Leaf and Flame

Acclaim for Leaf and Flame

In a story about suffering, healing, and the search for reconciliation, Leaf and Flame offers a suspenseful feast of possibilities with characters and plot. While the evils of betrayal and brutality are palpable, tenderness lies beneath. I could sense it throughout, and it brings hope. In all, this layered novel is a timeless allegory depicting the great agony of fulfilling one’s destiny in the face of deception and physical pain.

—Iris Lee Underwood. Poet and author of The Mantle, American fiction Awards Finalist and Silver Medalist in the Illumination Book Awards.

Dale weaves a captivating conclusion to her excellent series with this final volume, in which the central heroes are put to their ultimate test. Thanks to Dale’s emotional resonance in her character development, and her inventive and compelling dialogue, I felt insight into the twin brothers’ mindset as tension builds. The plot contains more than one surprise that brings about a truly thrilling conclusion to this poignant and action-packed narrative. Five stars.

—K.C. Finn. Readers’ Favorite Book Review

This is a good book. The novel’s climax is spectacular, consisting of slam-bang action that captures the sheer physicality of the whole experience. Filled with impressive visuals, that entire section is worth every page given to it. In all, Leaf and Flame is a worthy wrap-up to the Coin series. It plays out at a satisfying length so that the reader won’t feel cheated. It’s annoying when a plot builds up to the Big Climax and then fizzles. This book doesn’t fizzle!

—Debra Doyle, PhD. Award-winning author of many novels and short stories in science fiction, fantasy, and mystery genres. Co-winner of the Mythopoetic Fantasy Award.

Dale’s concluding story offers many surprises that will delight her fans, making it an essential addition that cleverly sums up the power of all three previous books in a crescendo of action and revised fates. The novel definitively answers the question posed from the beginning: How can a dark spiritual journey lead to the providential grace of dawn?

—Diane Donovan. Midwest Book Review

Dale has created a world like no other in her Coin of Rulve series. In this powerful payoff, Leaf and Flame fulfills every promise of the earlier works in that the story takes readers further into the darkness of a cursed world and into the brave hearts of its most significant characters. The author engages with that basic question with which all humans grapple: the meaning hidden under the mystery of our existence. Dramatic, cinematic, and at times terrifying, this novel offers a roller-coaster ride between some wicked cliffhangers.

—Cynthia Harrison. Author of the multicultural crime novel Lily White in Detroit and the popular Blue Lake novels.

In Leaf and Flame, Veronica Dale again does elegant, poetic work, using everyday items to create powerful, emotional scenes set in an intriguing alternative world. After a careful, emotionally charged buildup, the latter chapters are full of thrilling conflict, action scenes and the heroes’ creative responses. Kudos for the spectacular ending. Bravo for a work that is taut, exciting and full of creative imagery.

—Robert Neil Baker. Classic car enthusiast and author of Gasoline, Coffin Gold, and other humorous, auto-related mysteries.

Dale’s work contains such vivid imagery it definitely needs to be portrayed on the screen. I have been struck through all the Coin books by the humanity of the protagonists Sheft and Teller. They are not comic book superheroes, but real life flesh and blood human beings who struggle under the burden of their calling. The novel is lyrically written and full of profound spiritual significance regarding the themes of good, evil, and redemption. This book is truly the author’s Magnum Opus.

—Roberta Brown. Musician, writer, and poet; president of Detroit Working Writers (2017-2021)

Exciting storytelling that kept me on the edge of my seat. I liked the back-and-forth between the brothers and the bigger-than-life battle between good and evil.

—Christian Belz. Architect, award-winning short story writer, and author of the Ken Knoll Architectural Mysteries series.

Dale presents profound insights into despair and acute anxiety, as well as into empathy and healing. The author creates word pictures that enable readers to see the characters as if on a professionally staged set. Her sensitive observations reveal how a devastated land can ache, how people can experience the deep intimacy that arises from bearing each other’s pain, and how tenderness and kindness are redemptive.

—A.M. Andino Rochon MA, MSW. Educator, psychiatric therapist, and author of Fatherless and The Piece to Peace Cancer Quilt.

Leaf and Flame is the stunning conclusion of a brilliant series. The twin brothers are well-rounded characters who are now working together to achieve their redemptive goal. The plot is rich, complex, and well woven. The descriptions are vivid and the atmosphere just perfect. I will miss these characters! Five stars.

