Evylin took a sharp breath in to get her last words out. “I can’t stand it,” she whispered. “There’s too much death.”
Hewitt sighed as he appraised her. He beckoned to Deckard, who readily slipped his arm around Evylin’s shoulder, enfolding her into his comforting embrace.
“Listen to me, Evie,” Hewitt said, the growl of his voice tender. “Death is everywhere. It’s here in these woods, and it reaches back to Whickam Village. Ryen died at home in his own bed. Adventure no more guarantees death than mundanity guarantees safety. Nowhere is safe.”
The unpleasant answer carved another layer of uncertainty within her. Wherever Evylin went, whatever she did, it didn’t matter. Death was inevitable. Loss was inevitable. So was the choice truly up to her? Was “more” really whatever she wanted it to be?
Blinking away her tears, Evylin looked up at her uncle, memorizing each line in his face for the last time. “You once told me that everyone has their own definition of what is more and what is less. That the knowledge is innate within us.”
“I remember,” he said.
“What was your ‘more’?”
Hewitt’s eyes crinkled softly. A broad smile brightened his face. She hadn’t seen him smile like that since Ryen’s death. He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek without touch. “You were,” he said.
Evylin’s breath caught.She’dbeen Hewitt’s “more.” Life was enough for him if she was in it. So simple.
“Are you ready now?” Hewitt asked.
Grimacing from the joy and sorrow twisting in her chest, Evylin nodded.
Hewitt took a step back, looking at Deckard. “So am I.”
Arms tightening around her, Deckard’s breath grew rapid as though with fear. “Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”
“Thank you,” Hewitt replied. “You were more than I expected. Goodbye.”
Deckard whispered his farewell, and Hewitt turned to Evylin. “Goodbye, my Evie.”
Evylin’s voice caught as she held Hewitt’s steady stare. His unruly beard was no longer singed by the forge but scraggly from travel. His brawny arms hung at his sides, tight under his wool coat. He was now everything she would always remember him being.
“I will always love you,” Evylin whispered.
Hewitt’s eyes shone. “And I, you.”
“Goodbye.”
A wave of heat rolled through Evylin, a flash that coursed across her skin. Deckard’s breath sharpened, then steadied. TheNight Relic beamed its deep purple around his neck, his coat open to the warm spring evening.
While Evylin held her uncle’s gaze, a shadow crossed over them, causing his form to thin. Hewitt’s ghost faded, then dissipated altogether, the fading of his presence like the trailing off of a whisper.
Deckard pressed a kiss to the top of Evylin’s head. “He’s gone,” he whispered, pulling her closer.
“I know,” Evylin heard herself say.
Her whole body was numb, her heart too sore to feel anything but emptiness. In the midst of the hollow, staring at Hewitt’s ivy-covered grave, she rested in her husband’s embrace. Despite their sorrow, a gentle peace radiated through them. Despite the heartbreak of knowing she’d never see Hewitt again, Evylin knew she’d be all right.
And she knew, however the afterlife looked, Hewitt was now embracing his wife and son.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
After Deckard and Evylin departed for Hewitt’s grave, Thom, Rafferty, Ethenn, and Ilain joined the others in the tavern for dinner. Thom’s heart was heavy, knowing his mentor was lost to him, but he took solace in the truth that Hewitt would finally be at peace.
Upon entering the tavern hall, Thom spotted the open seat next to Brea. He quickly and intentionally stepped forward to take it. She flinched, but neither of them said a word as he sat beside her.
The barmaid brought their meal and drinks, and the troop ate with somber moods and falsely casual conversation.
Thom’s mind kept replaying Hewitt’s final words to him.“Your purpose is whatever you make it; just make sure it’s a worthy one.”
