Chapter 37
Thumar, Rainward Isles
Water thumped against the ship’s hull, waves lapping in a steady rhythm as the sailors furled the sails and brought her to a halt in the shallows off the port. Already a longboat was rowing out to meet them from the docks, which were lined with ships bearing refugees from lost Suluk. Thumar, home of King Calex and the northernmost of all the Rainward realms, surrounded the ship on all sides, a metropolis sprawled on seven rocky islands in a blue-green bay, linked to one another by high, vaulted bridges. Gulls wheeled above, diving down from the arches beneath the spans to pluck golden fish from the water or, sometimes, from the decks of fishing boats, lifting them away to the curses of the men who crewed them. Tall, moss-sheathed stone towers leaned over the water, carved out of the jagged rocks of the isles themselves. Stairs led down from those spires to the marble piers, and long-chained winch lifts carried cargo up and down.
All was quiet in Thumar that day, the banners flying from her parapets black, rather than the accustomed violet. The petals of lilies spilled down to the waves, along with a fine rain that was little more than mist, pattering down from a sky the color of lead.
Forlo looked up into that sky, letting the rain wash down his face and into his beard. That is the color of my heart, he thought as he stared at the clouds.
Someone waited for him, above, but a large part of him didn’t want to see her. Word had preceded the ship, which had borne him and his friends from the shores of the Shining Lands, through Mirrorshards and the Grayveil, all the way back to the isles. That was why Thumar was in mourning: their coming brought word that King Nakhil and his counselor Roshambur were both slain. There was some joy in knowing that Maladar was defeated—if not killed—but the death of the last sovereign of Suluk outweighed it in the people’s hearts. The loss overshadowed the victory.
So it was with Forlo. His son was dead: Azar, who had lived so short a life, whom he’d never known, whose name he hadn’t even learned until it was too late. He was lost in the flames of the Chaldar. He had died saving the rest of them, and Taladas as well.
Forlo had tried to let that knowledge cheer him, the gods knew. The Faceless Emperor was thwarted, imprisoned within the tower of flame amid the empty stone hulks of his city, an impotent ruler of a dead realm. It was a great triumph, though outside of the Rainwards few might ever know of it. Still, they’d done it. They’d beaten Maladar, right when he’d looked ready to seize absolute victory.
It didn’t matter to Forlo. His son was dead.
“It should have been me,” he murmured, not for the first time. “He should be standing here, in my place.”
“Perhaps,” said a voice behind him. “We all have things we wish were different.”
Forlo glanced over his shoulder and saw Hult. The Uigan gazed up at the bridges above and the circling gulls. Forlo barely recognized him, even after the long journey back from the Columns of Bilo, where Azar’s final spell had sent them. Hult’s hair was long, tied back in a plait that hung between his shoulders, and he wore no sword. His blade had broken in the Chaldar, and he’d refused all offers of another. After all they had gone through, Hult, son of Holar, had sworn never to lift a sword again.
“Who are you to say that?” Forlo growled. “You haven’t lost your only child.”
“No,” Hult said. Pain tightened his voice, but his face didn’t change; it kept the same unreadable nonexpression it had since Forlo awoke beside the Burning Sea. “Only my people and my home.”
Forlo fell silent, stung. He looked away, across the water, at Thumar’s distant island wards. Behind him, he sensed Hult stirring, as if the Uigan wanted to say more. Instead, though, the barbarian sighed and walked away.
Shedara came next, after a while. The longboat was almost to them, its oars dipping in the water to the toll of a bronze bell. The elf leaned on the rail beside him, jabbing at the wood with a dagger.
“You don’t have to be so hard on him, you know,” she said. “He’s carrying a lot of guilt. It was his sword, after all.”
Forlo grunted, refusing to look at her. The longboat came nearer.
“I don’t blame him,” he said. “He did what he had to.”
“So did Azar.”
Forlo coughed. It was all the answer he gave.
Shedara’s blade thunked into the gunwale, carving out splinters. “You think the pain will never go away, and you’re right. It won’t. Eldako is still in my memory, like a thorn. But you’ll get used to the hurt, and after a while, you’ll stop noticing so much.”
“Will I?” he snapped. “I can’t dull my pain by sharing my bed with Hult, you know.”
