“Ahem… Darann tells me you’re something of a hero.” The gray-bearded veteran spoke awkwardly, but his pride was obvious.
“No,” Karkald said sincerely. “Not really… it’s your girl, here. She’s the real hero!”
Belynda, holding the Stone of Command, uttered a silent prayer to the Goddess, thanking her for the victory. Then she went to look for Tamarwind.
T he tunnel led down, and Zystyl led the remnants of his force into the cool blackness. It was a narrow passage, but for now it promised escape.
“There are wells and mineshafts here, lord!” declared one of his underlings. “Routes the sun-lovers would never dare to follow.”
“Very well-keep going,” declared the arcane. Around him were the remnants of his army, but he could tell from the sounds and smells, and from the deeper auras of fury and despair, that many thousands of the Unmirrored still survived. “We shall seek escape in the tunnels under the Fourth Circle.”
And later, he would plan for revenge.
N atac and Karkald watched the Darken Hour settle over the lake. The crest of the distant hills still glowed bright even as the valleys, the streets and byways of the city, fell into thickening shadow. The two old veterans, joined by a shared sense of melancholy and reflection, had climbed to the top of the tallest battle tower, where they could look over Circle at Center and so much of Nayve.
Sounds of revelry reached them from the terrace, where the enemy’s pavilion had been torn down and thousands of elves, goblins, dwarves, giants, centaurs, and humans mixed in a frenzied whirl of dancing. Natac had seen Tamarwind and Belynda gliding like soaring birds, while Darann and Karkald had swung each other about with acrobatic enthusiasm.
“I’m thinkin’ I might be going back to the Greens,” Rawknuckle said after a period of comfortable silence. “I kind of miss the forests, you know… and the quiet.”
Natac nodded. He looked across the lake, toward the hilltop were he had once found something like a home. That place had no appeal now-it was instead a storehouse of haunting memories, physical reminders of the sorrow and misery that had come to this world with him.
“What about you?” the giant asked softly. “Going anywhere special?”
“No,” replied the warrior from Tlaxcala. “I think I’ll be here forever.”
Epilogue
The small village lay on the western shore of a great inland sea. The horizon-spanning lake was full of sweet, fresh water, home to trout and sturgeon, fertile feeding grounds for the two hundred people who dwelled in the long wooden lodges, who survived by the bounty of the lake and forest. They were part of a tribe calling themselves the Winnebago, and they were a clan of the vast nation known as the Algonquin.
Life and death had been experienced by these people, on this lake, for many generations. Mysteries had been pondered, discoveries made, and always fathers and mothers had tried to make the existence of their offspring just a little easier, a little safer and softer, than had been their own. Rites of many kinds had been practiced, and if none could claim to ultimate knowledge of the supernatural, people knew many rituals that made them feel better, and added a sense of continuity to their lives.
Now a man was embarked upon such a celebration. The proud father carried the little bundle of his newborn daughter, walking through the forest night until he came to a high bluff overlooking the water. The babe, a scarce six hours old, slumbered against his chest while he stared out at the freshwater sea, seeing the dark and misty surface slowly lighten, bluing in anticipation of the slowly rising run. For a time he sat and watched rosy dawn pale the sky, relishing the feel of the tiny body against his chest. Hopes and aspirations entered his mind, and he let them float away… for now, it was enough that there was new life, and that he could feel joy.
When the rays of the sun sparkled off the treetops above him he stood, waiting patiently for the light to work its way lower. The ritual had a meaning that was lost to him, but he took comfort from the clear skies, from the dazzling sunlight over his head, that would warm and welcome his child.
He raised his daughter high, and allowed the sunlight to illuminate the child before the rays fell upon himself. She yawned sleepily, then opened an eye of pure, bright violet-a shade that darkened to purple in the gleam of daylight. She smiled for a moment, cooed peacefully, and then the eyelid slipped shut. Again she slept.
“Welcome to the world, my little girl,” said the father. He held her still for a moment, and then turned back onto the forest trail, to the village, and the tribe and the rich promise of new life.