Now, each day they journeyed, the air grew a little warmer, becoming gold and honey‑sweet with the perfume of unfamiliar flowers. They followed the coastline, riding along a road lined with a green‑gold colonnade of ithaya, or sunleaf, trees. Below, the ocean crashed against white cliffs while gulls wheeled above.
At last they could go no farther; they had reached the southernmost tip of Falengarth. As twilight fell–nearly a full month since they had set out from Gravenfist Keep–they ascended a bluff above the sea, passed through a grove of ithayatrees, and rode into a circle of painted wagons shaped like animals both ordinary and fantastic.
Before they even dismounted, Sareth was there. He caught Lirith and Taneth in his arms, pulling them down to him, and embracing them with ferocious strength. Nor was Grace forgotten, for after he finally released Lirith, Grace found herself hugging the Mournish man. She breathed in his spicy, familiar scent, and only then realized how much she had missed him and his deep, bell‑like laugh.
The Mournish gathered around the travelers, leading them into the circle of light while music and the rich scents of cooking wafted on the air. Women in colorful garb approached Brael and the other knights, placing circlets of flowers around their necks, and even Master Larad was treated to a warm welcome. Perhaps warmer than the Runelord might have cared for. He was obviously flustered as three young women slipped necklaces of flowers over his head, and he looked as if he was about to speak stern words of reproach, only then a fit of sneezing took him, and he sat down hard on a stump. The women laughed and clapped their hands.
For a time, Grace let herself forget why she had journeyed there. She sat on a log on the edge of the firelight, eating nuts and drinking smoky wine, and swaying in time to wild music as many of the Mournish men and women whirled about the bonfire in a dance, scarves, jewelry, and smiles all flashing. Sparks rose up to the sky, and as Grace followed them upward she saw a point of crimson light. Tira’s star was not low to the southern horizon as it was in the north, but instead high in the sky.
“I love you,” Grace murmured like a prayer. Maybe it was at that, for the little red‑haired girl was a goddess now, and the center of the world’s newest Mystery Cult.
And perhaps its last as well. Grace’s gaze moved northward. She could not see it, but she knew the rift was still there, and still growing.
The wind rustled through the leaves of the ithayatrees, and only then did Grace realize that the music had stopped. She lowered her gaze and was startled to see that the bonfire had burned low, and that the Mournish were gone. How long had she been gazing at the sky?
“Come, Grace,” Sareth said, kneeling before her. “My al‑Mama is waiting for you.”
She looked around. There was no one in view save Sareth and Larad. “Where did everyone go?”
“Lirith has taken Taneth to his bed, and your knights have been shown to theirs. Come.”
Grace and Larad followed Sareth to a wagon on the edge of the circle. It was shaped like a dragon, its sinuous outline blending with the night. Sareth opened the door and indicated they should climb the steps and enter.
The cramped interior of the wagon was lit by a single candle. In the dim light it took a moment to pick the woman out from the various bundles of cloth and dried herbs. She look like a bundle of rags and sticks herself. Sareth’s al‑Mama was far thinner than the last time they had met; her bones were prominent beneath skin as translucent and yellow as parchment. Grace didn’t need to probe along the Weirding to make her diagnosis. Jaundice. Liver failure.
“Yes, yes,” the old woman said testily. “I’m dying. And it’s about time. These old bones are long overdue for a rest. But that does not matter now. Come closer so these old eyes can see you.”
The old woman leaned forward as they approached. Though clouded with cataracts, her gold eyes were still bright. At last she nodded and sighed, leaning back on her pallet.
“So you have come, as has been fated. I am satisfied. You will find him, and you will help him reach it.”
Grace swallowed. “You mean Morindu.”
“Of course I mean Morindu!” the old woman snapped. “But who is this with you? I see a cloak of power about him, though its cloth is unraveling. A great wizard of the north, he is. Yet he is not the one. What role is his to play?”
“Can you not see in your cards?” Larad said, gesturing to a deck of worn T’hotcards scattered on a table.
“Bah!” the old woman spat. “The cards are useless now. The threads of Fate are all tangled. Nothing is clear. A darkness looms before us, and I know not what lies on the other side, if anything lies there at all. But this I do know.” She pointed a thin finger at Grace. “You will find him, and you will lead him to his destiny. I have summoned ones to help you on the journey. That is all I can do. As for the rest . . .” She lowered her hand and heaved a rattling sigh. “It is up to Sai’el Travis.”
Grace wanted to ask her more–how she was supposed to find Travis, what she should tell him when she did, and what they needed to do.
“Go,” the old woman said, her voice a sullen croak. “I wished only to look upon you, and now it is done. I will not see the end of this, but now I know that an end indeed draws nigh. Go, and leave me to my own end.”
Grace met Larad’s eyes, and the two of them stepped from the wagon. They found Sareth standing near the remains of the bonfire.
“She’s dying,” Grace said.
Sareth nodded, his coppery eyes reflecting the glow of the embers. “So she has told us many times. Only this time it is true.”
Grace touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be.” Despite the sadness in his voice, he smiled. “Hers has been a long and wondrous life. And perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps it is better if she does not see . . .”
Grace tightened her grip on his shoulder. “We’ll find him, Sareth. We’ll find Travis.”
“I know you will. But there is one thing you do not know. At this time, my sister Vani is on Travis Wilder’s world, on Earth. Even now she searches for him.”
Hope surged in Grace’s chest. She started to ask Sareth how this could be, but Larad sucked in a breath.
“We are not alone.”
Even as he spoke, three dark forms parted from the darkness beneath the ithayatrees. Grace went cold. Had the shadow followed them there, bringing others like it?
No, these shadows moved not with strange fluidity, but rather with feline stealth. Even as they stepped into the starlight, Grace knew what they were. Two of them were men, one a woman. Intricate tattoos coiled up their necks, and each one’s left ear bore thirteen gold rings. All wore sleek black leather.
“ T’gol,” Grace whispered.
Larad gave her a startled look. “You mean assassins?”
“No that’s not what the word means,” Sareth said. “In our tongue, T’golmeans to protect. My al‑Mama summoned them from the Silent Fortress of Golgoru. They will accompany you on your journey.”
“Why?” Grace said.
One of the T’golmoved forward. He was tall and slender, his eyes the color of aged bronze. “It is for this that our kind has trained for a thousand years, Sai’ana Grace. Three of us were chosen for this highest honor. We will accompany you on your journey to the dervish, as well as to the ancient city of our people. We are yours to command.”
Three T’gol–three warriors all trained like Vani–following her orders? The thought stunned Grace, even as it renewed her will.