THE BATTLE of Hoenholm and the coming of the shifters delayed Thurlock’s plan to take Lucky to Nedhra City, but it didn’t change it. Two days after the battle, in Thurlock’s tower, the wizard laid out his plans.
Lucky wasn’t surprised that Han still objected to being left in charge of the Sisterhold—he did, after all, have a heavy load to carry to fulfill his military duties at the moment. But Thurlock insisted, and ultimately, he was the boss. He reminded Han he wouldn’t be all alone. Rosishan and Lem would be there, and some of the council members could be trusted and useful.
“That doesn’t cheer me up,” Han said.
“Olana’s coming back,” Thurlock said. “Certainly that might ease your mind. Luccan and I will be leaving this afternoon.”
“Why not wait until morning?”
“Because this afternoon seems like a fine time to leave, and we’ll be ready. Stop arguing, Han.”
Han had stopped arguing. He stood up from the table, swallowed the reminder of his coffee and put his cup in the dish tub, and said, “Luccan, how about we go fishing?”
Luccan looked at Thurlock, who shrugged. “As long as you’re ready to go….”
Lucky was ready—everything he’d packed before the battle happened was still packed. So he followed Han out the door and across the green, heading toward the kitchens to pick up some snacks to take with them.
“Does it help, Han? Olana being here?”
“I don’t mind it,” Han said, though he didn’t sound very committed to the idea that she’d ease his burden any. “She’s an amazing person. Strong. Her magic—the way she works with light—it’s powerful but gentle. And she helped me fetch you back from the dark. I like her.”
Lucky said, “She was a little creepy with the Terrathian, though.”
“You were a little creepy,” Han answered.
“I couldn’t help it.”
Han smiled and squeezed his shoulder as they climbed the porch steps. “I know you couldn’t. Besides it wasn’t just creepy, it was also… cool—that’s the word, right?”
Lucky laughed while he wiped his feet on the doormat. Holding the door open for his uncle, he said, “Sure, or you could say awesome, or maybe totally badass.”
“That might be overstating it a bit.”
Lucky’s mood veered over toward lighthearted as they bandied words. With a genuine smile, he accepted the basket of food Shehrice put in his hands, thanked her, and turned to go back out into the summer sun. But after a couple of steps he felt like his own personal dark cloud was hanging overhead. He stopped. Han, a step ahead of him, stopped too and turned back to meet his gaze, looking both puzzled and concerned.
Lucky looked into his uncle’s sharp, red dragon eyes. “The Terrathians, Han. I know they are behind all the terrible things,” he said. “I know they are making it happen—the children, my mother, Mahros, all of it. I know that. But it’s like they never meant to. Like a long time ago they made a mistake and because of that…. They’re desperate, Han. And sad—at least some of them are sad.”
Han sighed. “I’ve got a couple poles all set with tackle behind my house. Let’s grab them and get down to the creek while we have time.”
“You fish a lot?”
“Yeah, but I hardly ever catch anything. On purpose.”
After a couple more steps, without preamble, he responded to what Lucky had said about the Terrathians, giving Lucky something new to think about.
“Mistakes are the way most bad things happen. Sometimes, things seem good and we think that can’t be a mistake, right? But, well, Thurlock can explain this better, but I’ll just tell you what he’s told me. Lots of times. Lots and lots of times. Hundreds of freakin’ times.”
That bit of nonsense picked up Lucky’s fallen spirits, as surely Han had known it would. Lucky laughed, and Han told his story.
“Thurlock says all the bad things, like even Mahl for instance, he’s the flip side of Behlishan, and the pair of them are the result of some mistake somebody at some point made, and things just got worse from that time on. Even the worlds. We love Ethra, and I suppose Earthborns love Earth, but according to the wizard, the split between them happened because of some accidental thing, some intention gone wrong. So yeah, his words, ‘People make mistakes and bad things are born into the universe.’”
They’d arrived at the creek, and Lucky thought about that idea as he accepted the pole Han had been carrying for him, already rigged with a line and hook, and sat down to dangle it in the water—without bait. “Thing is, Han. I feel like I should hate them—the Terrathians, I mean—for what they’re doing, but then I think of how awful it must have been for them to stand by helpless and watch their world die, and I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Hate them. I feel sorry for them!” He looked over at Han. “Have you ever had that happen to you, like in a battle or something?”