—Rabia Tanveer. Readers’ Favorite Book Review

Leaf and Flame brings the Coin of Rulve series to a triumphant and satisfying conclusion. The author conjures up the land of Shunder in vivid detail without ever losing track of her characters’ internal struggles. This book is an enthralling adventure tale for young and old alike.

—Richard Rothrock. Freelance editor, teacher at the Motion Picture Institute in Troy, Michigan, and author of Sunday Nights with Walt

Dale is an incredible writer with an astounding imagination.

—Sarah Katreen Hoggatt. Book Designer, Lucky Bat Books

Leaf and Flame

Copyright ©2020 by Veronica Dale

All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the permission of the author. For permissions contact the author.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9969-521-7-0

Cover Design: Christa Holland, Paper and Sage

Map: Jaimie Trampus

Book Design: Sarah Katreen Hoggatt

Published by Nika Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

With thanks to the many people who helped me bring this book into being, including my patient husband Tom; Bob, Cindy, and Tom in my novel critique group; my editors Debra and Adele; book designer Sarah; artists Christa and Jaimie; and all my supporters at Detroit Working Writers

A note from the author

At book fairs or interviews, people sometimes ask me why I write. Now that the Coin of Rulve series is over, I’ve gained enough insight to answer that question. Here’s the story.

I started out surrounded by great writers. Our mom and dad saw to that. They were both born of immigrant parents into large families and were the only ones on either side to finish high school—my dad in his twenties and my mom in her sixties. When my sister and I were kids, Mom took us to the library a lot, where I devoured everything from fairy tales to books about raising horses. (I saw no reason why our tiny backyard couldn’t house a pony). I went on to read all kinds of things: mysteries, fantasy, nature, Uncle Scrooge comics, and science books for kids.

After high school, I told my parents I’d like to go to college, not realizing that many people at the time believed daughters weren’t worth the cost of tuition, because all college girls want is their ‘Mrs’ degree. Luckily my parents didn’t buy that: women had brains too. So thanks to a tiny scholarship (a one-time $450 valedictorian award) and a work-study program, I paid the university tuition. It took three busses to get to Wayne State University, but my classes were a real game-changer for me. I discovered a bevy of outstanding writers who made me think and feel, but the most impactful of these was J.R.R. Tolkien and his Lord of the Rings. I must have read it half a dozen times over the years.

After graduation I became a librarian. Surrounded again by great authors, I felt like a happy duck in a great pond. But something was missing. All this time I had a big thing swelling in my heart, but I didn’t know what it was.

I’d been writing since grade school and had written a few short stories in college. After getting married, I began working on a short story called Rue, but put it aside in a turn away from fiction and toward journalism. I edited and wrote feature articles for newspapers and magazines while Liguori Press published my booklets and pamphlets. Rue sat in a drawer.

Now a stay-at-home mom with four children, I volunteered to serve in our church’s Christian Service Commission while hubby watched the kids. Soon one of the staff at the church, located in a large parish in the Detroit metro area, encouraged me to think about a ministerial position there. So, while completing an MA in pastoral ministry, I found myself surrounded by more great writers. They helped deepen a faith that hadn’t really grown for years. After I was hired at our church, I was surrounded again, this time not only by an amazing staff but also by people who came to our church because they were hurting. Part of my ministry was to help the needy, and I witnessed the hope and courage of many people, mostly single moms, struggling with two strikes against them.

All this input was filling the well. The thing in my heart began rising again, becoming insistent, and threatening to overflow. Only lately did I discover it was the drive to articulate, to put words to so much of what I had inside. Rue seemed to cry out from its drawer, and in 2003 I pulled it out and began to work on it. I never dreamed the story would grow into a four-book series, the Coin of Rulve!

While I was writing the Coin series, my first fiction book was published in 2014. It was Night Cruiser, a collection of my short stories that had won commendations over the years. Starting in 2016, the Coin books were published.

Then, in April of 2018, my alma mater, Wayne State, put out their list of the ten top words that deserve to be used more often. I was amazed to see eucatastrophe there. The word was coined by Tolkien, who was a linguist as well as a writer. Eucatastrophe refers to a devastating event, a catastrophe, that is redemptive. The Greek prefix eu means good or true. Because of my background in pastoral ministry, putting these two seemingly opposite concepts together into one word had a deep meaning for me.

