Barrick made his way toward the twilit hill. The creatures of the shadow-herd turned to look at him as he neared, and though recognition gleamed in some of those dark eyes, many of the other deer scarcely noticed him. Only one—the largest of the stags, or perhaps merely the closest—regarded Barrick as if he knew him. A cloud of lavender light hung above the beast’s brow like an immeasurably distant star.
Manchild. You are a long way from what you know. Has your breath stopped so soon?
He knelt before the great beast. Ynnir—my lord. I am sorry I must trouble you…
Trouble? The mighty head dipped. I am beyond that, child. Soon I will be beyond this as well.
For a moment the mystery of it all drove his other thoughts from his mind. Where will you go, Lord? What is next?
It is not known until it is known, Ynnir said. And even those who know cannot say. Why are you here, manchild? You have gone far beyond what you may safely encompass.
I know. But I have a terrible need. He told the lordly beast of his fear and his hope. When he had finished, the stag waited silently for a moment.
If I do this I will not be able to remain here, it told him at last. I will give my last strength and be forced to move on to whatever waits beyond—perhaps oblivion. And still it may not be enough…
I can only ask you, Lord—for the sake of your sister and for the sake of the Fireflower.
The stag turned and walked away from him.
For a moment, Barrick was stunned, terrified that he had been rejected and would be left helpless in these bleak spaces, waiting for the hungry shadows to move in. But he saw that the great stag was moving through the herd. Each one of his fellows that he approached bowed its head as he came, then they stood together, antlers intertwined. Each time Ynnir stepped away, his own flame had grown a little wider and burned a little more brightly.
One by one, the members of the herd added their glow to Ynnir’s until at last a great ball of cold violet blazed above his brow as he returned to the place where Barrick waited. Ynnir seemed fainter now—Barrick thought he could see the dark hills through his body.
Here, the stag told him. The last of the kings by the river give their blessings, though it costs us all dearly. Bow to me and we will give you this last gift.
Barrick lowered his head. The violet light seemed to surround him, warming everything he looked at, although the darkness still stood close on all sides. He could feel the glow inside him as well, strengthening him where moments before he had been as weary as death, lending him hope when he had been empty of all but need. The blessed strength ran through his veins like molten metal, like honey, like the song of a thousand birds. He blinked, and for an instant the dark hills were as bright as if the full summer sun beat down on them. The things in the shadows, panicky in their surprise, fled back into their hiding-holes.
Then the light faded, and Barrick found himself alone on the dark hillside where grass waved in an unfelt wind. Because the kings had made a sacrifice he did not fully understand, he now had the strength to grab at his last chance.
May the gods or whoever else watches you speed your journey, great kings, he prayed. May you find shelter from the storms. May you find green grass and clear water.
The Fireflower only touches something in us that is already there, Barrick thought, and it seemed like a great understanding. Hatred alone can’t take someone as far as I have traveled this journey. He thought of Zosim waiting for centuries in the darkness of the nightmare lands. Lust and greed aren’t enough, either. In the end only duty, or the love from which duty springs, can provide strength for such a journey.
He had left the hill behind him and traveled through another sort of dark land now, one where trees crowded thickly and the shadows were once more beginning to fill with watching eyes. Somehow he had left his four-legged form behind; he seemed to wear a man’s body and move at a man’s pace.
Exhaustion slowed him until it was all he could do to pick his feet up off the ground, but he persevered, and at last heard the sound he had been listening for for so long—a whisper at first, then a murmur that grew louder and louder until it seemed he was hearing the breath of everything. It was a river… no, it was the river, he knew, although he did not entirely understand. More than a passageway to whatever lay beyond death, it was an idea of what the darkness itself could become.
But most importantly for Barrick at that moment, it was the river. The last boundary before the lands of death.
He found her as he had thought he might, standing thigh-deep in the shallows and groping like a blind woman, as though she could not understand where she was. He went a little way toward her but stopped before he entered the river. He knew that would be a mistake, even here where it seemed so shallow.
“Qinnitan.” He spoke quietly, knowing she would be dizzied, fearful. “I am here. Go no farther.” Even these quiet words startled her. She took a teetering step backward and the opaque waters slithered and lapped at her slender hips. She was so young! How could it be that she had suffered so much, seen so much? “How little you deserved any of this,” he said, half to himself.
She stirred. “Who… who’s there?”
“Qinnitan, it’s me. It’s Barrick.” But as he said the name, he suddenly didn’t know what it meant—was it a mortal’s name, or that of a half-blood mongrel of the Qar royal house? A man driven by love, or a man in whom nothing so soft remained? “Come with me, Qinnitan.”
She still didn’t move, and when she spoke, it was as if repeating a word she didn’t understand. “Barrick… ?”
He slowly extended his hand and saw a little of the violet glow kindle on his fingertips. She leaned away but went no deeper into the water. When he touched her, she gave a little shiver but let herself be led toward the grassy shore.
Once her feet touch the earth you cannot look at her. The chorus of the Fireflower had returned as though awakening from a short sleep.
It is the Orphan’s curse. The gods love their tricks, and dreaming gods are the most whimsical of all…
Hold her hand, but do not open your eyes.
We will sing you the path.
A part of Barrick feared it was only errant nonsense—sometimes the Fireflower voices seemed more like ideas than actual intelligences, fleeting phantoms without the coherence of a living person. Still, he knew he could not save her by himself—she was too close to death. He shut his eyes tight, took her hand, and let the voices guide him.
There were times as they walked away from the river that she seemed so insubstantial Barrick could not even be certain he still held her, but he knew he dared not look—that if he did, even the small chance they had would be lost.
Ignore all other voices, the Fireflower told him.
Even those that seem sweet. Keep your back to the river. Trust what you feel.
He let himself open to the darkness and the moving air, the damp air above the slow but powerful black river. He did his best to keep it behind him.
“Qinnitan? I’m here. Can you hear me?”