Han looked down into the water, nodding slowly. After a moment he said, “Often. Nearly always. But usually, I know I have to fight the ones I feel sympathy for anyway. Because not fighting them will make things end up worse.”
They fell silent, and Lucky started to relax into just feeling easy for a few minutes. He watched a pair of blue damselflies dance around in the reeds, listened to a more melodious than usual bird song, let the water at the stream’s edge tickle his toes. He couldn’t hear the fish, but he could see them, and got a laugh out of Han’s shared thoughts as he warned them away from the hooks.
Then Han cleared his throat and said, “The wizard doesn’t see it quite the same way, though—about sympathizing with the enemy. In my time, the Sunlands has never gone to war except when there was no other way to defend our people against harm, and Thurlock says no matter the present circumstances, people—the ones who end up being our enemies—could choose not to do the sorts of things we end up having to fight them over. He admits the same is true of our side, sometimes. Regardless, according to him, whether or not a bad thing is a mistake doesn’t really matter, because what comes after has to be dealt with one way or another. Of course—don’t ever tell Thurlock I said this—but just because he’s a very aged wizard doesn’t mean he’s always right.”
“I heard that, Han Shieth,” Thurlock said, stepping out of the thick brush growing between the path and the stream. “Good thing you’re right about that or I might have to show my displeasure.”
Truthfully he seemed quite pleased with himself, laughing as he conjured a cushion on top of a flat rock and a table that somehow managed to sit levelly on the sloping creek bank. He pulled a bottle of honey-colored liquid from the deep pockets of his robe, and when he set it on the table, three wooden cups appeared beside it.
“Time for Shahna’s gold, the parting cup, my friends. Han, would you pour?”
Han pulled his fishing line out of the water and laid his pole aside. Lucky followed suit, then he moved to stand next to where Thurlock was sitting, watching while Han stood to pour the traditional Cup of Gold.
When they all had their cups in hand, Thurlock raised his and, rather formally, said, “With this Cup of Gold we remember Shahna, warrior woman who with her sacrifice saved the Sunlands for those who would come after. We are grateful for her gift and her example of honor, which we, as we go our ways, will strive to match. We part now to meet our separate battles, fighting for the day when we will meet again in peace. And,” he concluded with the simpler words that had been all he’d said the last time Lucky had shared the Cup of Gold, “here’s to a good end.”
Han muttered a “Behl eth Dahn,” Lucky copied him, and then they drank.
Lucky coughed a little as the drink burned a fiery path to his belly. Otherwise all three of them stood silent by the stream bank staring at the water, which, Lucky saw, passed by like time: hesitating here and there, catching in eddies and whorls, shifting course, but always going by and always drawing near.
The future loomed large in his imagination, a mystery, and a scary one at that. In battle, he’d seen people die, and he knew the real fight for the Sunlands—and for all of Ethra—was just beginning. Brushing shoulders with death had taught him something, though—no matter whether you’re sixteen or six hundred years old, every breath could be the last one you take. The only sensible thing, then, is to make sure you won’t be sorry you did what you did while it lasted.
Tomorrow’s troubles would come. He had no say in that. But he hoped he’d live up to the faith others had in him. He would try.
Those were grim thoughts, no denying it. Life wasn’t rosy. Lucky grieved for the parents he’d never really known. He still missed Hank George and the simple life he’d lived with that kind old man in Black Creek Ravine. He worried about Maizie and Zhevi and L’Aria, not to mention the fate of his whole country. He pined for Rio, the sweet, strong boy who’d become so precious to him in so short a time.
Maybe the idea of traveling to Nedhra City should have excited him. He’d see new places, learn so many things. But despite grief and responsibility and the dark door to the future, he was still sixteen. Not a boy, but not quite a man, either.
Honestly, when he imagined the wizard Thurlock droning on, lecture after lecture for the whole long ride to the city, the only thing he really wanted to learn was how to doze in the saddle like Han Shieth.