“We have little time to prepare if we’re to escape the forces of the Pantheon,” Phoebe says, wiping her tears.
I raise my finger and point to an aquagraphic map display and swipe to the coordinates I want.
“Edmon, that’s on the Nightside of the planet.”
I trace my finger through the aquagraphic writing out the word—WENDIGO. A silence hangs thick in the air, but she nods, understanding that I need to go back. I have one last promise to keep.
CHAPTER 31
DENOUEMENT
I drop from the screamer to the snow pack below. I never thought I’d return to this place. A part of me never thought I’d leave, either.
“Stop there!” The guard in the tower fires his rifle. Too slow. I’m already on the move. I vault up the tower as the guard tries to get a bead on me for a second pull. Bang! His aim is wide, and I leap from the last strut into the bird’s nest. He reaches for a knife, but a well-placed finger strike to his shoulder makes his limb go numb. The next blow downs him. My boot smashes his weapon into pieces. I’m in a destructive mood.
Rung by icy rung I descend the ladder. The journey’s easier than the first time I made it. My feet and hands aren’t bound by chains. I’m also different, stronger. I have purpose. The tunnel opens to the hollow cavern of the firelit village. Frost mixes with musty smell of bodies in furs. I’ve arrived during the sleep cycle so the camp remains in repose like an ancient frontier town. I remember what happened within the icy walls of this cavern, though, and remind myself: There’s no innocence here.
I skirt the gang camps, through the alleys of covered storefronts. My focus is on the old man I once called friend. I make my way through ice and muck to the healer’s hut . . . in ruins?
The carefully crafted igloo has been smashed to powder. Stains of ash from a smoldering fire, long since extinguished, streak the cavern walls. There’s no sign of Faria the Red.
Perhaps I’m naive to think Faria must still be alive, that the old man wouldn’t let himself die so easily. There aren’t many places he could be. Scattered tents and sad, dirty men in furs huddle around fires. Poor souls. I can’t free them now, I realize. I can only free myself.
This whole trip is a risk. Every moment spent is another chance for the Pantheon to prevent my escape from Tao. Fortunately, all eyes will be on the Combat, which begins within the hour. My absence in the arena will not go unnoticed, but the games must go on. I circle the outskirts of the Picker camp then cut through the sleeping bodies to the main bonfire.
“Edmon Leontes?” a hushed voice asks. I’m on the man before he speaks another word. My hand claps down on Carrick’s mouth. Subtlety was never his strong suit. I put a finger to my lips, indicating the need for quiet, and slowly remove my hand from his face. I had thought Carrick dead, but everything’s foggy from that last day. Apparently my old comrade survived, though he’s missing an ear and a hand.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
As response, I point to my throat and the vertical line that runs from chin to clavicle.
“Can’t talk. I see,” he mutters.
I draw lines on my face hoping he’ll understand I’m looking for the man with the facial tattoos.
“Old Faria?” he asks. I nod. “He’s . . . Edmon, he’s not the same.”
I don’t have time for stories. I just need to know where he is. So I shake my head and mouth the word Where?
Carrick points to the corner of the encampment. A sickly fire flickers next to a heap of rags. I nod, thanking the big man.
“Edmon?” he asks. He searches for something else, some other word of comfort, but there’s nothing. “Ancestors watch over you.”
I make my way toward the figure huddled by the fire. The dark man stares into the flames. His face is skeletal, and he’s rocking back and forth, whispering a language I don’t understand. I kneel and take his hand. The old Faria would never have allowed me to do such a thing, but this creature is a mere shadow of what he once was. I look at his fingers. The bones have been smashed and have healed crookedly. I pull back the furs that cover his legs to reveal them similarly twisted beyond repair. This is the payment my father and his men gave him for his service training me in his mysterious arts.
“Edmon.” The old voice croaks catching me off guard. “Is that you?” He turns his blank gaze toward me. I reach out and grip his shoulder. “I knew you would return,” his voice rattles. He reaches beneath his furs, and his gnarled hand pulls out the nightscript reader that contains the map of Miral. “I’m beyond healing,” he says. “They sent me to the Citadel after you were taken, after they broke me. It was hell moving through ventilation shafts with mutilated legs and broken hands. But I never lost hope that you would return and fulfill your oaths to me. The treasure of Miral awaits.” He expects a response. “Why don’t you speak?”
I take his hand in my own. I run his fingertip along the length of my throat so he can feel the scar.
“He offered me freedom, Edmon,” he laments.
He lied to you, old man.
“Know that I never would have taught you, if I felt you unworthy. That was real. The treasure is real. I believe it can return your song to you, if that’s what you choose . . .”
My whole life was a lie, including my friendship with Faria. It doesn’t matter. The shaman once told me that I was using him just as he was using me. So I will use him now. I take the reader from him and stand.
“Wait,” he croaks. “Remember the oath you made the day I gave you my knowledge?”
To take a life of his choosing when he asked it of me. All agreements are null and void now. My training was paid for long before he taught me a single thing.
I won’t kill, old man. Not Phaestion. Not my father. I will not kill at the behest of another. Not now, not ever. That is the sacred oath I have made with myself.
“Take my life, Edmon of House Leontes. Please help me go, without pain,” he begs. “I cared for you, watched over you. I shared my story with you. That was real. Sometimes death is kindness. End my suffering, please.”
What about my suffering and all I’ve lost?
“Please—” he whispers.
Words The Maestro taught me echo in my memory. A story of two star-crossed lovers fated to die in the end. I think of my own star-crossed love . . .
Que fais-tu, blanche tourterelle, Dans ce nid de vautours? Quelque jour, déployant ton aile, Tu suivras les amours!
Gentle dove, wherefore art thou clinging to the wild vulture’s nest? Trust me soon thou wilt be awinging to a far dearer breast.
My finger contacts his temple just as Faria taught me. I feel the spark of his life go painlessly dark. His eyelids fall, and in this last instant of life, I feel something between him and me. No words can name it, but if they could, the closest translation would be forgiveness. So ends Faria the Red.
The music swells.
Un ramier, loin du vert bocage, Par l’amour attiré, à l’entoure de ce nid sauvage, A, je crois, soupiré!
See you guard him safely, that they live will know! Or your dove may flutter, from his cage and go!