter?” he asked. “You look like someone just pressed the ruffles out of your petticoat.”
“Please, Quin.” Naia sighed in exasperation. She sank down in the chair next to his. The soft breeze played with a wisp of hair that had fallen out of her braid. He leaned forward and tucked the wayward strands back behind her ear.
“I apologize for my lack of social graces. Here,” he said, offering his cup to her. “This should make it all better.”
Naia received the cup and brought it to her lips. Immediately, she winced, her face crumpling into a grimace.
“What is that?” she gasped, handing it back. “It tastes like medicine!”
Quin smiled, accepting the cup and knocking back a healthy mouthful, grinning devilishly. “Think of it as medicine for the soul.”
Naia scowled. “My soul is perfectly fine, thank you. It’s your own soul I’m more concerned about.”
“As am I.” Quin set about replenishing his cup. “Which makes finishing this bottle of paramount importance.”
Quick as a snake, Naia’s hand shot out and snatched the container from his hand. She turned it on end, pouring the liquor onto the flagstones in a long, thin stream. She shook the bottle to make sure every last drop had been evacuated, then clunked it down on the stones by her feet.
Watching his arak spreading across the ground, Quin sighed morosely. “I take it you have no care for my salvation.”
“Please. What I need from you right now is support.”
Quin couldn’t ignore the weary plea in her eyes. “Come here, darling,” he said, and leaned forward to embrace her with one hand, holding his cigar as far as he could away from her face. He gave her a good, tight squeeze, then kissed her forehead. He sat back in his chair, taking a few short puffs.
“More visions?” he asked.
“Versions,” she corrected him, rubbing her eyes. “And yes. I mean no.”
Quin cocked an eyebrow. “Do you mind clarifying?”
Naia breathed a heavy sigh. “The versions I’ve been seeing just keep repeating. Over and over and over. With only minor variations in detail. In all the time I’ve spent reading the Crescent, I’ve seen only the same three outcomes.” She held up a finger. “We destroy the magic field.” A second finger: “Renquist halts the Reversal.” And a third: “The Reversal happens and kills us all.”
Quin reached over and rolled the end of his cigar against the ground to knock some of the ash off. “By ‘kill us all,’ you mean just us mages?”
“That’s correct.”
“And which outcome will free the skies over Malikar?”
Naia’s gaze slipped to the side. “Destroying the magic field would break the Curse, as Tsula says. Or we could help Zavier Renquist halt the Reversal.”
Probably not the best alternative, Quin decided. “I don’t understand. A thousand years ago, Renquist said it would take the combined strength of eight Grand Masters to stabilize the magic field. Now he thinks he can do it all by himself?”
Naia’s face became grave. “In every version of that Story, Renquist sacrifices either Darien or Kyel on a Circle of Convergence. And then he kills me.”
Frowning, Quin took another puff of his cigar, giving himself time to grapple with his emotions. Out of all the terrible outcomes Naia had listed, that was the one he couldn’t tolerate. He hadn’t meant to fall for Naia. When it came to love, he’d had nothing but terrible experiences. He’d thought he’d learned. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. Zavier Renquist had already taken Amani from him. Quin wasn’t about to let him take Naia, as well.
He asked, “Is Tsula still alive in all the versions you’re seeing?
Naia paused in thought before nodding. “Yes.”
Quin took a few short puffs of his cigar. “So … it’s possible there are still other versions of this story that are still out there. Is there some way Tsula could be blocking you from seeing them? You said her death might open up other avenues.”
“Possibly.”
His brain ticked through a quick checklist of reasons and rationale. When he reached the end of that list, the obvious course of action seemed like a non-decision. There were no more facts to ponder. And there was no reason to hesitate.
Quin leaned over and mashed his cigar against the ground, scrubbing it back and forth, leaving a streak of black soot on the flagstones. Flicking what was left over the side of the balcony, he rose from his chair and kissed Naia’s cheek.
“Why don’t you go up to the library, darling,” he suggested, straightening his hat. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Naia nodded absently, gazing over the edge of the balcony in the direction of the Crescent. She didn’t look up as he walked away. He wondered what she was thinking about so hard. A cool breeze came up, stirring his coat. He glanced back at Naia one last time then opened the door to the castle.
Once inside, he focused his concentration on the sound of his feet echoing sharply off the walls. The castle rang eerily, vastly empty, which worked to his advantage. The last thing he needed was distraction. As he walked, his thoughts started drifting. He battered them back into focus. Thinking led to doubt. Doubt led to hesitation.
And that was the one thing he couldn’t afford.
In his profession, morality had no relevance. Right or wrong, the world—and Naia’s life—depended on his decisiveness.
Quin entered the great hall and wound through the intimate clusters of furniture that filled the sprawling room. It was as though the chamber was a neglected host, waiting eternally for guests who would never arrive. He took great care to step quietly, not wanting the sounds of his footfalls to announce his presence prematurely.
He found the small room Tsula occupied at the far end of the hall.
Quin paused outside her cracked door, taking one last moment to prepare. He checked his boot knife to make sure it was loose in its sheath. He checked his pulse, checked his resolve, then reached up to push the door open.
The sound of Tsula
’s voice halted his motion. “Stop lurking in the doorway and come inside, Quinlan Reis.”
He supposed he should have been startled. But he was unsurprised. The Harbinger seemed to have an endless supply of prescience. Quin pushed the door open and found Tsula sitting in her chair, awaiting him with hands folded on her lap. She wore an elaborate headwrap, her body swallowed by the fabric of an over-sized kaftan. She gazed up at him with eyes as dull as stone and hard as steel. Raising her hand, she indicated the chair opposite her own.
“Have a seat.” Her voice was just as level as her expression. “You kept me waiting. I expected you much sooner.”
Quin sat in the offered chair and stared around at the screaming colors of the cluttered room. Everywhere he looked were tapestries, knickknacks, baskets, vases, jewelry—a lifetime’s worth of possessions all gathered together in one dense, claustrophobic space. It was all so distracting, he almost missed the substance of Tsula’s words.
His gaze snapped toward her. “You know why I’m here?”
“Of course.” She draped her hands over the armrests of her chair. “I am a Harbinger. Knowing the hour and manner of my death is just one of the many burdens those of my order must bear. At first, we see our death as only one of an infinite number of possibilities—or versions, as we like to call them. But each decision we make turns another page in the Story of our life. The longer we live, the versions of our narrative diminish before our eyes, until there is only one version left to pen. And then our life’s chapter is written. I’ve known how my own Story ends for quite some time. And I know it will end here today.”
Her words made Quin feel cold and clammy—a sensation he wasn’t used to. He found himself having second thoughts.
Suspiciously, he asked, “Then why aren’t you trying to stop me?”
“Because death cannot be avoided.” Tsula confronted him with a relentless, deadpan stare. “Far too many times in my life, I have had to stay my hand and watch fate reap its terrible harvest. I foresaw the fall of my nation. And I foresaw my own daughter’s death. Yet I could do nothing to prevent either. If I had stopped you from causing the Desecration of Caladorn, then the entire world would now be under Xerys’ sway. And if I had stopped my daughter from trading her life to save your own, we would not be sitting here today. You would have never foiled my husband’s plans. And now Xerys would be reigning from the throne of Isap, with the world groveling at his feet.”
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