Pale and terrified, Ghurk shivered. “How? How can you be sure?”
“I just am. I know it. Now that I think about it, I always knew. I have to make it matter.”
“How?”
“Old books. Ruined lands. The history of all things. I will dig it up piece by piece. By the time the Nightness returns, I will be ready. I will have a plan.”
“A plan…for what?” worried Ghurk.
“They remain.” She stared him down. “They always have. They always will. The Ur. The lords of darkness. They will never relent. Our world…Their Nether kingdom…black towers from shore to mountain spire. They want us all dead or enslaved. And so it falls to me. I am the one meant to stop Them. This time, the next time, and forever.”
Ghurk sucked in a bitterly cold breath. “Who do you mean? Who are the Ur?”
After a long quiet, she closed her eyes. “My enemy. The only enemy who matters.”
“Ande, you’re scaring me.”
“I know.” She touched his cheek. “It just came to me. I had to say it. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course,” he stammered. “Always, I guess. Shall we sit? I need to. I’m feeling faint.”
She led him to his table and sat beside him. The storm quieted in her absence, the world beyond the window gone calm.
“Wine?” she asked.
“Yes.” Ghurk rubbed his temples.
“I will stay four nights,” she said as she poured. “I will need two horses. Plenty of food. A new sword for Marid. Blankets. Tinder. Everything. Can you help?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“You are not angry?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Fear darkened his eyes. “I can see it. You’re telling the truth.”
* * *
The night before leaving, an infinite ocean of stars glittered in the void. The winds were calm, the ocean beneath her tower at peace. Clad in a pale shirt and grey cloak, she stood alone at her wide-open window, gazing into the night.
The Thillrians say it climbed high into the night, blotting every star it touched during its escape.
By all accounts, it was not destroyed. It just…left.
But I know it is still out there. Waiting. Watching.
I will find you, Black Moon.
And I will end all those who live inside you.
“Ande?” She heard Marid’s voice behind her.
“Come in,” she said without facing him.
He walked deeper into the room, but stopped short of her. The last time he and she had been together in the tower room, we had just made love.
“I told my mother,” he offered. “About…you know…our plan.”
“What did she say?”
“She was angry. At me. At you. At Father.”
“You can stay if you want.” She breathed deep of the night. “I will not be upset. I promise.”
“No.” She could almost see him shaking his head, defiant to the last. “I’ve made an oath.”
“An oath?”
“To protect you,” he said. “While you sleep. While you’re working. While you’re thinking.”
“I am lucky to have you,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Besides, you’ll need someone to watch the baby. Once we get to Kilnhome, it’ll be better for the little one to have two of us looking after him…or her.”
The baby. She smiled inside. He knows it belongs to Garrett. But it matters none. He wants to help.
How could I ever deny him?
“Ande?”
“Yes, Marid.”
“You think you’ll outlive me? You know, because of your blood.”
“Yes.” The thought made her sad. “Even if not, the baby will. Its father’s blood runs even darker than mine.”
Marid fell briefly silent. Standing in the pool of candlelight behind her, he seemed a sad spirit.
“I’m sorry, Ande.”
“For what?”
“For losing Garrett. I don’t know what happened. The rain was falling so hard. The Moon was almost on us. I couldn’t breathe. We ran. We found the Wolde. He killed them. But then…he was just…gone.”
“I know. Not your fault.”
He sounded relieved. “Did you tell the Duke?”
“About the baby?”
“Yes.”
“No. Only you and your mother know. Even Saul, when I hugged him goodbye, I could not tell him. He would never have left.”
Marid walked up beside her and looked into the void beyond the tower window. He seemed as at peace with the night as she did. She was glad he had come up, this last of eves.
“What happens next?” he asked after a long silence.
“After the baby, we begin. We study. We learn. We have ninety-nine years and nine months. Who knows what plans we can dream up?”
Marid laughed. It had been so long since she had heard laughter, she realized she had nearly forgotten the sound.
“I’ll not live that long.” He smiled. “I’ll have to have great-grandchildren. Maybe you’ll find it in you to marry one of them. Maybe, eventually, one of us Marids will break through.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s not like we’ll ever stop trying,” he said.
“I know.” She managed a smile.
The night deepened. She stood at peace beside him. The ships’ lights in the harbor winked out, each boat falling asleep after a long day’s work. Only the ocean and the night-birds spoke anymore. Their voices were lullabies, easing the world into sleep.
“Ande?” Marid whispered.
“Yes?”
“We’ll need help. We can’t do this alone.”
“I know.”
“When the time comes, will we look for him? It stands to reason, if he’s got the blood like yours…”
“…that maybe he, too, cannot die?”
“Right,” Marid sighed. “So one day, long from now, we’ll look for him. Because you think he’s still alive. Still out there thinking the same things we are.”
“Yes,” she said. “I hope for it.”
“Ande?” His voice was but a whisper.
“Yes?”
“Do you hear that?”
“The wind? Yes.”
“Is it yours?”
“No. Not tonight. Someday soon. But not tonight.”
A New Diary
Twentieth eve of autumn.
