AUTUMN CLUNG TO THE LAND, slow to relinquish it to winter. The days were cloudy, casting that gentle semblance of sunlight that illuminates the shadows nearly as much as everything else. It rained often, and sometimes it snowed lightly, but we hid beneath our oiled cloaks and rode on regardless. The trees all around us were a thousand shades of red and orange and gold, casting their leaves into the wind to gently brush against us as we carried on.

Our journey had taken us some weeks. After proceeding to the city of Bertram from Lan Shui, we had eschewed the King’s road and struck out west, carrying on all the way to the coast before turning north. There the road is often within sight of the ocean, that endless expanse that stretches forever, a blue blanket strewn with a thousand diamonds. In northwestern Dorsea, just before we turned east for Opara, Dryleaf had fallen ill, and we had halted for a few days to let him recuperate. As we drew at last to the borders of what had once been my homeland, I held on to a hope that our hunt might be at its end.

You will remember, of course, that in Lan Shui we had learned that Kaita was heading for Opara. You will also remember that we thought that message came from Pantu, the young boy who had once been a servant of the Shades, but that it had actually been Kaita in disguise. But of course we did not know that as we approached the city. We thought we would go unseen, and that our quarry had no idea we were even after her.

During our travels, I had engaged in a small project of my own. I told you of Jordel, the Mystic with whom I had journeyed through the Greatrocks, and who had perished before that journey’s end. I had promised the boy, Gem, that I would write a song for him, a song of celebration for a life more eventful than most. I had not had the time to begin it in Northwood, and the road to Lan Shui had provided little opportunity, for we were in a dangerous land. But on the long road to Opara, I spent many nights on watch and many days idle in my saddle with little else to do. And so I had begun my ballad. It was grueling work, for I had never tried my hand at songwriting in those days. It is not as easy as some think—not if you want to do it properly. Sometimes I could summon no words at all. Other times, a part of the song would stick in my mind, repeating itself over and over again, demanding to be improved, until I was rocking back and forth in my saddle, muttering and humming to myself under my breath. 

“Are you going mad over there?” said Mag, drawing me out of my thoughts. “We can seek a healer in the next town.”

I looked at her somewhat ashamedly. Mag sat straight in her saddle, prouder than any Mystic knight, her green cloak fluttering in a light wind. Though the journey had been long, and though we had faced darkness along it—not only the vampires we slew in Lan Shui, but highwaymen and brigands in the wilderness—she looked better than ever, hale and healthy and with a focus honed like a razor’s edge. Indeed, if I was honest with myself, she looked far more natural, far more whole, somehow, than she had back in Northwood. Mag had been happiest there, in those days she had spent with Sten. But there are the things that make us happy, and then there are the things that come to us naturally, and it is an exceptionally fortunate few who can find both things in the same place or circumstance. I think Mag belonged on the road, on a campaign, such as it was, whether or not it was what she desired.

“Forgive me,” I told her. “I had not realized how loud my voice had grown.”

“Really?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I have been unable to pay attention to anything else for some time.”

On Mag’s other side, Dryleaf chuckled, his sightless eyes drifting aimlessly. I had been most worried for the old man when he had fallen ill, but now he seemed even stronger than when we had met him in Lan Shui. He, too, seemed to be a man who belonged on the road—and in his case, it did seem to be his great love, as well. I knew he had been a wandering peddler for many years, long before he met us.

“Oh, do be gentle with Albern, dear girl,” he told Mag. “Any art requires time and patience, and songs most of all. They come to us in dreams, in our mind’s wanderings, a piece at a time. Then we must sit there with the parts of them, shoving them about like a child with a tinker’s puzzle, often going days or weeks without seeing the way they fit together. And then, all of a sudden, the pieces form into a whole, and then the world is forever blessed with a new and beautiful thing. Nothing can fly through the ages like a song.”

“Thank you kindly,” I said, nodding before I remembered he could not see it. “Your support is greatly appreciated, though I can defend myself against this one.” I pointed past Mag at the old man and gave her an admonishing frown. “Do you see? That is how one true friend supports another. With encouragement, not heckling.”

“If I were heckling you, I would have found some rocks to throw,” said Mag. “Carry on with your mutterings, then. There are many beekeepers in this part of the kingdom. Mayhap one of them will sell me some wax to plug my ears.”

I reached over and tried to shove her. Mag snatched my arm and nearly pulled me from the saddle, before catching my shoulder on her knee and launching me back upright. I snatched wildly at the saddle horn to steady myself. Foolhoof, my gelding, snorted loudly and danced beneath me, as though he had sensed an opportunity to try to escape.

“You hush,” I told him, slapping his shoulder—but gently. “You will not rid yourself of me that easily.” I glared at Mag. “Even with her help.”

Mag laughed aloud, dragging a smile out of me. “If I wanted you out of the saddle—”

“—it would already be done,” I finished. “You should be more careful with me, you know. You may be able to best me in a fight, but I am learning to write songs. I could immortalize you in verse as an utter buffoon. That sort of victory lasts forever, Mag; you can only trounce me as long as we are both alive.”

A curious expression came across her, one so tragic and … and weary, that I felt at once that I should apologize, though I did not know what I had done wrong. She smiled at me, but I thought I saw her eyes glisten as she did it.

“You are welcome to your eternal victory,” she said, and the spell broke. Her voice was so cheery, her smile suddenly so genuine, that I felt I must have imagined what I had seen. “I prefer to defeat the person right in front of me, rather than the idea of them many years later.”

I laughed, for it seemed clear that that was the response she needed. Mag and Dryleaf joined in the merriment, while Oku barked and ran two quick circles around our horses.

We fell silent as we rode on. Yet I thought long upon what I had seen, and the way Mag sounded. My words must have reminded her of Sten, I thought. So much had happened since the battle of Northwood, that sometimes I forgot it was barely two months before that Mag and Sten were still living happily in that town, foreseeing no darkness in their future.

“You know, Albern,” said Dryleaf after a time, “I could offer my services in your attempt. I have written a fair few songs in my time, and received praise from kings and princes for them.”

“I know it, friend,” I told him. “I would have guessed it from the moment I first heard you sing. But this is too close to my heart to share with anyone. At least for now.”

Dryleaf pursed his lips and gave a deep nod, pushing his long beard into his chest. “A song of mourning, is it? Very well. You will know when you have healed enough that my advice will be more help than hindrance.”

I glanced again at Mag, but from the corner of my eye so that she would not notice. Mayhap I need not have worried. Her gaze was distant as she let it rest on the horizon, and I doubted she had heard a word Dryleaf or I had spoken.

The old man had said I would know when my heart had healed. But some wounds, I wagered, never healed at all.