Yet there were a few. Most of them were there in the room with him, eating and talking, drinking and laughing. Their time together would be too short. If he didn't value it as it deserved until after it was gone, perhaps that wasn't Arawn's fault. Perhaps it was his own.
For a few days, everyone who'd gone on the trip seemed content to do little but rest, eat, and enjoy being someplace warm again. Some of the norren pitched yurts in the courtyard, but others slept in tents hung right inside the great halls. A highly disorganized and low-key party ensued. Already, Dante had work to get to—the needs of Narashtovik never ceased—but he couldn't have thrown them out even if he'd wanted to. As it turned out, he highly enjoyed the chance to do a whole lot of nothing for once.
Six days after their return from Weslee, Dante happened to glance out the window and see the norren packing up their things. He ran downstairs and found Mourn. "Were you really going to leave without saying goodbye?"
"Goodbyes are a ritual that never made sense to me," Mourn said. "But if it means that much to you, 'goodbye.'"
"At least let me thank you!"
"Isn't that what all the feasting, speeches, and drinking was about?"
"You are without doubt the most confusing member of a highly confusing people," Dante laughed. "I hope you know that if you ever need us, Narashtovik is always yours to call upon."
"Then let me express the hope that we never need to see each other again." Mourn could only keep a straight face for a couple seconds. "The hills of the Nine Pines are always yours, too."
The departure of the norren seemed to be the sign that it was time to start setting things in order. Once the gates closed behind them, Dante went inside and climbed the stairs. The Sealed Citadel was less obsessed with status than many such institutions, but there was an implicit hierarchy in the way rooms were handed out. Cee had been given quarters on the third floor: above the servants, but below the couriers, low-level bureaucrats, and skilled staff. Dante found her door and knocked.
She opened it and smiled lopsidedly. "Do I even have a choice to let you in?"
"What do you mean?"
"You own this place, right? Your very own castle. How's that feel?"
"Exhausting." He moved inside and took a seat. "Now that I've talked the place up, would you still like to be a part of it?"
She took on a guarded look. "In what capacity?"
"Whatever you'd like. But you know the things Blays used to do for the Citadel? That's what I had in mind."
"What about Blays?"
Dante gazed past her. The walls were unadorned and the room was chilly. "I don't know that he's going to stay here, let alone that he wants to resume doing ridiculous things in the name of Narashtovik. Worst case, he sticks around and we've got two of you." He creased his brow. "On second thought, maybe I ought to rescind the offer."
"Too late," she grinned. "I look forward to giving you even bigger headaches than he did."
He hesitated three full seconds before shaking her hand.
On the pretense of catching up with his paperwork, he headed back to his room, but stopped outside the door. He'd been putting it off long enough.
Blays wasn't in his room. Dante checked the great halls on the ground floor; with the norren gone, the revelry had dwindled to a few soldiers and monks sitting around sharing stories and beer. None had seen Blays. In fact, he seemed nowhere to be found. Dante went to ask Gant if Blays had slipped out again while no one was looking, then realized he knew better and diverted his course to the roof. Blays was there, hands in the pockets of his cloak, hair ruffled by the cold wind slicing off the bay.
Dante walked up beside him and looked over the city. "So."
"Yep."
"Listen, isn't it about time you told me what your plans are?"
Blays snorted. "I saved your life, and you think I owe you more?"
"Are you forgetting the only reason you were in position to do so was the miracle of life bestowed upon you by me?"
"Hey, I never asked to be resurrected." Blays laughed, then grew sober. "Truth is, I was planning to leave in a couple days."
"Oh."
"Been meaning to tell you."
"Well," Dante said. "I'd wish you luck, but you seem to find it wherever you go."
"Thanks." A slow grin spread across Blays' face. "But who said it was for good?"
Two days later, Dante heard him ride away. He didn't go to the window. Either he'd see him again or he wouldn't.
Dante returned his attention to the administration of Narashtovik. Negotiating the price of grain with Tantonnen wasn't the pinnacle of excitement, but after the last few months, he was happy to be bored again. The days of Thaws came and went. Dante ordered a gravestone from the artist who did most of the Citadel's work. When it came in, he put together a carriage and a small contingent and rode toward the Woduns. Their peaks were still white, but many of the lower slopes had become green again.
In Soll, he hired Vinsin as a guide. Vinsin showed him to a spot in the woods beside the stream where he'd often seen Ast spend time. Dante dug a hole and the troops he'd brought with him helped him plant the stone in the ground.
"'Ast Modell,'" Vinsin read. "'Son of the Elsen, Hero of the Rashen.' What does it mean?"
Dante stepped back. "That there's always hope for peace."
He returned to Narashtovik. They called for volunteers for a diplomatic mission to Spiren, then Dante and Somburr spent weeks teaching them Weslean, telling them what to expect, and drawing them maps of the region. As summer neared, the team headed east. They were never heard from again.
Shortly after their departure, Dante sailed to Houkkalli Island, made port, and hiked up the path to the mountain. Beneath the cliffs of the Hanassans, he met the old monk and they sat in the sun.