Shedara caught her breath, the sound of her knife stopping. He could almost hear the vituperations she wanted to hurl and knew he deserved them. What he’d said was unfair. He should be happy that she and the Uigan had found comfort in each other. But all he could think of was Azar and the red welter that sprang from his throat when the talga went in. To his right, the longboat bumped against the ship, and shouting sailors tossed a rope ladder down. He glanced toward it and shuddered.
It was too soon. He couldn’t move.
“You’ve got to go,” Shedara murmured. “You’ve got to face her. You can live the rest of your life hating Hult, hating me… hating yourself if you want. But Essana needs you, Forlo. And Azar wanted the two of you together.”
Forlo nodded. He knew that. They’d passed on the boy’s last words to him. Try again.
But how could he?
“You could come with me,” he said.
The elf shook her head. “We’ve been through this. Hult and I hanging around would only make the memories more painful.”
“For who? Me or you?”
He finally glanced at her and immediately regretted his words. Anguish etched her face, almost as deep as his own.
“Both,” she said.
He blew out a long, slow sigh. “I’m sorry, old friend. It’s just hard, after all this, to say good-bye.”
“Yes. But you and Essana need to be together. You’ve got to build a new life, and we, as you say, are part of the old.”
She had a point. If he was going to live there in Thumar, or in another of the island realms, or even somewhere else, such as Baltch or Syldar, he had to let go of everything. He was no longer Barreth Forlo, Baron of Coldhope. He wasn’t sure who he was, but that man had died many times over.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
She shrugged. “The Dreaming Green, eventually. We promised we’d tell Eldako’s father how he died. But that’s a long way away, and it will take time. As for afterward…” She trailed off, spreading her hands. “Maybe the Tamire, to see what Uigan still survive. Maybe Armach, to find my brother and help him rebuild. Maybe Panak or Marak or the cha’asii lands. We’ll probably wander a long time before we find a place we feel at home. And maybe, in a few years, we’ll come back and see how you’re doing.”
“No,” Forlo said. “We won’t see each other again.”
Shedara stepped forward, took his hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. “Never say never, Barreth. Now go see your lady-wife. Those oarsmen are getting impatient.”
He glanced at the longboat, whose crew was watching him with dark eyes. When he turned back, Shedara wasn’t there anymore. He glanced down the deck and saw her walking back toward Hult. The Uigan gazed back at him, their eyes meeting.
Then he turned away.
Feeling a thousand years old, Forlo walked to the rope ladder, looked down at the waiting boat… and didn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Someone offered a hand to help him down; even weeks after fleeing the Chaldar, he was still weak and frail, and missing a hand. He doubted he’d ever be as hale as he’d been, but he hated how the sailors were always offering to help him, as if he were an elderly man. He shook his head at the proffered hand—and stopped.
The hand had only three fingers.
He looked up, saw Hult, and nearly broke. The barbarian gazed at Forlo, inscrutable, then threw his arms around him in an iron embrace.
“I am glad I didn’t kill you, back at the Run,” Hult said when they finally separated. “You are as good a friend as I have ever known, and you are a far better man than Chovuk Boyla ever was.”
Forlo nodded. “And you’re a far better man than me.”
The Uigan chuckled. “Thank you,” he said. “Before you go… have I ever told you about the Takhanshi?”
“No,” Forlo replied.
“Among the Uigan, we believe the honored dead go on to dwell in the halls of Jijin and ride beside their ancestors for eternity. Those who fall into dishonor are cast into darkness beyond all knowing. But then there are the Takhanshi, They Who Linger. They are children, newly born, who die before their first year ends. The elders say they remain in the world and wait just out of sight until the winter comes. And if a Takhansho’s parents seek to make another child before the end of that winter, the ghost enters his mother’s womb, so he may be reborn into the world… for another chance.”
Forlo stared at him. “Are you saying Azar is a Takhansho?”
“I would not presume,” Hult said. “It is only a tale. But there is always hope. Farewell, my friend.”
Clapping Forlo’s shoulder, he turned and strode back to Shedara. Forlo watched him go, his mind a whirl. He glanced up, at the mossy towers above him, and ached. Essana was up there, waiting. His Starlight.
Eyes burning, he turned to the ladder and stepped down onto the first rung.