I got pretty excited about this because I hoped eucatastrophe might describe my own writing. At first I wondered if the term was, well, a little pompous, but then I found to my surprise that people were interested in it. This may be because many of us are looking for a deeper meaning in our chaotic world, and because the word references spirituality, rather than any specific religion.

With this last book of the Coin series now published, I want to thank all my readers for sticking with me. I hope that you will add my books to your list labeled eucatastrophe, even if only at the bottom! I wrote the books because my desire as an author is to involve you on more than a superficial level. Of course I want to keep you up at night immersed in intriguing plots, fascinating worlds, and characters you want to spend time with. But I also want to satisfy our need for hope by showing how failures and losses can lead to providential victories, how Sheft and Teller in the Coin series can be an inspiration in our ordinary lives. In short, I write so we can look up in the midst of our hardships and see the overarching wonder of a divine light.

Godspeed.

Veronica Vernie Dale (www.veronicadale.com)

P.S. A heads-up: Questions for Discussion are listed at the back of this book. These might come in handy if you belong to a book club, would like to start one with your friends, or just want to explore Leaf and Flame at a deeper level. If you’re like me and want to be on the lookout for these questions as you read, take a glance at them before you begin.

Characters

Rulve—(ruhl-vay) the Creator. Neither male nor female, but spirit. Referred to with either male or female pronouns

Teller and Sheft—twin brothers, grandsons of Se Mena

Mariat—Sheft’s wife

Childhood friends of Teller, now adults

Avia—Se Celume’s assistant, Deoner’s wife, ward-mother

Deoner—Rift-rider

Eiver—candle-lighter

Hirai—(here-eye) brewer, ward-mother

Ianak—(ee-uh-nahk) Se Utray’s assistant

Lir—Se Druv’s assistant

Taisa—(tie-suh) healer’s apprentice

Yuin—musician, Hirai’s husband, ward-father

The Se (say)—leaders of the Seani, a walled hillside community

Se Abiyat—chief healer

Se Celume—(sell-oo-may) musician, seeress

Se Druv—eldest of the Se

Se Komond—in charge of Seani defense

Se Mena—teacher, Teller and Sheft’s grandmother

Se Nemes—counselor

Se Penan—scholar and linguist

Se Ukaipa—(yu-kai-pah—woman in charge of the nursery

Se Utray—(uht-ray) botanist

Other Seani residents

Afer—Rift-rider captain

Larrin—captain of the guards, married to Se Celume

Tema—Abiyat’s assistant, widow, ward-mother of Taisa

In Oknu Shuld (ahk-new)

Eyascnu Varo – (eye-ahsk-nu), Lord of Shunder, the Spider-king

Rigiati—head of the lord’s army

Rivere –imprisoned healer, former assistant to Se Abiyat

Vol Kuat—the Delver, a shape-shifter

Map of The Quela

People who pray for miracles—like good grades, bicycles, or boyfriends—usually don’t get them as a result. But people who pray for courage, for strength to bear the unbearable, for the grace to remember what they have left instead of what they have lost, very often find their prayers are answered. They discover that they have more strength and more courage than they ever thought.

Rabbi Harold Kushner

God’s dreams do not suffer defeats; they just become more circuitous in their fulfillment.

Michael Simone, SJ.

No single act of love will be lost, no generous effort is meaningless, no painful endurance is wasted. All of these encircle our world like a vital force.

Pope Francis

Chapter 1: Taisa

Teller had been hearing the constant warm hissing and crackling for some time. He found the noise soothing. Until it struck him what it was.

His eyes flew open. He was lying on his back, and orange light flickered on the ceiling. He raised his head. Flames were leaping at the foot of his bed, flames about to engulf the young woman standing there.

Get back! He threw off the blanket, jumped to his feet, and pushed her aside.

Fire burned, but not around her. His power of skora had not started it. The flames were safely contained in—he searched for the once-familiar word—in a hearth. He felt its heat on his body and looked down. He wore nothing but a bandage around his thigh.

The young woman was staring at him with large brown eyes.

