Epilogue
The Westietas’ Midwinter Beholding that year would later be considered the start of a new era for Rhothans and Ansnans, of Vorkoun and Mondir, alike. Following the festivities, the Baron Westietas, though exiled, provided a way forward in dealing with the Eld concerning their train outside of Avyo and the court. He revealed the result of secret consultations with a prominent Ansnan engineer, who was present at the gathering to the consternation of many. The best route for the tracks was not, as feared, through the northern—Rhothan—portion of their city, meaning most would be destroyed. The best route was to utilize the causeway itself, the Ansnan providing assurance the massive structure was more than able to bear the load of track and traffic combined.
With this, the baron and chancellor’s joint proposal to build a maintenance facility for the train’s engines and a station to receive passengers and goods was received with cheers and vows of investment.
Any who brought up the baron’s current exile and lack of power in Avyo, who dared claimed Prince Ordo wouldn’t stand for Vorkoun acting independently and they were reckless to try, were drowned out by the joy of those seeing the chance for a peaceful, profitable future.
Though the baroness quietly took note of their names before having a conversation with their other Ansnan guest.
“Weed. Your toad’s in my bed again. It’s—it’s clammy!”
Werfol smiled into the dark. “That’s because it likes you.” He’d wondered where the house toad had gone, had worried, in fact, it might have chosen to stay in the edge. How it had returned to their bedroom unnoticed was, quite simply, among the tricks house toads could do. “Maybe it’ll start laying eggs.”
There was the sound of blankets being tossed and a plop! “Not in my bed!”
A moment later, Werfol felt a weight settle on his foot. It wasn’t too heavy.
It felt just right.
It wasn’t the next evening, or the next, but three before Werfol finally brought his family, with Dutton but without the house toad, who wouldn’t leave their improved fireplace, along the path leading to the ossuary. A cloud caught on the furthest mountain peak sparkled with snow, but the sky was clear.
The sun, low.
They’d dressed warmly, being out so late, and brought lanterns for the walk home. Momma and Poppa, like Dutton, wore swords and pistols over their coats, having been warned of the nephrit and other dangers. But Werfol suspected they’d be safe. After all, Dauntless and Spirit weren’t in their stable.
They weren’t here either, not that he could see, but he didn’t doubt they were being watched.
Semyn shivered. “Are you sure I’ll remember?”
“The kruar did,” Werfol reminded him. “You will,” he promised, not that he could or should, but he hoped more than he’d hoped for anything and that had to count.
Poppa adjusted the pack he carried. He kept looking around, as if expecting a sign. “I’ve walked this path my entire life. And at sunset,” he said, sounding a little frustrated, as if somehow he’d missed the obvious. “How could I not know?”
The edge wasn’t obvious at all, so Werfol grinned. “Things hide.”
Momma nodded, her eyes busy too. “Wise of them. Lead the way, sweetling, and we’ll follow.”
Werfol stepped in front, though he grew a little scared until he caught a glimpse of dark brown hide in the brush beside the path and knew he’d been right. The kruar were here and would guard them.
He wasn’t entirely sure he could tell where the edge began, having been busy being chased by the Round Man—who’d turned out to be a hired assassin and had given Momma interesting names before being turned over to the Ansnan authorities in Mondir, that being another part, she’d told them, of building peace.
They walked together down the path. The companionable crunch of leaves and soft breaths of family wrapped themselves around Werfol’s heart. There were no secrets left, except for the house toad which wasn’t so much a secret as a guest disinclined to be shared, disappearing if anyone else entered their room. He and Semyn had decided to accept the toad’s wish, it being impossible to prove there was a toad. Unless there were eggs, but thus far, they’d not found one. Semyn had told the toad to lay them in the kitchen, for the cook, but who knew if a toad listened?
He walked out of the shadows of the forest, the swath of song stones—of scree—to one side, bright and white. Werfol pointed. “I was in the middle, over there.”
“Shall we wait here, then?” Momma asked. “The stones would seem to belong more to the Verge than to us.”
Werfol wished he’d thought of that. Still. “I think we should go in a little. To be sure.” He led the way over the tightly packed stones, to a spot where they could all stand together. Before they’d taken two steps, Semyn grabbed his hand. “Weed—I remember. I remember! It’s all true. Wisp and Jenn and Marrowdell.”
The brothers hugged one another and bounced for joy, not noticing how their fond parents—and the famous Dutton Omemee—wiped their eyes.
Then Poppa eased off his pack and knelt, gently tipping out the contents. The stones from inside rolled and clattered as they joined the others, but were otherwise silent.
To Werfol’s deeper sight, they had faces, but they were frozen in grimaces and horrible screams. Probably dead, he thought sadly. Even so, they’d decided as a family that the stones in the house rightly belonged here—another reason for the delay in coming, for it took two masons much of a day to pry them—carefully—from the fireplaces.
Dutton made to speak, then stopped.
For the turn had come. Nephrit snarled from the forest and larger things howled. The kruar roared, quieting them all.
Eyes popped open and Semyn let out a gasp. The scree weren’t hiding, not at all. The entire slope of the mountain stared at them in a most unsettling manner.
Werfol pulled out a hammer. It wasn’t big, being a toy hammer he’d kept in the chest in their bedroom with the stuffed bears and Goosie and odd things neither he, nor Semyn, were willing to part with quite yet.
Stubby little hands reached out pleadingly.
On impulse, he gave the hammer to the scree closest to the silent ones.
The scree’s wide wrinkled mouth turned up at the ends and it struck the nearest silent stone with a mighty blow.
Eyes blinked, slowly, one at a time, and Werfol held his breath.
Encouraged, the scree with the hammer began smacking all the stones, over and over. Its neighbors joined in, rolling into one another until the air rang with a sound like bells.
Then every scree stopped, and it was very quiet indeed.
Until one of the stones from the house reached out and took the toy hammer, then smacked itself. The tone produced was so sweet and pure Werfol felt tears come to his eyes, and it only got better as the others grabbed for the hammer and smacked themselves and each other and the people watching had to laugh.
The turn passed. The scree became white little stones again and the air filled with the quiet of peace.
“Hearts of our Ancestors,” Poppa prayed after a long long moment, “we are beholden for this gift and for our son’s precious sight.” He let out an unsteady breath. “And I want a map of where the edge meets our world here. Sooner than later.”
“Agreed,” Momma said. She bent down to kiss Werfol on the head. “Home for something warm by the fire first.” Then she bent, a little less far, to kiss Semyn. “Be brave.”
Because in a few footsteps, his brother would forget what had happened, and think only that they’d come to see the sunset, and Werfol wished with all his big heart it were otherwise.
But he wasn’t turn-born, like Jenn Nalynn, and couldn’t wish things true.
Semyn put his hand on Werfol’s shoulder and gave him a little push. “Don’t worry. Weed will remember for me and I’ll believe him. That’s how it will be,” in his high, but adult voice.
The truth shone in his face. Before they could all start to cry again, Werfol pushed back, making his brother stumble into Dutton, but he was smiling and Semyn was too.
“That’s how it will be,” he echoed, making it a promise.