"You found it," the old monk said. "How did you use it?"
"To bring a dead man back to life."
"Remarkable. And then it disappeared?"
Dante nodded, explaining how it had felt, how a million doors of possibility had stood before him. "As soon as I stepped through one, the others went away. So did Cellen."
The monk rubbed his chin. "Let's back up. How did you find it to begin with?"
"Brace yourself for a long story," Dante laughed. Over the next hour, he told the old man everything.
When he finished, the monk shook his head. "If a third party had related that story, I wouldn't believe half of it."
"I've told you nothing but the truth. All of it. I know I owed you that much, but I have a favor to request in return for the knowledge I've brought you."
"You can ask. It remains to be seen if I'll grant it."
"I used Cellen in Corl," Dante said. "That means, in a thousand years, it will return there."
"You want us to stop them from using it against Narashtovik? This is a peaceful order."
"I know that. I intend to detail everything that's happened. Should Narashtovik survive another millennium, I will have done everything in my power to prepare them." He looked up at the patchy clouds. "But I've learned how easily the past is lost. I ask you to preserve this story, too. And when the time comes, if Narashtovik has forgotten, to remind them."
"You are young, but you make a wise leader." The old monk clasped his hands. "I will do this for you."
Dante bowed and made his way back down the mountain.
Shortly after his return to Narashtovik, a courier arrived from Setteven. While Gant assigned the messenger a room, Dante brought the letter upstairs and knocked on Olivander's door.
Once Olivander answered, Dante waved the sealed parchment through the air. "It appears we have the honor of a letter from the king!"
"Should I put on a clean shirt?" Olivander said. "What's it say?"
Dante broke the red wax and scanned the contents. As usual, the good stuff was packed into the end. "He's...requesting a loan."
"Of money?"
"Indeed."
"From us?"
"This has to be a tr
ick, right? Should I send Moddegan's courier back with a tracing of my middle finger?"
Olivander took the letter and sat down to read it to completion. Finished, he set it aside and tapped the tip of his nose. "This smacks of legitimacy. Either that or he's very good at faking wounded pride."
"Okay, but we have absolutely no motivation to loan him a single penny." Dante narrowed his eyes. "Unless."
They sent the courier back with a message that they would consider the offer, then sent Somburr to join his spies in Setteven. After a couple of weeks, Somburr reported that the request was legit: Moddegan had made a series of bad investments. If he was unable to pay maintenance on his holdings, Gask would be plunged into chaos. Perhaps even civil war.
"Is that something we want?" Olivander said. This time, they were in the Council chambers, the table awash in figures and reports. "At minimum, some of his people will starve. If it comes to conflict, thousands of civilians will die."
"And if he fell, we'd have to maneuver to make sure the replacement was to our liking." Dante pressed his palms together. "I don't want to become entangled in another conflict. Or watch him take it out on the peasants. We'll give him his loan—but he's not going to like the strings it comes attached to."
42
Before he'd sailed to Narashtovik with nearly the entire contingent of the People of the Pocket, Blays had made sure to retrieve his horses from the north end of the bay, and in a nifty piece of negotiating, had even talked Ro into letting him take them with him on the ship. Figuring that the mounts weren't cut out for mountain crossings (and that they deserved a rest), he'd stabled them in Narashtovik during the incursion into Weslee.
That meant one was ready and waiting to make the long ride back to Pocket Cove.
It was that time of winter when, like trying to explain to a drunken party guest that they needed to go home, all you could do was sigh that it was still there. It was cold, but not that cold; it snowed and then melted, then rained instead. Dante had given him a nice chunk of riding-around money, and he was in no extra-special hurry, so Blays passed the nights of travel in a series of snug inns.
As miserable as the weather was, he felt good. Perhaps even great. Maybe it was the feeling of having been granted a second chance. Maybe when he'd died, he'd brought something back with him—or left something else behind.
Or maybe his feeling was no more than the optimism all trips start out with, when you know exactly what you must do and the world hasn't yet stood up to say "No, sorry, that's not how things are going to play out."
Whatever the case, he was happy.
Since he was in no hurry, and wasn't particularly fond of the idea of setting foot within fifty miles of Setteven ever again, he took the path through Gallador. Snow sat on its mountains. Wending looked peaceful enough, with smoke puffing from chimneys and people going about their business as always. He stopped by Lolligan's long enough to relay the gist of what had happened over the last few weeks, then left his horse with the old man and continued on foot.
He walked through the pass in the western peaks and descended to the long plains. The black line of Pocket Cove solidified on the horizon. As he approached the cliffs, a woman appeared atop them.
"Fancy seeing you here," Minn called.
Blays tipped back his head and laughed. "Have you been waiting up there this whole time?"
"Nope. I guess you're just lucky."
"That I am." He climbed up the stairs, wrapped her in his arms, and kissed her.
She didn't respond. In the moment, he didn't care that it was a mistake. He was proud of himself for making it.