F-forgive me, he stammered. I thought—her face began to blur, to break up into dark motes—thought you were on fire. He had gotten up too fast and the blood was draining from his head.

I’m not on fire, she said, spreading out her arms. See?

He nodded. She guided him back to bed and tucked a woolen blanket around him, and the black motes faded away. She was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen. Her skin was a soft fawn-brown, her lips were full and pink, and tight coils of shining black hair fell over her cheeks. Those eyes looked down at him, liquid with concern.

Are you thirsty? she asked.

Immersed in her eyes, he had to blink, and then found his throat was dry. Yes, he croaked.

She turned away, and he realized that he recognized, not so much her voice, but her—there was no other word for it—her presence. But from where, he couldn’t remember.

Now all was quiet. The skora simmered low inside him as usual, but a while ago it had been a raging force eager to flare out—at her and at everyone or anything that it deemed was attacking him. He had fought to control it, to keep it leashed as if it were a vicious beast, and thankfully someone—his twin brother—had helped him. Teller glanced to the right. Covered with a brown wool blanket, Sheft was sleeping in the bed next to his.

Turning his head to the left, he looked around the dimly lit room. He was in the infirmary. It had changed hardly at all since he’d been here as a boy. The beds used to be bigger, but of course he’d been smaller then. The rocking chair, the counter along the wall with its basin, the south-facing window, now tinted a pre-dawn grey, the door that led into the Garden of the Sick—all were familiar. His gaze, however, hesitated at the blazing hearth, and then at the burning time candle in the corner. So much fire in the room made him uneasy.

But fire hadn’t bothered him when he was six years old. He remembered peering through the embers in the two-sided hearth and seeing the healer’s sleeping-room next door. Yet now he perceived everything as if recalled from a dream. A dream from thirteen years ago, when he’d been a different person.

A person who’d now come—home? Or merely back to the place where he’d been born?

A sudden memory jolted him, and he sat up. Where’s Mariat? he asked sharply. Where is Sheft’s wife?

The young woman stood over him with a cup of water, and lines of concern appeared in her lovely face. Drink this first.

She waited until he gulped it down and, after placing the cup on a small table between the beds, she answered him. We don’t know where Sheft’s wife is. Se Komond and Deoner rode out in search of her. They followed the tracks of a pony, found footprints of umbraks and—she swallowed—traces of blood. But the rain had washed everything else away. I’m so sorry, Teller.

Remembering the chaotic skirmish in the Riftwood, he sank back onto the pillow. His band of ‘braks had run into three Rift-riders who’d been searching for Sheft. Both he and his brother had been wounded by arrows poisoned with ineerva. The Rift-riders had galloped off with Sheft in one direction, and his ‘braks had gone off with Mariat in the other. As Vol Cinc, he’d been in agony, and his subaltern had galloped away to report to their Lord Eyascnu Varo, so there’d been no one to take command of the ‘braks.

He knew ‘braks, had lived with them for thirteen years. The boar-men were brutal when they felt they had lost face, and at least two of them had seized Mariat’s pony during their failed attack. The other three ‘braks, all of them excellent trackers, would’ve surely made an effort to join their companions. Which meant that a gang of enraged boar-men, determined to restore their jukh, or manhood, would have had the entire night to take their revenge on a helpless prisoner—Sheft’s newly wed wife. Teller’s heart plummeted. Mariat, who had called him brother, who had trusted him to lead her and Sheft home, could not have survived.

Does Sheft know? he asked.

Not yet.

He put a hand over his eyes, but could not stop the flood of anguish and anger.

The woman leaned over him. Has the ineerva pain returned, emjadi?

Emjadi. The word pierced him like a dart. Voices from the past rushed into his mind. His own as a child: Grandma, what does ‘emjadi’ mean? The falconform Yarahe calling after him as the wyvern bore him away: Have courage, emjadi! A silver-eyed woman with a basket of seeds: Set fire to this thicket, emjadi, and burn it all away.

No, he said. That pain is gone.

But your loss remains, she said gently.

Loss? He rode out of Oknu Shuld with nothing more to lose. He felt crushing remorse for what happened to Mariat, but his brother would feel a much greater grief.

