Sand tossed his beard and robe in the back of the caravan without bothering to fold them. The rain was starting, and they needed to get the gear out of the open. Vincent as well was trotting along, his wooden sword stuffed under his cloak to protect it from the first drops. Only Toby dragged his feet, as usual, standing a few feet away from the caravan, still thumbing through the last few pages of the play script.
“Come on, Toby!” Vincent called. “We’ll finish it after the rain stops. Or tomorrow if it gets late!”
The rain-spattered Demon looked up, a mule-emperor expression on his face. “I thought you said we all died!”
Sand raised his hands in exasperation and crossed through the increasing rain to grab Toby by the elbow and drag him toward the caravan. He didn’t particularly care about the actor getting wet, but the script and the costume cost money. “I lied to you, Toby. You would think you would stop being surprised by that peculiar habit of mine.”
“You said the Demon and the Paladin died! And the Sage too!” the blond actor yowled in existential outrage.
“That’s not the kind of play this is. Death is simple and common. They each lose something, you see? The Sage loses his memory, the Demon learns that the Fountain of Purity is dry, and the Paladin—”
“How can it be a tragedy if nobody dies?” Toby threw the script down on the rain-wet ground. “It’s not funny enough to be a farce, and nobody gets married, so it’s not a comedy. What kind of stupid play is this?”
“I liked it,” Vincent offered from under the caravan’s awning.
“Tragedy isn’t about death,” Sand said, rain filling the square. “It’s about loss. The irreplaceable, the essential, the most dear. Death is an exit, an actor changing clothes. Common, regular, expected. But when the character loses something and then must go on regardless . . . ah, then we see the shape of the knife. The Demon will never know release from his torment, but he must go on regardless. The Paladin sold his heart in return for the sword of demon’s bane, but he must go on regardless. Going on is the tragedy—going on and remembering. Remembering yourself before, before you were broken.”
“But they aren’t really broken in this play,” Toby argued, the anger in his face gone. “There’s adventure and laughter and they are still together at the end. Even though they lost someone—something, irreplaceable.”
“They’re still in the game,” Vincent added, crossing through the rain to join his fellow actors. “We are still in the game.”
Sand bowed his head and allowed himself the actor’s shame.
Real tears.
“I miss her,” he said.
Toby was first to embrace the bald man, and Vincent’s gangly arms were not a second behind.
The three actors stood in the rain together.
Sand looked up into the face of his troupe and let the rain hide his professional lapse. “Well, let’s go on, then.”
And they did.
*
Xenon brought Tobio down to cruise a few meters above the surface of the waves. Mercury was curled up in her lap, snoring wildly. She kept a protective hand on her sister’s stomach, feeling it go up and down with each leonine snore.
An idea struck her, and she craned her neck slightly to speak to Jonas, who was tending to his own sleeping charge.
“Hey, Jonas,” Xenon said.
“Yeah?”
“You know—I just realized that you never actually used that silver sword that we pulled out of the well.”
“Huh,” the squire grunted. “I guess—I didn’t?”
“So, it was completely pointless?”
“I guess so.” The squire shrugged. “Sorry about that.”
“Prophecies,” the archaeologist snorted. “To be expected, I suppose. No offense to your king, but anyone who says they can predict the future is a fool.”
THE END
FOR NOW
JONAS AND RIME WILL RETURN
AS WILL MERCURY AND XENON (APPARENTLY)
IN
A PAPER-THIN HARRY POTTER PARODY:
RIME KORVANUS AND THE COUNCIL OF NINE
OR
DON’T TELL MY CRUSH I’M A WILD MAGE!