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She scowled. ‘Is this the source of her power? Is this how Draconus made her into a goddess?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly.’
‘Have you learned what you needed to, Resh? Can we now attempt to return to our world? Assuming that is even possible. I am sorely unbalanced by this.’
He studied her in the gloom. ‘Is each aspect of sorcery truly closed from all the others? Does that even make sense? What if those aspects of magic are themselves realms of a sort? Should there not be more gates? Gates that pass between them? From Dark to Light, perhaps, or into Denul, even? If so, then who fashioned these portals? And what of Draconus, who had the power to create such a gate in the Citadel itself? Whence came such knowledge?’
She shook her head, knowing that he expected no answers from her.
‘Captain,’ Resh continued, ‘where is the gate for the Shake?’
‘What?’
‘Or perhaps it does not yet exist. Perhaps it will fall to me to conjure it into being. Or indeed, to both of us.’
‘Me? Better you had brought Caplo! I am a stranger to such magicks!’
‘We are far from done here,’ Resh said. ‘We have taken but the first step on this journey. It falls to us, Finarra Stone, to find the gate of our aspect.’
‘Our aspect? We don’t have an aspect!’
‘I believe that we do. Neither extreme suits us, only that which dwells between the two.’ He shrugged. ‘Name it Shadow … to match the cast of our skin, yes?’
‘And you believe we will find our new gate from here? From Dark?’
He shrugged. ‘Or from Light. Does it matter which? Both realms bear edges. Borderlands. Places of transition. We must simply find such a place and claim it as our own.’
‘And how will you
create this gate?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘We are not returning to the Citadel, are we?’
‘I think not, captain.’
‘Our camp gear and food remains with our horses – will you have us consume ether for sustenance?’
He eyed her with an odd, inquisitive expression. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied, ‘faith will provide.’
* * *
The morning air had been damp and cloying on the day that Captain Kellaras parted company with both Gripp Galas and Hish Tulla, just north of Kharkanas. Flakes of snow drifted down and the night’s fall had settled upon the rutted track, filling the deep imprints left by horses and oxen, and to Kellaras it seemed as if the world struggled to erase what had been, seeking a cleaner promise for what was to come.
The delusion was momentary. War was coming, he reminded himself as he checked the girth-straps of his horse. Impatient and heartless, it would crawl across the season, out from its familiar nest of thaw and heat, and in his mind’s eye he saw a vision of frozen corpses and lurid gashes of red, arrayed upon the white ground. Whatever was pure soon leaves. Even eyes can soil a scene.
When he turned he found Gripp Galas seated astride his horse. Behind the man, already some distance down the western track of the crossroads, Hish Tulla rode on. Whatever parting she had shared with her husband had been brief and quiet. Kellaras cleared his throat. ‘I would still rather you permitted me to accompany you, Gripp.’
‘Pelk is the only company I require,’ the old man replied. The shrug he then offered was apologetic. ‘I will see her off to Kharkanas as soon as we are done.’
Kellaras glanced at Pelk, but her expression was closed where she sat astride her mount. The night just past had been one of fierce, if virtually silent, lovemaking. The woman to whom he had given his heart had a way of disappearing in front of his eyes. ‘If that is her wish,’ he said.
Gripp smiled. ‘Pelk?’
‘It is,’ she replied, twisting in her saddle to squint at the north track awaiting her and Galas. ‘If the captain will be found there.’
Kellaras shook his head in wonder. ‘I shall, unless our forces have been assembled upon a field of battle.’