She sat on the bed next to him and, as she did so, Teller remembered who she was. You—you were with me, when I was dying. She had laid her hand gently over his throat, over his spirikai. She had helped him bear the pain. During the worst of it, she had been with him. Such undeserved kindness swelled in his throat, and in view of what she had done for him, he couldn’t even find the words to thank her.

He started to reach out to her with his right hand, but the glitter of the vol-ring stopped him. At one point she must have cleaned the blood and dirt off it, must have actually touched it, and now it leered out at him. It had grown roots into his hand, and he couldn’t claw it off. A low groan escaped him, and he slid his hand under the blanket. As if he could hide what he was from her.

A massage will make you feel better, Teller. Your muscles are all tense, and you’re still sore from the seizures.

He realized two things at once: she was addressing him in the mind-speech, and every muscle in his body ached for a massage.

But not at her hands. She must never touch him.

I’ve already touched you, Teller. Her cheeks turned a little pinker as she looked down at him. In quite a few places, actually. You’ve been in the infirmary for two nights, after all.

So she had heard his thoughts somehow. When he was with her, did his thoughts verge into mind-speech? He’d have to watch out for that.

I’m Taisa, by the way, she said. Do you remember me?

He recalled the face of an eager little girl in the nursery, toddling up to him with a red ball. Pay baw, Tewer, pay baw. But the six-year-old boy that used to play with her no longer existed. I remember, he said. Even in the tunnels of Oknu Shuld he had remembered.

Ah, another voice said. You are awake. Se Abiyat, holding a steaming cup, entered the room from the hall door. Teller had glimpsed his face between bouts of pain and, even after all the time that had passed, had recognized it.

I was just going to get you, Taisa said.

The healer put down his cup and bent to look fixedly into Teller’s eyes, then felt the sides of his throat. Good, good, he muttered. He folded the blanket back from Teller’s thigh, removed the bandage, and examined the skin around the injury. We don’t need that anymore, he said, tossing the bandage into a basket beside the bed. He covered Teller with the blanket again and smiled at him. We have you back at last.

His kindness was like salt rubbed into a wound. Teller had found safety here, while Mariat had found nothing but a degrading death.

He’s already tried to get up, Taisa said with a healer’s pride.

None of that, lad, at least for now. The ineerva appears to have gone, but I am not certain if the apsura has left any lingering effects.

Apsura? Teller asked.

A potion we had to give you, to save your life. Unfortunately, apsura may have damaged the nerves and left them more sensitive to pain.

That would be ironic, a modicum of justice, since he had made the poison that almost killed him and Sheft to begin with.

He asked about Mariat, Taisa said to the healer, and I had to tell him.

Abiyat pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. I’d hoped to inform you later, emjadi, when you were feeling stronger. Please accept my deep condolences. I understand Mariat was your sister-in-law. He expelled a deep sigh. Unfortunately, we must deal with our loss and move on.

Another man, who had come in after Abiyat, stepped closer to Teller’s bed. It was Se Druv, the eldest. Hold on a minute, Abiyat. He placed a hand on Teller’s shoulder. Our healer spoke frankly, son, but perhaps without sensitivity. We must indeed move on. Yet we’re not asking you and your brother to do anything we here in the Seani have not done.

Teller understood what Druv meant. When Teller was just an infant, the Se leaders were forced to make a difficult decision. In order to protect him and his twin brother from the Spider-king, their mother Riah had to flee their homeland with Sheft.

After you were abducted, Teller, Druv went on, we were faced with the fact that we had lost both niyalahn-ristas, both the emjadis whom Rulve had entrusted into our care. For years, we were overwhelmed by grief and guilt.

And for much of that time, Teller remembered, he had believed no one in the Seani had cared.

Yet, Druv continued, we learned we had to come to terms with the past. That took time for us, and it will take time for you and Sheft. But it must be done. Actually, as many of us are well aware, it must be done over and over through the years. So Abiyat may have spoken harshly, but he told you the truth.

Thank you, Druv, Abiyat said, and then looked down at Teller. They tell me I over-extended myself these past few days, and that my bedside manner flew off somewhere. In any case, there is a meeting of the Seah tomorrow, and you must gather your strength for it. Taisa, the massage please.

He tapped Teller on the knee. The technique is one I introduced here several years ago. I taught it to the medicants, and they use it down in the villages. I maintain that massaging with healoil alleviates stress, and it should be an integral part of every treatment regime. You have certainly been through the mill, my boy, and a massage will do you good.

