Dante fell silent. A cold wind cut through the shadows cast by the forest. "It was good to see you, father. You were a better man than the one I knew."
"Wait." Larsin stepped forward, grabbing Dante's forearm in a harsh grip. "You can't kill him."
Dante raised a brow. "Then why did you tell me what he'd done?"
His father gritted his teeth. "May I make one request of you?"
"Speak it."
"Make it quick."
Dante nodded. He turned his back on the cabin and walked into the woods.
~
He awoke in the pallet in the temple. For a moment, as the fog cleared from his aching head, he tried to tell himself it hadn't been real. That he had been stuck in the Pastlands, tormented by his own fears.
But this couldn't be so. After seeing his father, he'd fallen asleep, as you did to leave the Mists. And an instant later, he'd been here.
"What is it?" Blays said. "I'd say you look like you saw a ghost, but considering that was the plan, did you not see one?"
Dante rubbed his eyes. "I spoke to my father."
"I see. I'm glad you went, but I'm sorry it went badly."
"It was a good talk. But he told me something that was hard to hear. His death—it wasn't an accident."
Blays drew back his head. "He was beloved here. Their only hope to take down the Tauren. Why would anyone kill him?"
"Because he refused to ask me for help."
Blays' eyes went hooded. "So someone got him out of the way. To do what he wouldn't. Do you want my blessing?"
"Would I need it?"
"He was your father. That makes you sole arbiter of this decision."
Dante stood. "We leave tomorrow morning. Be ready."
He walked alone to town, found Naran, and made plans to depart. Then he strolled into the woods. And waited.
Since the victory over the Tauren, Niles had been sleeping in a stone house on a hill overlooking the bay. At midnight, with the moon his only witness, Dante crept into the house, moved to the back room, and stood over Niles' bed.
Niles' eyes popped open. With a groan of surprise, he sat up, pawing at the side of his mattress where his sword was leaning. "Dante? Lyle's balls, you gave me a start!"
"I went into the Mists," Dante said. "And I found Larsin."
"He's still there? I would have thought he'd be off to find his wife by now."
"Were you counting on that? Whenever we went into the Mists, you made sure you were with me. Why? So I wouldn't learn the truth?"
Niles furrowed his brow. "What did he tell you? You know the dead have no respect for the living. They'll tell you anything if it suits their purposes."
"Sounds like someone else I know." Dante stepped closer. "We're past words, Niles."
The older man's face went tight with fear. He lunged for the sheathed sword. Dante rooted him to the mattress with a web of shadows. Niles slapped feebly for the weapon, but it was inches from his reach.
Niles relaxed, rolling his eyes toward Dante. "He was my friend! He meant far more to me than he did to you. But the Tauren were breathing down our neck. Growing stronger by the day. There was only one way to stand against them. And he wouldn't do it."
"So you did what was necessary."
"You're damned right I did! If the Tauren kept on, we were all dead anyway, weren't we? So what did his life matter? If he didn't have the guts to save our people, then I had to do whatever it took, didn't I?"
Dante picked up the man's sword, unsheathing it with a hiss of leather. "Do you think that absolves you?"
"I know you understand the burden of committing dark acts in the name of the light. You would have done the exact same thing. How dare you come to punish me?"
"Because," Dante said. "I'm not very nice."
Niles' jaw trembled. He shut his eyes, then opened them. "Let me stand."
Dante backed away from the mattress and released the net of shadows. Niles swung his feet off the bed, inhaled deeply, and stood.
"Put Winden in charge. The Boat-Growers respect her. So will the others."
"A fine choice."
Niles pursed his lips, eyes going stony. "I won't apologize. I did what needed to be done. I saved my people."
"I'm not saying you did wrong," Dante said. "But that won't save you."
"Will it hurt?"
He shook his head. "Larsin asked me to be quick. But I would have been anyway. After everything, a piece of me respects you."
Niles closed his eyes again, tipping back his chin. As he inhaled—perhaps to speak more, or perhaps to clear his head—Dante reached into the shadows within his heart and stilled them.
~
He dragged the body outside, past the bay, and dumped it in the Currents.
He slept fine. To make sure he saw Winden, he woke earlier than he would have liked. She was by the shore, overseeing a handful of shaden the divers had brought in from the bay.
Seeing him, she stood. "You're leaving today?"
"In a few hours."
"Take as many as you like." She gestured to the shells. "But they lose their power within a few weeks of death."
"Really? Then why are the Mallish so interested in them?"
"I've never even been to Mallon. But if my wild guesses are that valuable to you, I'll try."
"No need. Either they've found a way to preserve them, or they think they can." He touched her arm. "We need to talk. Alone."
She frowned, following him down the beach to a quiet patch of shade. "Is something wrong?"
He locked eyes with her. "Have you ever gone into the Mists to see Larsin?"
"The living aren't supposed to cross over. Kaval forbids it. And the dead, they're disturbed by it."
Dante found it hard to believe the living accepted such strictures, but he saw no lie in her eyes. "I found him. His death wasn't an accident. Niles killed him."
He explained what he'd learned. Winden's expression was stunned, then outraged. By the end, her face raged like the whirlpool of Arawn's Mill.
