EPILOGUE: Fanatics and Farewells
It wasn’t yet dawn when the woman known as Commander Golova sat down to write a letter of resignation.
She didn’t trouble herself with unnecessary language or grammatical flourishes. After the death of both the Avardi Matriarch and First Daughter, it was a well-known secret that more than a quarter of the militia’s ranks intended to hand in their uniforms or had already resigned. Not that Golova was sad to see the Avardi line ending, or to hear that the First Daughter had died drowning in her own blood—the woman was an insufferable bitch, and the world was a better place now that she was gone.
The simple fact of the matter was that sudden, drastic changes in leadership make the rank and file nervous. If Ruslan Avard thought that he could inspire his soldiers to stay out of any sense of loyalty, the man was in for a rude awakening. In Agareth, women ruled, and men followed orders—those were just the realities of life in that day and age. Golova wasn’t one of the senior detail, just a mid-ranking officer in a far-flung district. She would not be missed.
On the other hand, to hear that the Alenir girl had succeeded in her quest for revenge—that was so much more interesting. The Commander had watched her progress with great interest. By now, news that both Clan Alenir and the Deathbringer had survived would be spreading within Whitehold and beyond the city environs like frost on a south-bound wind. Within a week, it would reach the Imperial capital; in a month, the whole world was bound to know the name Inga Alenir.
There were some unsubstantiated rumors about Frostbite’s whereabouts, and one story seemed to imply that Inga had taken the arbiter of the winds, rather than giving it back to Ruslan Avard. If that turned out to be true, the woman named Golova would be concerned—a Spellsword was far too valuable a thing to be simply taken or given away on a whim. But she’d worry about such things another time.
With her letter finished, the woman folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope and left it on her cot along with her uniform, badge, and a folded leather eye-patch. The woman had places to be, but was in no real hurry—she had all the time in the world.
Far from Whitehold—across half of the known world—a bell rang out across the Holy City of Sitania twelve times, announcing the arrival of the Midnight Hour. It was the night of the full moon, when Mother was at her apex; the silver glow spread out across the tall, ivory domes of the Holy Basilica and over the city, throwing long shadows from the immense carved swords of stone topping the tall spires. It was said that a full moon was a harbinger of good luck and good fortune, when the heavens smiled down upon Agareth. Some even believed that miracles came on nights when Mother was at her fullest.
Rubbish. A miracle was just a futile hope in the divine, a longing for assistance from some greater power. What the weak-minded called “miracles” were oftentimes the deeds of stronger-willed men and women, those willing to act while others wasted time with prayers.
At least one man in Sitania had no time to spend waiting for miracles. He was an older man: his hair was more grey than black anymore, and he carried a thin shade across his chin and cheeks that no amount of shaving could banish for long. His eyes were clear, and they burned with the zealous fire of a man convinced of his mission, however impossible it might’ve been. His name was Boros Rajmund, and the Divine Mother—the head of the Anointed Church herself—had charged him with nothing less than saving the world.
He walked through the dark halls of the Basilica, unafraid of the thick shadows cast by the tall columns and stone statues that towered overhead, graven images of long-dead Saints, of dead Divine Mothers and Matriarchs of the Anointed Church. Boros was one of the Saintsworn, ordained knights who served the Church, who served as Her hands to hold a sword and defend Her honor when necessary. As it turned out, the Church’s honor would most certainly be in need of defending after that night.
Boros had time to reflect on his charge as he emerged into the moonlight, walking towards the Saintsworn chapter house. He puzzled over the nature of his mission and what would be required of him, of whom he could trust and who he should take with him on the long journey ahead. He would have to be quick, to strike at the serpent’s head at the first opportunity. On the other hand, Boros would also need to be cautious, lest his pride be his own undoing. It was a tricky business, being a miracle worker.
Up ahead, a pair of bright-steel lamps glowed in the darkness. A solitary figure awaited him on the chapter house steps, dressed in plain black with a grey cloak and hood over his head, the customary uniform of a knight when not on duty. Even as Boros approached, the other man pulled his hood back; his hair was short and shot with nearly as much grey as Boros’ own. “Well, what is it?” he asked. “What did the Divine want?”
Boros reached out, clapping the man on his shoulder. “Brother Lenda, we’re going to save the Church and all of Agareth with it.”
Lenda’s eyes got wide. “‘Save’ it? What sort of threat could be that dire, man?”
“The Deathbringer. It’s back.”
I walked slowly through the farmstead, hands folded behind my back, just soaking in the warm sunshine. A pleasant wind was blowing out of the west on a glorious spring morning, and all around me, there was a buzz of activity. All of the flower arrangements—both fresh and dried—were already hanging up in place, while cooked dishes for the guests were finished: the smells of delicious things wafted out of the window of the main house kitchen, making me feel warm with nostalgia.