On a road south of the sea, summer’s warmth fades. The days are shorter out here, the nights chillier. The grass shines outside our tent, silver in the moonlight. The breeze smells of the ocean, the soil, and the last of summer’s blooms.
I have a candle.
A quill and ink.
And a new diary.
We are three days west of Muthemnal, in a grassy field beneath the open night. Our camp is just south of the road to Denawir, hardly a stone’s throw from the sea. The hour is well before sunrise. Marid is still asleep. My chair is a weathered boulder, and my audience is the grass. Sometimes, when I look into the darkness, I imagine I see Garrett striding for me. The moon touches his hair and the stars paint his eyes white. But no. My love is nowhere. The Nightness is gone. I see only darkness.
I admit I squint to write these, the first words of my new journal. My lonely candle flutters. The lack of Nightness makes it hard to write. Yet I can hardly complain. The candle, the moonlight, the stars: they are enough. I will manage.
This, my newest journal, is a gift from Saul. My other is a wreck, tattered at the edges with too many words smeared by the rain. Before he left, Saul bound the old book in oiled leather for me. He says I need to preserve it. ‘For posterity,’ he says. ‘For the truth to be kept.’ I do not mind. Someday, long from now, I will give it to him. It will go in Gryphon’s library with all the other books. But not yet.
So here we begin anew. I am Andelusia Leda Anderae. My first name is of unknown origin. My second name, same as my mother’s. My last, same as my father’s. This is my
final autumn in Thillria for many years. A long journey lies ahead. Marid and I have two horses, a mountain of blankets, and enough food to feed half an army. We will need it all. If I am to have this baby, we must make it to Kilnhome. Just Marid and I. Alone on the road.
I am tempted to write of all that happened since I last inked my old diary. There is so much, and I wonder how long it will be before my memories blur at the edges. I could start right now. I could write of how it began and ended, from Lyrlech to the Undergrave’s bottom. But no. The words are not ready to be written. Tonight is for people, not places. For those I have loved. For those I will always treasure.
First, I will remember Daedelar. I wrote Seaman Daed a letter before leaving Muthemnal. If he should receive it, I hope he will know how I feel for him in my heart. He is too loyal for his own good. He is the kindest soul of Shivershore. I doubt I will ever know what becomes of dearest Daed. But for what it is worth, I hope he travels far and wide. I hope he meets a fire-haired lass, less the Nightness, and creates the family he desires.
I remember Ghurk, Duke of Muthemnal. If his father were alive, he would be so very proud of his son. Ghurk is the kind of sweet, moral man every nation needs. I hope Thillria’s politics do not devour him. He has what this world needs more of. He is pious in his devotion, wiser than his years. Were the abbeys and old temples not crumbled, I would think him a holy man. If I should ever return here, I hope to find him happy. He deserves it.
I remember Saul. My friend, how far has he traveled? From far Elrain to Cornerstone, he has been the harbinger of all I have known. His wife and child must await him with desperation in their hearts. They will have him soon, I am glad to say. If ever I meet his wife, Lady Helena, I will boast of all the good things he did for the world. If I close my eyes, I see happiness for him, hard-earned. He will have his wife, his family, and his books, some of which I may need before the end.
There are many more names, many more hopes. I could write until sunrise. I will in time remember them all upon these pages. I will never forget. But tonight as I sit beneath the stars, I cannot help but remember the darkest of all those I encountered. I must not let others see this page, not yet anyway. They will think it wrong that I should remember this person. They will think it ill I should remember the one they call Pale Knight.
I remember him now. I know who he was. I do not dare write of it, lest I find my heart falling into darkness. No, let me take a different view. The savior of the world’s name is not Pale Knight. He is Archmyr, son of Thillria. His roles have been many in this world, most of them profane. But when I think of him, I find myself thinking of forgiveness, of redemption. I find it hard to hate him, hard to hold a grudge. And so I am willing to admit I hope something good for him. No others would approve, I know. What villain is more worthy of hatred than he who brings darkness upon the world? But then, what he did in the end, no one else will ever know. The world turns and Father Sun still shines because of his deed. He is free now. I wish him no great fortune, no deep contentment, but I do wish him peace. Archmyr, I pray you, find your home far and away from prying eyes. Find some small reward in the change that overtook you. Be at peace. No one else will wish it for you, but I will.
Marid sleeps still. The night pales behind our tent, the horizon glowing orange and cherry. If my ink runs, it is because I am chilly. A breeze is blowing. I should sleep, but I cannot. A few days, and we will arrive at Denawir in time to see the new king. A few weeks, and we will see the spires of Kilnhome. I am not afraid to admit it. I am hopeful for what tomorrow will bring.
And so the sun rises. Another day of travel awaits. I find my thoughts wandering one final time to all that was and all that may yet be. There are times when some small part of me longs for the Nightness. I miss seeing the world at night, and I miss soaring through the rain and clouds. It is better that my magic is gone for now. Those powers were not meant for anyone to have. But I should not fret. I know the Nightness will return. The closer the Black Moon comes, the more powerful I will become.