"He did it, didn't he?" she said. "Why didn't I guess this?"
"Because you wouldn't have wanted to believe it."
Shadows gathered around her hands. "Where is Niles?"
"Dead. I killed him last night."
Winden stared at him, then nodded. "Good. You may go, then. I'll tell my people what he did and why he's gone."
"You can't tell them the truth. Things are too fragile here. If it gets out that Niles murdered his best friend, it could tear Kandak apart. Drive your allies away."
"Our leader is dead. There's no hiding that!"
"You don't hide it," Dante said. "On our way out, we're going to see the Dresh. Tell your people that Niles came with us. That after we made peace with the Dresh, while crossing back, a wave knocked him off the bridge. This way, his last act was to help find forgiveness for your people."
Winden's brown eyes burned like candlefruit. "You want me to lie. To my friends."
"Your people have survived for centuries by lying. You're their leader now, Winden. You have to do whatever it takes to protect them. From their enemies, and from the truths that might destroy them."
"Tonen."
Dante nodded. "Tonen."
"I'm not sure I'm ready for this," she said. "I'm not sure I want it."
"No one's ever ready to lead. The only way to get there is by doing it." He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight. "It will be hard. Just remember how many people are relying on you. That can be scary. But it can be a source of great strength, too."
She withdrew, clear-eyed. "Do you think you'll return some day?"
"No time soon. Too much work ahead of me. But I feel like I've hardly scratched the surface of what there is to learn here." Dante walked into the sun, staring out at the twinkling sea. "Besides, I'd come back here just to feel this again."
He returned to town to gather up his few possessions, including his notebooks and a few boxed-up shaden. Blays waited by the shore, cha
tting with the townsfolk.
"Are you sure we have to leave?" Blays said. "I have an alternate idea: we move Narashtovik here."
"Convince the People of the Pocket to help me detach it from the coastline and float it down here, and you've got a deal."
A longboat rowed in, beaching itself. After a few hugs and farewells, they climbed aboard. The sailors pushed off. On the shore, the Kandeans broke into their song of goodbye. Dante wanted to close his eyes to remember it better, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from what they were leaving behind.
~
Waves crashed to either side, casting spray into his face. He walked on, barefoot for a better grip on the still-warm line of rock snaking out to Spearpoint. Blays was with him, but he was otherwise unaccompanied, with the Sword of the South anchored in one of the few protected coves along the Joladi Coast.
On the tiny island, the Dresh awaited him, having seen the steam. They carried arms but didn't brandish them. Their eyes were questioning. They led Dante and Blays through the woods and the orchards to the village on the aquamarine bay. Sando and Aladi sat in the shade, shelling nuts and dropping the refuse in an orderly pile.
Aladi stood first. "Are you back? Then you better have fulfilled our bargain."
"We found living seeds," Dante said. "And regrew the Star Trees."
Sando hauled himself to his feet, brushing papery remnants of nuts from his gut. "And the Tauren?"
"Spanked," Blays said. "Thoroughly. Between that and the return of the trees, the Kandeans are at the center of a new peace."
"A lasting one?"
"Is there any such thing? For now, though, I think this one's for real."
"And you claim to have a Star Tree," Aladi said. "You will bring me to it."
Dante looked over his shoulder at the trees and the strait beyond. "We could do that. Or I could grow one for you on Spearpoint."
Sando smacked his thigh. "You can do that? Right here?"
Aladi moved as if to brush something from her face. "Not so fast. We don't know that we can trust them."
"What are they going to do? Kill our already-dead tree? Grow us a patch of weeds and laugh at us?" He twirled his finger at Dante. "This man, he raised the land like Loda. If he wishes us harm, I'm sure he can do a great deal more than fool us about the Star Tree."
Aladi's mouth quirked. Despite her best efforts, it bent into a smile. She quashed this and gestured to the open ground at the edge of the village. "Show us."
Dante walked into the sunlight, dug a small hole, and deposited one of the starred fruit pits within it. He activated the inner chamber. White leaves unfurled from the earth. Sando laughed out loud, rocking up on his toes. Aladi kept her expression neutral. Dante had used much of his strength to form the bridge, but he poured what he had left into the seedling. When he stopped, the tree was waist high, its pale trunk and leaves shimmering with the colors of the rainbow.
"That," Aladi said, "is a Star Tree."
Dante lifted a leaf, revealing a small white flower. "They grow very slowly. But if something happens to this one, there will be others on the island."
They headed back toward the south end of Spearpoint Rock. There, Dante motioned to the bridge. "Would you like me to tear it down again?"
Sando and Aladi shared one of their looks.
"The island," Aladi said. "It was once our home. I think it's time we rejoin it."
Sando extended his right leg and bowed over it. "Safe sailing."
Blays gave them a little wave. "When you make the statues of us, make sure mine's taller."
Dante and Blays crossed back to the Joladi beach, found their sandals where they'd left them, and headed south to where Naran's two ships were anchored.
"What do you think?" Dante said. "Think they'll rejoin the island?"
Blays glanced behind them. "What, you're worried about them?"
"After Niles, it would be nice to think there's some hope for this place."