To his surprise, she put her arms around him and kissed him back. Too soon, she drew away, eyes shifting between his. "Well, that was fun. Now what?"
"We do it again?"
They did, but she drew back a second time. "That's very fun. Everything I'd hoped for. And we both know it won't work."
Blays creased his brow. "I'd say it's working fine."
"I'm glad for you. Is it working so well you're willing to stay here with it forever?"
Streamers of fog peeled away from the Fingers. "I thought..."
Minn smiled. "That I'd throw myself into your arms and ride off with you?"
"I happen to think it's the best idea I've ever had!"
"It's a nice dream. But this is my family and I love learning what they have to teach me. When we were away from them, I realized I could never bring myself to leave it. This is my life."
He might have crumbled then, argued or given up or wheedled until the fragile thing they had together frayed apart. But it rolled off him as lightly as the mist on the rocky pillars.
"I'll stay here a while. We'll talk to Ro. And we'll see."
She blew air between her teeth. "It would have to be the same as it was before. I'll teach you more, if you like, but that's it. I won't hand you my heart before you can pledge this is where you want to stay."
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to assure her that he would never grow tired of Pocket Cove. Not so long as he was with her! But he knew himself too well for that, and loved her too much to lie.
"Agreed," he said, then darted in to peck her on the mouth again. "That's the last one. For now. Promise."
"That was a cheap move," she said. "As punishment, you get to be the one to talk to Ro."
They walked through the Fingers together. When he saw the waves breaking on the beach, he grinned. His merriment faded as she escorted him through the tunnels to Ro. The woman sat in her room beneath a pile of blankets. Minn withdrew, feet rasping down the hall.
Blays sat down across from Ro. "Well, we did it. It wasn't perfect. But Cellen is gone and there won't be any war."
She eyed him. "Fine. I don't care either way. Which you know. So why have you come back?"
"Same as before," he shrugged.
"Wrong. You partnered with Dante to retrieve Cellen. He's through hunting you; I saw it in his face. If you lie to me again, this conversation is over."
He closed his eyes. "For Minn."
Her brows shot up. Carefully, she drew them back into place. "I won't let you take her from here."
"She won't let me do that. I'm asking to be given the chance to stay and find out whether I can learn to love this corner of the earth as well as she does."
Ro sat in her blankets in silence. "If you make me regret this, I'll make you regret it worse."
He stood and bowed. "I can assure you that I would take care of that myself."
He walked into the hall. Minn stood a short ways down it. She saw the look on his face and smiled. "You're too convincing for your own good."
"Now let's see if I can convince myself."
In his heart, he knew he couldn't make Pocket Cove his home. But perhaps his heart could change.
A week later, as they sat at the pools playing with the nether, Minn leaned back, resting her hand on the rock. He reached for it. She withdrew it and sighed.
"How are you so good at not being bad?" he said.
"Because I'll be happy with or without you."
"Hmm," he said. "I think that sounds much ruder than it actually is."
"What's the point of this? You know you can't be happy here."
He rested his forearms on his knees. "Quit knowing me so well."
He refused to get frustrated—or to lose hope. He had seen too much of what else was out there to believe that, as much as he wanted this, his entire future depended on making it work. Day by day, Minn refined his skill with the nether. They shadowalked further and further until one day he started at the north end of the bay and made it all the way to the southern tip before he had to step back out into the real world.
One day early in this process, a warm wind blew in from the south, chasing winter away for good. For a few days, it was warm enough to lie on the sand with their skin exposed to the sun. This was beyond nice, and if he'd been able to see the rest of what was hidden beneath her underclothes, it would've been in
disputably perfect.
Yet he knew that, sooner or later, he would no longer be happy to be enclosed in such a small closet of the world.
An unsolvable problem. He knew his nature and she knew hers. Natures could change, nature itself was proof of that, but if he left without her, he doubted that he'd be back, or that she'd want him to come back. Now was the time, the only time they'd have, and maybe that was why he didn't admit it was futile and walk away: this was it. And if "it" was nothing more than a couple more weeks spent walking together through the nether, then at least he would have that to remember in later years.
He gave himself a deadline. End of summer. If nothing changed by then, he'd leave before he wore out his welcome.
One late spring day, he woke from a nap beside the tide pools to see that one of the smaller rocks was moving, sliding over the others. He glanced around, expecting to see one of the People of the Pocket manipulating the stone (something Minn still hadn't decided to teach him—possibly, that was too secret to reveal to him until he became a permanent resident). But he was alone. And then he felt quite dumb, because the fist-sized rock had a bunch of little spines on it and was leaving a slimy trail behind it. It was a kellevurt.
He moved in for a better look. He hadn't known they could live outside the water. If he had, when he and Minn had gone to the island of Ko-o, he might have spent a little less time paddling around the furious ocean and a little more time climbing around the sturdy arm of rock embracing the bay. As he watched, the snail finished traversing the rock and slid into one of the pools, where it promptly enveloped a smaller conical snail that had been minding its own business.
The Black Star (Book 3) Page 64