Taisa came to his side with a small pitcher she was warming between her hands. Se Nemes says grieving people in particular benefit, because they feel so isolated.

She was innocent. She should not touch one who had done what he had done; should not touch the marks Shacad had left on him. Sheft’s the one who’s grieving, he said. And I’m responsible for that. Give him this massage.

We already have. Now roll over, Teller.

Abiyat fixed him with a stern eye, as did Druv, and in spite of the emotions that beset him, Teller was too exhausted and wanted the massage too much to resist. Cursing his weakness, he turned onto his stomach, every muscle tight, and kept his scathi ringed hand hidden under the pillow.

At the first touch of her hands, he flinched.

Oh! Are my hands cold?

N-no. I just—wasn’t ready.

Are you now?

Yes, he said helplessly.

Healoil dripped onto his back and her strong, warm hands rubbed it into his skin. These scars don’t look so bad now, she assured him. They must’ve faded a little in the Pool of Rulve.

He did not want her to see them, felt hot with the shame of his ultimate capitulation at the hands of Vol Tierce.

She started at the back of his neck, and her fingers dug into the soreness on either side of it. "So tight. Just relax a bit, emjadi."

He tried, but had to keep at bay the intense awareness of her touch, and then a rising desire that made it difficult to lie face down. She found knots around his shoulder blades that he hadn’t known were there and kneaded them away. She poured out oil like forgiveness and rubbed it into his back; her hands like salvation smoothed away the tension.

But then a chilling thought swept over him. For him there could be no redemption.

Awkwardly he reached back to push her hands away, but she must have misunderstood. She took his extended arm between her hands, laid it down on the sheet, and rubbed oil into it. Her thumbs made small circles in the muscles of his forearm, around his wrist, over the back of his hand. Then she went further. She gently began to work healoil into the scratches around the vol-ring.

Even that she tried to heal, even that she tried to rub away. He made a fist against her efforts, but her thumb slid in and opened his hand. Their fingers briefly intertwined as she moved her oily thumb into his palm and around the base of the ring. Leaving his hand open at his side, her fingers flowed away to massage his other arm, the muscles of his shoulders, and down his spine to the small of his back. She dripped more oil over his thighs and kneaded it in, smoothed it over the tender spot where the arrow-wound had been.

He remembered how Mariat had tended to Sheft’s scarred back in the henge. A wife comforting her husband, love spilling from her hands.

There could be no forgiveness for what he had done to her.

He forced himself to turn, to push Taisa gently away. He wanted to thank her, to explain, but the words caught in his throat.

She drew back, surprise and then hurt filling those liquid brown eyes. "As you wish, emjadi." She wiped her hands and left his side.

Teller sat up and watched her go.

A mild draught, Abiyat said, handing him a cup. To aid in sleeping.

Desperately, cowardly, he drank it down.

Chapter 2: Shadowed Faces

Grey light seeped through the window when Teller next awoke. He discovered he was wearing a clean small-cloth. He was now free, he thought wryly, to leap out of bed like a fool, as he had done a few hours ago. His brother, sitting on the edge of his bed with a blanket over his shoulders, was attired likewise. He was bent over, holding his head in his hands, the toltyr dangling from his neck.

Sometime during the night, Teller had half-heard a whispered conversation between Sheft and Se Nemes. From his brother’s posture of despair, Teller knew that Sheft must have asked about his wife, and the counselor must have told him.

Abiyat’s voice rang out from behind him. Time for breakfast, emjadis. Time to get up and walk a bit. Sheft, lean on me. Teller, go with Tema.

Teller sat up and pulled the blanket over his back, noticing as he wrapped it around himself that the wool no longer caught on the rough scars. Tema, someone had told him, was Taisa’s ward-mother, who ran the hospit building further down the hillside. He looked around for Taisa, but she wasn’t in the room. Thinking he didn’t need the older woman’s support, he swung his legs out of bed and almost immediately was glad when she took his arm.

They walked around the beds a few times, and then sat on the chairs, which had been moved next to the hearth. Across from him, Sheft looked up at Abiyat. Purple bruises under his eyes attested that his twin had spent a sleepless night. My wife came to me, Sheft said to the healer. When I was under the apsura. She came to say—goodbye. A troubled look crept into his unsettling silver eyes. But wouldn’t I have known, Abiyat, wouldn’t I have felt it, when—when she… Jaw clenched, his throat working, he leaned his head back and stared blindly at the ceiling, trying to hold back tears.