Blays was quiet for several moments. "Who knows if it'll last. For now, I think there's more hope here than most places."
After an hour of strenuous hiking, they reached the cove hiding the two ships. A longboat brought them aboard the Sword of the South. Naran examined them. Today, on top of his shiny-buttoned captain's jacket, he wore a two-cornered black hat sporting the long red tail feather of a local bird.
He nodded to the islands. "Is our business here complete?"
"Looks like," Dante said. "Should we go take care of things in Bressel?"
"With pleasure."
Naran called out to his crew—which no longer included Juleson, who'd elected to stay in Kandak with Nassea. The Sword made way past the rocks enclosing the cove, then heaved east, meaning to get beyond the worst of the Currents before turning north.
Naran seemed quite confident about the upcoming venture. Dante was less certain. For him, it would be about more than taking vengeance on Gladdic. Something sinister was under way in Mallon. They were stoking the old hostilities toward Arawn and all who followed him. In times past, these had led to purges. Wars. Centuries of oppression. Most of the prior scours had been aimed inward, at their own people. But they were now looking outward, to the Plagued Islands. And who knew where else.
If Gladdic's murder was connected back to Narashtovik, it would do nothing to lessen Mallon's paranoia.
"Not to interrupt your frowning session," Blays said. "But if you've got a moment, you might want to come see this."
He led Dante up the steps of the aftercastle. Behind them, the green blades of the Joladi Coast soared toward the blue of the sky, which was rivaled only by the sapphire tones of the open sea. Dante might live another hundred years and never see anything so fantastic.
Their worries in Mallon tugged at his mind. He knew he'd soon have to turn and face the responsibilities that awaited him. Yet before he knew it, the islands would recede beyond the horizon, as lost as last summer, or the Mist-like happiness of childhood.
He intended to hang onto them for as long as he had left.
EPILOGUE
Hopp of the Clan of the Broken Herons had never built a great cathedral. He'd never walked ten thousand miles in a row. He'd never tried to govern one of those noisome anthills that humans called a "city." Lacking these experiences, he couldn't swear to the truth of his feelings.
Even so, he was certain there was nothing more annoying and time-consuming than trying to find the right spot for a norren clan to settle down for the summer.
He walked through the waist-high grass, stirring it with the butt of his spear. At the moment, most of the clan was poking around a lake on the other side of the hill. Hopp was pretending to scout the surrounding hunting grounds, but mostly he couldn't stand to watch the clansmen fuss about their decision to plant their tents or keep looking. "I don't like the way the stream bends as it leaves the lake," one might say. Or, "This feels right—for next year. But it's not right for now." Most frustratingly of all, the clan might reject one spot, then spend the next two weeks wandering in circles, only to return to the rejected spot and declare that it was perfect.
Theoretically, as chieftain, he could order them to make camp in the middle of a latrine if he wished. But people weren't nails to be hammered down. Leadership was like flowing water. Sometimes, your people took courses you didn't expect. All you could do was follow the stream and see where it led you.
He walked on, poking here and there with his spear. Deer tracks dented the soil. There would be good hunting here along with fine fishing. Then again, this had been true of the last five spots they'd considered. Early summer—his favorite time, when the mornings and nights remained cool, and everything was at its greenest—was threatening to turn hot and dry. And still they had no camp.
He was frustrated by more than their indecision. He was a line-painter. Black paint on white canvas. A few dozen strokes, no more. Line art was his nulla, his life's calling. Some people, especially poets and philosophers whose nulla didn't involve physical,
tangible creations, preferred to do their work on the march. They said the change of scenery inspired them. Besides, they didn't understand why it took him so long to complete a painting. With so few lines, surely it couldn't take more than a few minutes!
But with so few lines to work with, so little for the eye to home in on, each one had to be perfect. And yet—and this was the true beauty of the art—because these lines were drawn by a mortal hand, they were inevitably imperfect. With each imperfection deviating from the vision in his head, his plan for the next stroke was disrupted. He had to reconsider. See what sort of line would be correct for the mess he'd made of things.
And when he made that stroke, and it too was flawed, the process repeated.
So it took time. Gobs of it. Beyond that, the need to readjust his vision with each stroke meant that he couldn't plan out the entire work in his head like the philosophers and the poets. The only way for him to pursue his nulla was to settle in one place for days on end.
Paradoxically, their constant wandering was making him restless. If they didn't choose their spot soon—
The butt of his spear clonked against something hard yet hollow. It didn't have the ring of wood or stone. He bent his broad back and picked up a black object the size of a human fist. It was lighter than he expected and felt almost like ceramic. It carried a faint whiff of the sea. It was spiraled like a snail, but it was many times larger than any of the freshwater varieties he'd seen crawling about in the hills.
Logic indicated it couldn't be a seashell. The nearest sea was more than two hundred miles north at the bay in Narashtovik. Seafood, like riverfood and lakefood, spoiled notoriously fast. No one would reasonably expect a seashell to last all this way. Then again, that was what it looked like. The brain and its logic might rule the body, but the eyes were the body's jester, able to defy the brain without fear of punishment, and expose truths it didn't want to hear.
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