It is dawn now. The sunlight glitters over my shoulders. I am warmer. I feel new life inside me, and I am happy. Sometimes it feels hot, like broth in my belly. Sometimes it feels cool, like water. At other times it makes me queasy, dreadfully so. Before we left, Marid’s mother said all these feelings would pass, but I am not so sure.
I remember thinking once it would be better that I never have a child. I was afraid it would be like me. I worried for what it would feel. But now I worry less. My little Anderae will not grow up in darkness. No. Never. It will not be alone with its fears. No one was there for me until the shadows had already done their work, but it will not be the same for my little one. I will teach it. I will help it conquer its fears. I will show it how to be strong. How to love.
Just as I loved Garrett.
Epilogue – The Visitor
On a warm summer’s eve in the northfields of Romaldar, the sweltering sun beat the earth. Dry and hot, the wind whipped through vineyards and orchards, rustling leaf and vine, fair setting fire to the people tending their fields.
It was in this place, a realm so green and alive, a hamlet thrived on the very borders of Roma country. The hamlet was a small, simple place. A river, two hills, and a valley deep and wide kept it secret from most of the world. For the farmers who worked the valley soil, the hamlet was home. For a handful of others, the little city of some hundred folk was a place to go where none would think to look for them.
In the furthest field from the hamlet’s heart, where the wind whipped hardest and the river bent northward into Grae country, a lonely house sat amid the grass. The old house looked every bit a tired, rickety place to live, but in truth it was as sturdy as a boulder sunk deep into a riverbed. Its porch was built of mortared river rocks, its roof of dark, hard planks of timber found in forests far beyond the vale.
It was in this house, so far from her homeland, Nephenia of Yrul had come to live.
Nephenia and her youngling son called the place home, safest of all the places they had found to live. No one much cared whether she had bought the place rightly or had sneaked in as a squatter. The house’s previous owner was fifteen years dead, and no one wanted the trouble of working his tiny fields, so far from the rest of the hamlet.
At dusk, as the falling sun stained the sky red and burned the grasses violet, Nephenia emerged from her house and stepped onto her porch. Her blue dress was long faded and her feet naked as the stones she stood upon, but she looked no less striking. Her heavy copper hair, straight as thread pulled taut, hardly moved in the wind. Her eyes, cool and calm, gazed upon a world she was at last content to call home.
“Hunter! Hunter, dear!” she called into the twilight. “Suppertime!”
In moments, a willowy boy sped into her sights. The boy looked mostly like her, high-cheeked and cooper-haired, but his profoundly grey eyes were his defining feature. He loped through the grass and leapt onto the porch in a few nimble bounds. She cupped his smiling face and kissed him on the forehead. Nothing was as sacred in the world as Hunter, who made her so proud. He was so like his father, strong as a stallion and twice as brave as a seven-year-old ought to be.
“Did you have a good run today?” she asked as she ushered him inside.
“Yes mama.” He plunked down at the dinner table. “We caught twenty fish, if’n we caught one. Mister Murk taught me how to set a proper snare. We trapped us two rabbits, and Mister Murk cooked them right up.”
Smiling, she set dinner before her son. His size belied his appetite. No sooner did she put down a platter of roasted quail, a huge strand of blue grapes, and a tankard of water fit for a soldier than little Hunter dug in, both hands working.
“Now Hunter,” she scolded mildly. “We must mind our manners. Eat with one hand, never two, and always use your fork. We’re not of this country, and we’ll not always live here. There’ll come a day when we leave Roma and set out to find your father. We can’t be like the Yrul. If we’re to last, we’ll
have to be refined.”
“Yes mama.” His cheeks nearly burst with grapes. “Sorry mama.”
Approving, she tousled his hair and sat across from him. She took no supper for herself tonight. Her appetites were lesser these days, her anxiousness on the rise. She assigned no reason for it other than the worries of raising a boy alone, though in her heart she knew better. Hunter was not like other children his age, she knew. He was smarter than they, swifter to make up his mind and much too prone to bouts of brooding. He was faster, too. Of all the hamlet’s children, none could cut through the grasses like Hunter, nor nock an arrow, swish a sword, or name the stars one-by-one until dawn cracked the sky.
“What’ll we do tomorrow, mama?” he asked innocently, a strip of quail dangling from his wooden fork.
“We’ll go into town.” She looked to the window. “The wind told me we have visitors. Visitors mean trade, and trade might mean books.”
He squinted at his supper. “How come no one else likes books, mama?”
She had no easy answer to the question. Setting her hands on the table, she thought before speaking. “Not all people are the same, dear. Some treasure the earth and the rain, and live for growing things that others might eat. Some favor the sword, and try to claim dominion wherever their boots fall. Others, like us, are undecided. To understand what you wish for in life, you must first understand what life is. Books help us with that. Books bring to the mind knowledge of the world and all the people in it.”
“I think I understand, mama,” said Hunter.
Supper was soon at an end. The last vestiges of daylight fell away. In the house’s smallest room, Hunter scrubbed himself clean in a bath of cool, clean water, afterward sliding into his bed like a shadow. The same as every night, she tucked him in. She kissed him goodnight, sang him a lullaby, and opened his window to let the moonlight in. She knew he slept better whenever the moon was out. The mere sight of it relaxed every bone in his body.
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