The Grey Between
At the end of his life, Gordan felt pain, but that pain was brief. He found himself standing before a pulsing, shuddering emptiness that drew in a massive burst of living shadow. Other men, women, and children were huddled together near this emptiness, staring up at it in horror and dismay.
“Will you come, Gordan, son of Rheinallt?”
A woman’s voice. Full of warmth, and spoken through a sad smile, he was sure of it.
“Where?”
“Turn and see me, Knight of the Valadin. Turn and see me or turn and go your way.”
There was no malice in her voice, yet there was steel. She would welcome him, or she would wish him well. She would not try to wheedle or waste time.
Gordan turned to her—turned away from the shuddering mass of the empty looming above him—and caught his breath.
She was perfection. She stood in battle dress—a well-used and well-cared-for suit of mail overtopped by an armored riding skirt. She held a wicked-looking halberd at her ease in one hand. The other dangled empty at her side. One long war braid of pale honey lay against her left shoulder. Her eyes danced as her lips parted in a small smile.
“I know you… I’m certain I know you, Lady.”
She nodded, her smile growing a touch wider. Her skin had the glow of dream-women, yet he knew this was no dream.
“You do know me. But can you name me? I think it’s only fair to ask. You’ve not spoken to me or sought out my aid or succor in a goodly while… save once.” She grinned. “I don’t want just anyone drinking in my hall, sleeping in my hall… passing out and breaking wind in my hall, Sir Gordan.” Her eyes danced.
He shook his head, but only to clear it. “You’re … Traeadish.”
“Mmm. I am.”
His eyes grew wide, then filled with tears. “I’m… I’m dead, aren’t I.” It wasn’t a question. “This isn’t some goblin or Nebelblut sorcery, is it?” He all but spat that foreign word.
“If you want to see Nebelblut sorcery, turn around.”
He did. The great emptiness that had been lingering above him was coalescing into … something.
“What is it?”
“My great enemy. Well, one of my great enemies. One can never have too many of those, I think. Not while well still waits.”
He looked back at her, but she was walking up beside him.
“I do know you. I just… I’m not sure how to address you.” He paused, then said aloud the thing he’d been afraid to admit even to himself. “I fear that saying your name will make it all true. That saying it aloud will make it… I don’t know, final?”
She nodded. Her look left the impression that she understood his fear and thought no less of him for admitting it.
“That makes sense. It isn’t true, but it makes sense.”
“There’s nothing to be done?”
“We can stay and watch as he finishes absorbing your shadow.”
“My shadow… But I’m right here. I’m only shadow now.”
She laughed, a musical thing full of a joy that could not—would not be extinguished.
“You’re a spirit now, Sir Gordan. You’ve been removed from the Cycle of Seas. You’ll never be reborn, never be a whisper in some later-born son or daughter’s dreams. They eat your shadow, the Nebelblut. When they kill, at least with one of their own weapons, they eat all that you’ve learned and experienced. They devour your past and any future you might have been a part of. Now you’re timeless. You’ll know all that you know at this moment and learn nothing more of substance, no matter how much time passes. You’ll find you have trouble even drawing conclusions. No solving of new riddles, no betterment on past performances. No progress.”
He turned to regard her profile. “Unless I go with you?”
She allowed that beatific smile to brush her lips once more. “If you remain here in the Grey Between, you’ll fade to nothing or become a haunt—the expression of a lone thought driven by a hunger you cannot imagine. Or? You can speak my name, take my hand, and come with me to my hall. There, at least, my power will grant you a touch of shadow. A tether to the pull and indeed the pool of the faithful.”
He bowed his head. “I followed less than half of that.” He grinned. “But it’s enough. If I can’t return to them, then…” He shuddered, both weeping and smiling. “I accept your invitation … Saint Hyrro.”
“Mmm.” She smiled through the sound and nodded, turning so he could take her left arm. “Well, unless I’m much mistaken, the Red Storm is coming. The true Red Storm—not that drizzle you fought beneath at Westsong.” She sighed and shook her head. “I expect I’m about to become very busy. But first… your time on Skolf has come to an end. Let me welcome you home, Sir Gordan. If you’d do me the honor, I would like to hear you sing at tonight’s feast.”
He laughed as he inclined his head to her. Taking the proffered arm, he put his back to the shuddering emptiness that was even now completing its transformation.
“My Lady, it would be my decided pleasure,” said he. Gordan—Sir Gordan of Knell’s Stone, knight of the Valadin smiled through his tears and walked, leaving Skolf and all its woes behind.