Holt knew he ought to Cleanse and Forge every minute they had left until the swarm arrived. With Osric’s departure that would surely be soon. He knew fine well that if he and Talia failed, then the city, the whole kingdom would fall. And that if Feorlen fell to the scourge, the swarm that would rise in its wake might be too great for Brenin or Risalia to handle. One by one they would fall, and then the Free Cities too. The whole world could fall.
He had something more important to do first.
He and Ash made it back to the quarantine isle in good time. They found the Crag’s people. Mr. Monger and the others had kept his father away from those who would take him to the pyres. Not only that, he had retrieved Holt’s satchel and the recipe book inside it. Holt thanked him, thanked them all, slung his bag back over his shoulder and then, arms trembling, took his father’s body. He had decided upon his short flight from the palace that he would carry his father’s body out of that wretched place himself.
No short cuts. No flight. No magic. Not that his father’s frail, limp form weighed much now.
Holt carried him through the streets as easily as a babe. He wept the whole way. Ash walked by his side lending him support and encouragement over their bond when he needed it most.
He led the cured people of the Crag with him as well, and a grimmer procession he could not conceive of. Husbands parted from wives, brothers from brothers, sisters from dearest friends, children from parents. Holt had hated explaining he could not help more of them. Either they were too sick,
or he had to conserve his strength. He would never forget their faces. Nor the silence that consumed their long march off the quarantine isle.
Talia met them in the west quarter, and hurriedly gave him directions to one of the smallest islands between the outer and inner rings. One of the isles they used for burning bodies after an incursion ended. It had already been prepared.
Yet once they had made it to that sad small isle, Holt found it hard to finish the job. He stood with Ash, holding a torch before the small pyre, his father a dark figure on its top. Black waters lapped all around them. The night was pitch black and close. And he could not summon the right words. Something had to be said.
What was left of the people of the Crag were behind them. He could feel their collective stares. They had their own respects to pay.
He turned. “I know this isn’t my fault,” he began, “but I might have been able to help… if I were stronger. I swear, I will never let weakness hold me back again. I’ll train. We’ll train. Harder than anyone has before, and I won’t let people die just because I wasn’t strong enough…” he trailed off into a sniff. Not as heroic as he would have liked. Not the conviction of Commander Denna, not the presence of Osric, not the undeniable power of Silas Silverstrike. But Denna was dead. Osric enslaved. And Silas a traitor. There was only Holt and Talia now. Two children left where the heroes had fallen or lost their way.
Just as he was about to set his torch to the wood, Talia and Pyra swooped down to join the funeral. For years, she too had called the Crag her home. Holt nodded to her, glad she had come, and she came to place a reassuring hand upon his back.
“A servant completely out of his depth once told me that if you love with your eyes, death is forever. If you love with your heart, there is no such thing as parting.”
Holt sniffed, heaved a deep breath, and at last he set fire to the pyre. Pyra’s amber eyes glowed bright and the fire roared to life. He stepped back and leaned into Ash, watching as the flames took his father away from the cold dark world.
One by one, the people of the Crag stepped up to the pyre and threw on tokens of their own. Shoes from loved ones; a sobbing father threw on a doll of his daughter’s; an elderly woman parted with pairs of gloves she herself had knitted.
A small voice started singing from the crowd.
“Far beyond the Sunset Sea, Where even dragons cannot fly, I know there is a place, Where the living do not die.”
Soon the whole congregation began singing. The sad, small, discorded notes of grief.
“Far beyond the endless blue, Where every harvest overflows, Where the blight cannot take hold, Far beyond the sea.”
Holt and Talia joined in. Half singing, half mumbling as each word cut as deep as any wound.
“Yonder cross the Sunset Sea, Where winter cannot bite, I know, I know there is a place, Where dreams may come to light. Out there, far beyond the sea…”
As the last words faded away, Talia approached the pyre. She pulled out the letter from her brother, the last piece of him she had, and placed it gently into the flames, her skin naked to the fire. A few onlookers inhaled in shock, but the heat did not bother her. She held the letter there, until it caught, then in what seemed a great effort she at last pulled away and returned to Holt’s side.
“I can’t stay much longer,” she said. Holt nodded.
“There is so much to prepare,” Talia said, “and every hour is precious.
Hard to tell when even dawn will come under these storm clouds.”
Holt checked on Ash’s core. A handful of lunar motes still raced across the navy night around the ball of light. If the dawn were approaching, he reckoned even these few would disappear.
“Dawn is still a while off,” Holt said mechanically. “Ash and I should go. Cleanse. Forge.” He wished he could speak to her as they had, but nothing seemed right now. He just wanted Ash. Without Ash, he would have nothing. Nothing other than revenge.
“I’ve sent word to the kitchens for you,” Talia said. “They’ll provide you both with regular food and drink. You’ll need it to keep up your strength without sleep.”
Holt nodded again. He got onto Ash then found his voice. “Thank you for letting me do this.”
She smiled weakly. “Brode was right. I’d have rather been able to pay my respects to my own brother but was denied that chance. If we don’t do these things, what are we fighting for?”
Holt grunted. “Train night and day until they come,” he said aloud. “I’ll be ready.”
And with that, he and Ash took off, making once more for the palace isle at the heart of the city.