I am truly sorry, the healer said gently. We all like to think we would know when an absent loved one dies, but that is very rarely the case. It is a sign of Rulve’s compassion that you and Mariat were afforded the opportunity to say farewell, even if only in a vision. Mariat is with Creator Rulve now, and he loves her even more than you do, Sheft.

But what happened to her? How did she—. He couldn’t finish, but Teller saw how his eyes pleaded for answers.

I’m sure Nemes told you, niyal’arist, that we may never know. There are too many ways to die in the Riftwood, and the tracks were obliterated by the rain.

What if she’s still alive? Sheft choked out. What if she suffers, lost and alone?

Abiyat grasped Sheft’s blanket-covered shoulders and gently shook him. Do not torment yourself, emjadi. Your wife would say the same, would she not? You have taken leave of each other, and now she is beyond pain. Be comforted that Rulve enfolds her. Trust that our loving Creator will give you the strength to bear this.

By now, Teller knew, the ‘braks would be riding as fast as they could out of Shunder, and the violated body of the young woman who had tried to befriend him would be left for scavengers.

Tema gave them both some sort of cool liquid that Abiyat urged them to drink. It was, he said, a mix of goat’s milk and herbs that would build up their strength and help them rest. We’ll be giving you some of this every few notches, the healer explained.

Notches? Teller suddenly remembered the word. In contrast to the gongs he’d grown up with in Oknu Shuld, notches on the time-candle were used to measure the hours here. He glanced at the time-candle in the corner by the hearth. Its flame rested just above the sixth notch after midnight, which meant dawn at this time of year. He and Sheft were escorted back to bed, and some time later he awoke to two strange sensations: full sun flooding the room and a bird chirping on the sill. He hadn’t experienced either of these events for most of the thirteen years he’d lived in the lord’s underground domain. Someone was speaking to Sheft, and Teller turned his head on the pillow to see who it was.

Se Gremez was sitting in a chair between the beds.

Teller drew a sharp breath. The man seemed to have two faces, one superimposed on the other. The first belonged to a shadow, but the other was that of Greaz, the mind-prober who had tried to pull his soul apart in Oknu Shuld. The man he had engulfed in flames and burned to death when he was only six years old.

He squeezed his eyes shut. But as the man spoke, Teller realized the low-timbered and patient voice belonged to Se Nemes, the person who’d had been whispering to Sheft in the night. Teller opened his eyes, and Greaz faded away, leaving the kindly, crinkle-eyed counselor he had trusted as a boy and could trust now.

Sheft listened intently while Nemes explained to him how things were in the Land of Shunder. He told how the Spider-king had dammed the waterfall that once had renewed the Eeron River and had thereby wiped out Shunder’s entire fishing industry. He told how year by year the soil grew poorer and the harvest grew less, and how taxes were raised to compensate. And then he told Sheft about the ahn, children ripped away from their niyal twins and taken as slaves into Oknu Shuld.

Sheft said nothing throughout all this. His hand went up to grip the toltyr around his neck, and fevered spots of emotion formed on his planed cheeks.

Teller had known these facts even as a boy, and for thirteen years had lived with the ahn-pain in Oknu Shuld. But now he heard the story as if for the first time, a tale of poverty, addiction to morue, and child slavery—suffering caused by the lord to whom he had pledged his body and soul, whose orders he had obeyed, whose ring he wore even now.

As the counselor went on, Teller learned what had changed in the Seani the last thirteen years. Medicants secretly going out to help the sick. His childhood friends married and caring for both natural children and wards. Two new Se, to replace those who had died. Dangerous trips down to the villages where Seani and Sperians conspired against the Lord of Shunder.

There was silence, and then Se Nemes turned his gaze toward Teller. Emjadi, while we were treating you, I discovered that you suffered mind-damage in Oknu Shuld; that your memories had been twisted. May I now tell you the truth? I promise you may stop me at any point.

Pulling his blanket around him as if it were armor, Teller nodded. The telling took a long time, and the hearing was like peeling the scab off a