“It wasn’t your death.”
“What?”
“The oaths you took were not yours. The words you spoke were someone else’s. When the time came for your last words, you had none of your own to give.”
“What do you mean?”
Gariath’s voice became a growl. “You wanted to die like a Rhega. But you’re not a Rhega.” He held out his hands. “You can no more die someone else’s death than you can live his life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“WHY THE HELL NOT?” The roar tore itself out from somewhere deep in his chest. “Why can’t you understand? Why is it every time I try to explain this, no one seems to be able to figure it out? Everyone always just says ‘what’ or ‘huh’ or ‘wow, Gariath, what the hell does a Rhega even do?’ And then I have to say that a Rhega charges onto a giant fish-thing on the off-chance it might save some humans while the green-skinned cowards that were supposed to be like him skulk and cry and weep about not dying gloriously.”
Shalake’s lip curled backward in a sneer. He mustered as much indignation as he could with one eye. “You dare call us cowards?”
“You fled.”
“We were wiped out!”
“You were given death. Was it not as glorious as you hoped it would be?”
“Ah, how wonderful for the glorious Rhega to honor me not in battle, but in lecture.” Shalake spat. “You intend to try to tell me the weight of death? My brothers and friends are dead. My leader is dead.”
“And all you can think about is how you could say nothing for it. No goodbyes, no great monologues, no answers from ancestors or ghosts to tell you you did good. No words. That’s true death.”
“True death? And you claim I give it too much glory? I saw death today, Rhega. I saw two hundred corpses and they all looked exactly the same.” He thrust a finger at Gariath. “You carry death on your shoulders like it was your son. You ran off into battle without a second thought for us. Those who knew you, your people.”
“You knew only songs.” Gariath snarled. “You knew legends.” His eyes narrowed. “And until I came here, I realize that’s all I knew, too. I came here expecting to find a ghost, a scent of memory, an answer from death. But I can smell only water and death now. Do you know why?”
“Possibly because of all the water and death.”
Gariath glared at him before leaning down to the earth. “There’s no blood here. There’s no scent here. There are no ghosts here. The Rhega who were here took everything they needed when they left to the afterlife. They had no need to stay behind. In their deaths, they did all that they needed to.
“I thought that was impossible. How could anyone die without having regrets? How could anyone die without sorrow for the sons he lost?” He drew in a breath, found it sweet and coppery on the back of his tongue. He blinked moisture from his eyes. “Maybe some never do. And maybe some just turn their sorrow into rage. But there are others who do what they need to when they need to. And when they die doing it, they don’t linger.
“Not all deaths are the same,” Gariath said. “Some of them last forever.”
Shalake’s good eye reflected a pain not present even when the other had a shard of bone stuck in it.
“And that’s who you would die for? Not us, who know your songs. Not the closest thing to a Rhega you will ever see. But humans. Weak, stupid humans who stand for nothing but gold.”
“Yeah.”
The moment he said it, some unconscious part of Gariath wanted to punch himself squarely in the face.
“Yeah. For them.”
Shalake opened his mouth to ask for justification. Gariath’s glare silenced him. Fortunate, the dragonman thought. It was difficult to justify that which was barely understood, much less what was painful to say.
But between the two creatures that shared scaly skin, between their clawed hands that clenched into scarred fists, in the barest space between the point where their easy scowls and easier rage clashed in the air, the knowledge was there.
The knowledge that, when the bodies lay dying, Gariath had made his choice.
Shalake raised his weapon. Through it all, it had lost only a few teeth. The club’s wood was strong and uncracked, despite the skulls that couldn’t claim the same. He held it out in front of him and dropped it in the sand.
“Where we go from here,” he said simply, “we will need no more old and dead things.”
Gariath watched him go. Gariath looked up at the moonlight pouring down from the sky. A storm cloud, perhaps very late to the party that had raged days ago, rolled over, obscuring the light.
And Gariath stood in the darkness, alone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The beach was warm under his feet. The sun was shining. He smiled for a moment, savoring it all, save the feeling of sand crawling insistently up his rear end. He yawned, stretching his arms over his head.
He paused.
It didn’t hurt.
He looked to his arm and saw it whole, unscarred. He looked down the rest of his naked body, saw no wounds or blood. He laid his head back on the sand and cursed.
“Oh, come on!”
“What’s wrong?”
He rose, turned around and saw her there. Clad all in black, despite the shining sun. A sword at her hip, long and white like her hair. Eyes as blue as the sky overhead and concern etched across her hard-lined face.
“This was supposed to be over.”
“What?”
“This,” he said, flailing out over the beach. “These weird dreams that only a crazy person would have.”
She looked around the beach. “Plenty of people dream of warm shores and sunshine. What’s so weird about it?”
“Aside from the fact that I’m talking to a woman I’ve only heard in my dreams, who is standing wearing pure black on a beach I wasn’t standing on an hour ago, but upon which I now stand, hale and hearty, despite having wounds that threatened to kill me?” He shook his head. “I’m naked.”
“What, you’ve never dreamed of yourself naked before?”
“Not when I’m alone.”
“But I’m here.”
“Which brings me back to my original point. Why are you here? I thought these dreams were from the voice and that’s gone, right?”
She pointedly looked at her feet.
“Right?”
She cleared her throat and looked up with a sheepish smile.
“Kind of,” she replied.
“Oh, son of a-” He slapped a hand over his face, dragging it down. “I can’t even lie quietly with the threat of soiling myself from agony without something psychotic happening. I abandoned the voice.”
“But then you brought it back.”
“But then I got rid of it again,” he snarled. “I threw it away and I haven’t heard from it for a week. . or. . like, two weeks. It’s hard to keep track at sea.” He pointed affirmatively to the ground. “Point being, this crap is supposed to be over.”
“Oh, look at you,” she said, smirking, “all upset that a crazy voice in your head that tells you to kill demons isn’t making sense.” She sighed. “The reason you’re dreaming of me is the same reason you were able to call upon it. Him, rather. He never really leaves.”
“What? Never?”
“He’s a part of you. As much as you are of him. He invested his power in you and can’t be separated that easily.”
“I never wanted that.”
“Well, no shit you didn’t want that. None of us did. But he chose us, regardless. And we do what he wants us to.”
“But. .” Lenk rubbed his head. “I heard other voices. The people in the ice, telling me things. But there was one that told me not to hurt Kataria, that it wouldn’t-” His eyes widened upon her. “You. You told me that.”