by Gary Meehan
“And Gwyneth’s daughter?” said Damon. “You’re going to tell her you . . . ?”
“Killed her mother?” Megan hung her head, Gwyneth’s last moments playing in her mind. She wondered if she’d ever be rid of the memory, or the guilt. “Yes, I’ll tell Eleanor. And she might hate me for it. But better to be hated for the truth than loved for a lie.”
They reached the ford. There had been little need for it since the bridge had been reconstructed but something made Megan edge down the bank to the river. Damon hung back.
“Looks wet,” he said, screwing up his face. “And muddy.”
“Scared you’ll get your fancy new clothes dirty?” said Megan. Damon was wearing the kinds of fine silks and soft leathers normally found on rich merchants. “I’m sure you’ll be able to steal some more.”
“Hey, I bought these. I’m a legitimate businessman now.”
“Really?”
Damon nodded. “Andaluvian spice trade,” he said. “We’re breaking the monopoly of the Spice Islands.”
“You’re growing spices?”
“Not exactly,” said Damon. “I suppose you’d say I’m a facilitator between producer and consumer.”
“You skim off both sides, in other words.”
“Legitimate commissions.”
“The more you use the word ‘legitimate,’” said Megan, “the more I suspect it’s code for something else. Take your boots off. No one’s going to steal them.”
Damon looked around, then did as she suggested, tucking the footwear in the undergrowth. They waded across. The icy waters of the Heledor were refreshing against Megan’s sunburned legs; she had yet to adjust to summer in her homeland after her time in wintry lands.
She looked across the wheat fields. Banging sounded from the village, houses being repaired and rebuilt. Willas and Synne weren’t the only ones who had returned with them. Other refugees had been drawn to Thicketford, attracted either by her mystique or the availability of free land. They had felt like intruders at first, but Megan had grown to accept them, appreciate the life they brought back to the village.
Damon stood a few feet off, seemingly reluctant to get closer. “Do you think she really was pregnant?”
“Does it matter?” said Megan. “Either way, that child wasn’t meant to be.”
“God’s will, huh?”
“People are too keen to see God’s will in things. It helps them abdicate responsibility.”
“Do you blame me for what I did?” said Damon. “What I tried to do, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Megan. “I probably would have done the same thing. Probably did do the same thing, somewhere along the line.” She sighed. “What’re your plans now?”
“Head down to Trafford’s Haven. The Sandstriders have set up a staging post there. Get a boat there to Andaluvia.”
“Long way to Trafford’s Haven.”
“According to my guidebook, there’s an inn on the road south,” said Damon. “I’ll stop there for the night.”
“I really wouldn’t recommend it,” said Megan. “Stop with us.”
“You sure?”
“No, but . . . You can tell Eleanor about her namesake.”
“Is she old enough to understand?”
No, but I am.
Megan held out a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Damon took it.
the end
acknowledgments
It’s almost four years since I started sketching out the notes for what became True Fire; it’s been an odd time since. Now we’re at the end, I have a few people to thank: my agent, Claire Wilson, who has provided much-needed guidance over the course of the trilogy; my editor Rachel Faulkner, who probably had no idea what she was getting into; editor in absentia Sarah Lambert; Talya Baker, for much wise copy-editing; the Coven for their continued support, especially Alexia Casale, Alice Oseman and Mel Salisbury; Sarah Sky, for putting up with my moaning and bad jokes; various Wikipedia contributors without whom I would have had to do proper research; and my family—Tom, Mum, Dad, Lyndsay, Peter, Gary, Natalie, Abigail and Cody—for being there.
about the author
Gary Meehan was born in Bolton in Lancashire and was educated at Lincoln College, Oxford, the University of Aberdeen and the University of Warwick. When he’s not writing, he works as a software engineer in Derby, where he lives with his son.