I took in the sights and sounds of the place around me, soaking them up, etching them into my memory. The smells of flowers, of food cooking, of fresh growing grass and things I hadn’t remembered until that point, all of it was as sweet as honeysuckle on my tongue, but also with a faint, bitter aftertaste. The central yard was still set up for a ceremony that would never come. I heard the laughter of children, the talking of voices close-by that I’d been in too much of a hurry to hear that day. All of them were precious and dear things, and I tried to memorize every single one.
“There you are.”
It took a moment for me to find the strength to turn around. The sound of laughter faded a little; the sun seemed a little less bright. Yet turn I did. “Hello, Mother.”
Ilyan Alenir wore her sky blue dress, just like I remembered. She still looked too thin, too severe, but that was how she’d always been—I wouldn’t change anything about her for the world and all of the Spellswords in it.
“I’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been? We need to discuss something, Inga. It’s important.”
I reached up, took my mother’s hands. I looked into her eyes—eyes that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember the color of. “I’m sorry,” I told her.
“Sorry?” Ilyan looked surprised. “For what?”
“That you aren’t real.” My heart burned when I said it, but I refused to lie, most especially to myself. “For what happened—everything, all of it. For not saving you. That there was nothing I could do to stop what happened that day.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what you can’t change,” Mother said, imparting advice just like always, brushing the matter away like a bit of dust on a summer breeze. That was just like her.
“You might say the same thing now…if you were still alive to say it.” I took her face in both hands, leaned in, and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. “I love you, Mother.”
My mother stopped, looking surprised, unable to speak. That would’ve been just like her, too.
“Be well, Mother,” I said, stepping back with a sad smile. “Watch out for me, please, wherever you are. I don’t have your strength, but I’ll do the best I can.” Then I turned away, forcing myself to repeat my walk in the direction of my mother’s shack, towards the barn where I knew someone was waiting for me.
I approached by a different direction, taking a circuitous route around the far side of the building. Pyotr was standing in the shade, still dressed in his wedding clothes. This time, he was looking in the direction of the road beyond the main house, shading his eyes with one hand—Yenda the Younger and her riders had come from that way. Far in the distance, I watched the wild grasses sway and blow in a late morning breeze.
“Beautiful day,” he said as I approached.
The words stopped me in mid-step. I scrunched up my nose. “Of all the things you said to me that day, now you want to talk about the weather?”
Pyotr laughed, and my heart crumbled when I heard it. “Well, why not? I loved days like this, you know that—bright sunshine, good wind, barely a cloud in the sky… It’s just the sort of weather where you can get lost out in the wheat field with your girl all day.”
It was so unexpected that I laughed, too. “Yes, I definitely remember that kind of weather.” I fought back against a sudden rush of sorrow that burned at the corner of my eyes, and that time, I won.
He looked at me from alongside, a sly grin on his face. “Do you remember the night out on the river, too? When Old Vyekk found us after we lost our clothes when they washed downstream?”
I didn’t know I could blush in the Veil. “Yes, I remember that too, thank you!”
Pyotr laughed again, but it was softer now, gentler. He walked over to me, wrapping his arms around me. “I’ll miss you, you know,” he murmured into my ear.
“Pyotr…” I let my head fall and the tears flowed as free as they ever had; when I felt his arms tighten around me, they only came harder and faster. I clung to him, pressed my face hard into his chest and allowed myself to have this one, selfish moment.
“Shhh,” he said, in that foolish way men always do. “It’s alright.”
“It is not alright!” I protested, not looking at him, but not letting him go. “I can’t—!” I coughed, cleared my throat, tried again. “I can’t keep…can’t keep doing this: seeing you, finding you here in this place. I hate knowing I’ll wake up and when I do…you won’t be there.” Now I did look up, staring at him through the tears. “If I keep doing this, I’ll hate myself. But if I don’t keep doing it, I’ll hate myself anyway.”
“I won’t ever be far from you,” he said, kissing my brow; his breath was warm across my scalp. “I promise.”
“It’s not enough,” I answered, my throat almost too thick to speak anymore.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered—I’d heard him say that before to me, many times. “But that much, at least, I can still do.”
Suddenly my tears turned to angry laughter. “Look at me! My imagination is promising things to myself.”
“Maybe…maybe not,” he repeated, but now it sounded insistent, like he wouldn’t give up.
I rested my head against his chest again. “I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing why. When I looked up at his handsome, smiling face, I cupped it in my hands, trying one last time to etch it in my memory, knowing that it would eventually fade and hating myself for that.
“Don’t forget about me,” he said with his beautiful, tender smile.
I shook my head, feeling fresh tears in my eyes that refused to fall. “Never.”
“I love you, Inga Alenir,” he said. “I always will.”
“I love you too, Pyotr Alenir,” I said with a trembling voice. “With all my heart. Now and forever.”
I kissed my husband, my wonderful man, one last time.
“Good-bye.”