Towers Fall

by Karina Sumner-Smith

  Home, it sang. Home, home, home.

  Xhea took a deep breath and returned to herself. She was, she found, weeping. No shame in that; no embarrassment, no sorrow. Only joy.

  In silence, she reached once more for Shai’s hand. Side by side they stood, fingers interlaced, and watched the sun set over the City.

  The next morning, the people of the Lower City gathered to bury their dead.

  In the three days she’d missed, there had been other gatherings, other funerals, other holes dug and other unmarked graves. But this, Xhea thought, was theirs.

  Out in the ruins, there was a ring of land untouched by either the newly risen City or the debris that had fallen in the destruction of the old. A ring where all was as it had once been: the broken buildings of the city that had come before, and the people who chose to shelter within them.

  A place where the dead might rest.

  For a time, the people of Edren had dug in silence. There were spells to help with digging, with turning the rocky earth and lifting it away; but most chose to take turns with the shovels. No magic could replace the cleansing power of sweat; and, watching, Xhea knew that more than one set of callused hands ached for work to drown out the sound of their thoughts.

  Then the preservation spells on the wrapped bodies were whisked away, and the bodies lowered into the waiting earth. The bodies of Edren’s dead, yes, and the bodies of other Lower City dwellers—but also the walkers. Those that had been killed attempting to reach the refugees, and those that Shai had lulled into death.

  During those three days, Shai had combed the ruins for any remaining walkers. They were here now, lined up side by side—among them Shai’s father.

  Of Abelane, Xhea had seen little.

  “She’s here,” Emara had said when Xhea asked after the young woman. “She’s working.” But not, as Xhea had expected, with the children. Instead Abelane worked in the makeshift kitchen, preparing food. Xhea had not gone to greet her, only met her eyes across the distance that separated them, and nodded.

  Abelane seemed grateful for that distance. There was no hurt this time—knowing that, in her way, Abelane had moved on and left her. Xhea thought that she understood. Sometimes a person needed to forge their own path. Sometimes, they needed to leave the past behind.

  Besides, she had her own paths to walk.

  At last, the work was finished, the graves filled in, the prayers said, charms and spells laid upon the earth that spoke of peace and rest and remembrance. In groups and pairs, Edren’s citizens walked away.

  Only Shai lingered, standing above her father’s grave, and for her Xhea was willing to wait forever.

  Xhea settled herself in the shade of a fallen wall and braided a strand of her long, dark hair. As that braid reached its end, she drew from a pocket of her new jacket an ancient, battered coin. She turned the coin over in her hands, and rubbed its surface clean with her fingers. Its markings had all but worn away—only hints of numbers and script remained around its edges, a softened shape in its center that might once have been a face.

  From another pocket she pulled a piece of narrow ribbon, then leaned back against the wall, her legs stretched before her, and bound the coin to the braided length of her hair.

  “Where did you get that?” Lorn asked, gesturing to the coin. There was a council meeting later today, Xhea knew, for Edren to decide what to do, where to stay, what to ask of the living Lower City. What to negotiate with their new neighbors, and how to decide the new rules of their lives.

  But for now, his dark skin glistened with sweat, and in his arms he held the shovels.

  Xhea shrugged, a grin lifting the corners of her mouth. “I have my ways.”

  An echo of that grin flickered across Lorn’s expression, then he nodded and turned away.

  Xhea looked again to Shai. The ghost stood with her head bowed, motionless over that freshly turned earth. Her lips moved in speech or in prayer, and for that moment Xhea gave her only silence, privacy in mind and voice.

  Even so, her eyes lingered on the graves’ fresh earth, dark in the morning sun.

  It was not yet her time to lie there, silent and still. But soon, Xhea thought. Soon.

  Already she could feel the tired burden of her body, a weariness that had nothing to do with rest or sleep or their absence. She did not have long before her body gave out. Weeks, she guessed; perhaps days.

  It should have been a weight, that knowledge. It wasn’t. For she looked to the sun above the far horizon, watched its light shine across the City—a City reborn—and she could not help but smile.

  Shai turned away from her father’s grave and returned to Xhea’s side.

  “Are you okay?” Xhea asked softly.

  Shai nodded, face wet with tears. “I will be.” And that, in the end, was all that any of them could hope for.

  A moment passed between them, soft and slow. There was nowhere they needed to be but here.

  “Are you ready?” Shai asked at last. Xhea nodded, and slowly, slowly, pushed herself to her feet, the coins bound into her hair chiming.

  No, it was not yet her time, but soon.

  Wait for me, she thought to the ghost, her friend, her everything. We’ll go together.

  Together into the unknown, and everything that might come after.

  The End

  A little over ten years ago, I wrote the beginning of Xhea and Shai’s first story—the story that grew to become Radiant. And now, at last, I’ve reached the story’s end, envisioned all those years ago.

  Finishing is a joy and a sorrow. Even now I want to reach for the words as if I might change them, fix them, add to them; as if to deny that I am, in fact, done.

  To all those who have walked this path with me, or had a hand in its shaping: thank you, thank you, thank you.

  In particular:

  To Greg, now and always. For reading, yes, and for listening to my incessant book-related rambling, but mostly for all the rest. Because for months, everything was terrible… except you.

  To Jana Paniccia, Jessica Leake, and Julie Czerneda for your friendship and help far above and beyond the call of duty. I don’t know how I could have reached this point without your assistance.

  To the excellent writers of the “War Room”—Catie Murphy, Michelle Sagara, Laura Anne Gilman, Robin Owens, Lana Wood Johnson, Chrysoula Tzavelas, Di Francis, Mikaela Lind, Earl Miles, Patricia Burroughs, and everyone I’m forgetting. You helped this book exist, half an hour at a time.

  To my publishing team: Sara Megibow, Kelsie Besaw, Jason Katzman, and the others at Skyhorse for your hard work and support.

  And to you, dear reader, for sticking with me for three books. I am grateful beyond words to everyone who gave these stories a chance, shared them with friends and family, wrote reviews, and shared ratings online. I hope you feel it was time well spent.