110. THE PALE LADY WALKS

Xivan’s story

The Afterlife

An unknown time later

Every soul in the Afterlife looked up to the sky when the sun rose that day.

Mostly because the sun had never risen before, at least not that any souls there had ever seen. The sun hadn’t risen since the demons first arrived, when they’d punched through the boundaries between universes and broken something intrinsic to this place. Since no human souls had been there to witness it, no humans had ever known that it had stopped.

The Daughters of Laaka might have told them, but none had ever been asked.

The sun itself was black, surrounded by a halo of white filaments, eternally in eclipse. The sky was the color of blood.

What else had anyone expected of the Afterlife, honestly?

Souls wandered in a state of numbed shock. There was laughter and celebrations and people racing to the Chasm only to discover there no longer was a Chasm. At which point, they’d laugh and run to where the other side would have been, intent on joining the party at the palace or just jumping headfirst into the Font of Souls now that it lay open and unguarded. It turned out that a great many souls had held off reincarnation out of duty, determined to keep demons from making any further gains into the Afterlife.

As far as Xivan was concerned, every last one of them was a hero to beggar the bravest Quuros soldier. It was one thing to fight and know that you might well be Returned if you died—quite another thing to fight knowing the consequence of losing was to be absorbed into a demon that would continue killing your brethren.

Someone up ahead was playing a stringed instrument. As she drew closer, she saw that it was a young man sitting on a rock, playing a double-strung harp. No one gathered around him, but people shouted encouragements and praise as they passed.

It was easy to embrace the beauty of the moment. The rising sun, the wisps of fog swirling off forest floors, the haunting melody flowing around them. It wasn’t just the people enjoying his concert either. The animals stopped to listen, the birds lined all the treetops nearby, the plants leaned toward him like he was a small sun playing light and warmth just for them.

Xivan stopped by the man’s side.

He glanced up at her and smiled. The musician was a handsome man who’d no doubt learned early that music served as safe passage through many harbors. In this place, that was probably truer than anywhere else, although Xivan would’ve been surprised indeed if he’d avoided the fighting. He had a spear on the ground by his side; he’d likely served at the Chasm.

The harpist possessed both deep black hair that he’d gathered up at the nape of his neck, and an immaculately curled and groomed beard. His fingers were long and supple. His eyes were a green too bright to be anything but House D’Aramarin, although his manner seemed too casual for royalty. Perhaps an Ogenra.

“What’s your name?” Xivan asked.

The fingers faltered, the music stopped. A frown crowded out the smile. He was silent for a long time, and then said, “I don’t remember.”

She nodded. Not unusual. Most people didn’t. She hadn’t at first either, but memories had filtered down like sunlight through the trees. She touched his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

He blinked and shook his head, like trying to get the water out of an ear. “I don’t…” He leaned back, letting the harp balance between his legs. He blinked several times at nothing.

“My name is Surdyeh,” he said. It was almost a question, asked with no small amount of wonder.

“Well met, Surdyeh. So I was thinking—the palace is beautiful and great for throwing parties, as we can all see—but don’t you think we need a little more?”

“The Afterlife has grown a bit crowded of late,” Surdyeh agreed ruefully.

“Right. Now, hopefully, everything will settle down, but in the meantime, we have a great many people who don’t want to go but don’t have a place to stay.”

The musician gave her an odd look. “Agreed, but … wouldn’t that be Thaena’s job?”

Xivan’s mouth twisted. “Probably. If someone finds her, they should let her know.” She smiled at some private joke. “But for now”—she gestured toward the wide slice of earth where the Chasm had once stood—“want to help me build a city?”

His mouth opened at the offer. Perhaps he thought she was joking. When it occurred to him that she wasn’t, he closed his mouth again. “Promise me we won’t have an Upper and Lower Circle—that we won’t push everyone into rich or poor.”

“What would define rich and poor in a place like this?” Xivan questioned, but even as she said the words, she could think of ways. Some people would have more tenyé, or would figure out how to cast spells here, or just be more creative and stronger-willed than their fellows. There would always be two kinds of power: that which one wielded intrinsically through spells or sword or godhood, and the kind that one wielded because everyone else agreed that it should be so. It was shockingly easy to engineer the latter.

So Xivan smiled and said, “I can promise we’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen. We’ll have to be vigilant, though—old habits never fade without a fight.”

She reached out a hand, palm down. In response, a small riot of black leaves and thorned vines broke free from the ground. The bush grew so quickly that by the time it reached her hand, the only portion of the plant that brushed her fingers were the velvety bloodred petals of newly bloomed roses. She smiled fondly. Being dead hadn’t changed how this world felt about her.

If anything, it had strengthened their connection.

Surdyeh stared at Xivan with wide eyes. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t,” she said, smiling.

He shook his head, still startled but now also a tiny bit scared. “I don’t think you need to either.” He slung his harp over his shoulder for just long enough to scramble up to his feet.

Together, they walked toward the land that had once been the Chasm.

In Xivan’s wake, roses bloomed.

THE END