1633880583 (F) (83 page)

Authors: Chris Willrich

BOOK: 1633880583 (F)

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“They would make a good couple,” Gaunt said. “When they’re a little older, of course.”

Bone shook his head. “I’m fond of Joy, but it would all be doom this, empire that. He’s had quite enough of such things.”

“You mean
you
have.”

“And you haven’t? Aiya, Gaunt! All this time, trying to find Innocence again, and by some astonishing stroke of luck he’s free of this power that’s haunted us—”

“I know, I know . . .” She looked up at the mountain peak, remembering when she’d first seen it, desperate to hide from a then-sinister Walking Stick. “It’s just that, there they all go. Snow Pine to her empire. Flint, Walking Stick, and Joy the Runethane at her side. Northwing to the Vuos to become even more powerful—and believe me, the idea of a more powerful Northwing is frightening. Katta will help train the monks into a fighting force to ensure Joy’s dream of a haven. I think he’s taken a liking to a monk or two, but that’s Katta for you. I don’t know where Haytham is going, but I know he’ll keep inventing. And Eshe, quietly playing her chess game.” She gripped the railing, remembering a much rougher trip aboard a junk of Qiangguo, when they’d first gone East. “All these heroes, legends, queens . . .”

He put his arm around her. “You are wistful, my love.”

She leaned into him. “A little. I know. I shouldn’t envy the lot of champions and rulers. What looks exciting from a distance is probably brutal and sordid up close. But it’s hard not to feel as if the great events are passing me by.”

“You wrote once you felt the Swan had called you to create poetry, but also to be of use to those in need. That the contradiction hurt.”

“You saw that?”

“I had a good excuse.”

“Hm. It’s true. I feel torn at times. Thinking I might do more.”

“It seems to me that if we are not on the road, constantly, you might find this conflict less acute.”

“You might be right.” She sighed. “Let it be. I will leave the grand stage. The spyglass of history will follow Snow Pine to the East.” She laughed. “Well. I hear Oxiland is violent. Perhaps we’ll stumble into a saga or two. Or have a child or two.”

“Sagas. Children. I have been thinking about the Chooser of the Slain, you know.”

“Yes, Cairn. Beinahruga.”

“You know, Persimmon, that name Beinahruga means the same as Cairn, more or less. Or so I’ve learned. ‘Bone-pile.’ So in a sense . . .”

She stared at him. “She told us her name was Bone.”

Riding the Straits of Tid, she who’d called herself Cairn watched Deadfall flee the vengeance of the Karvaks into the Efritstan desert. Suddenly a whirlwind rose up beside it.

“Ah, there you are,” said the whirlwind. “We have had little chance to talk.”

“Who are you?” asked the carpet.

“Did I stay so long in that brazier that people and carpets no longer recognize Haboob of the Hastening Horizon?” The whirlwind assumed the form of an imperious-looking gentleman. “Is that better?”

“Oh, you.”

“Yes, I! We nonorganic intelligences need to stick together! I have found companionship agreeable and find I would like a friend. I have chosen you. Rejoice! There is much I could tell you!”

“I’m sure Haytham ibn Zakwan would be glad to see you. . . .”

“Oh, no! He is a fine person for a mortal, but one wrong move, and bam, I will find myself in a brazier or a lamp or a snuff box. No, it is you, O amazing assassin, I would regale with my tales.”

“It might be interesting at that. I am to gather as much knowledge as possible on the players in the great game.”

“What is that?”

“A pastime of the humans. I think it will be diverting. I have found my calling, efrit. Eshe has given me a long list of powers, creatures, spirits, and demigods to press for information. My next stop is a certain stone monkey.”

“Oho! I have heard of that one. . . .”

The entities passed out of sight. Cairn shifted directions and traveled homeward, many years into the future. She paused beside a troll dwelling underneath what used to be called the Chained Strait.

“There you are,” said Skrymir. “I have been thinking, and listening to the whispers along the Straits of Tid. Tell me. Innocence Gaunt was bait for us, wasn’t he? Me and Jewelwolf, and the rest of our cabal, hiding in shadows. The Heavenwalls and the Great Chain, they consulted together and realized the Karvak Realm would threaten both lands. They came to a wordless conclusion to unite East and West against the nomads. Even though their plan was ultimately the death of the Chain. And thus an exchange of champions came into being. Innocence and Joy. We thought we were tangling them in our web, but we became caught in theirs.”

“There is that,” said Cairn. “Though who can be sure about the thinking of such powers? But consider also . . . they chose children of humble—even criminal—origin, and outsiders to the lands they might champion. Two lands that both could be called isolated. In an age when it will be dangerous to be so.”

“Every age is dangerous. I know this, having done my share to make this one such. Be careful out there. For I know all this had a bit to do with you, too. And I almost care.”

“I will. I have ridden the Straits of Tid enough. It is time to return home.”

She passed unseen by airships and galleons and junks to find a green farm in Oxiland, well-tended young trees growing around it. Her parents and her brother were calling to her, worried that she hadn’t yet woken up. It was time she told them the story they thought they already knew.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my wife Becky, as always, for her love and support. For giving Gaunt and Bone a chance to tie up loose ends, huge thanks to editor Rene Sears, to my agent, Barry Goldblatt, and to Lou Anders and Joe Monti for making the series possible. I’m grateful for the careful copyediting of Julia DeGraf and for the advice of Carla Campbell, Andrew McCool, William Rucklidge, Subrata Sircar, Scott Stanton, Becky Willrich, Sarah Willrich, and Michael Wolfson. For inspiration for Vindir, foamreavers, trolls, dragons, and hidden folk, I owe a great debt to Snorri Sturluson, H. Rider Haggard, Henrik Ibsen, Lucius Shepard, and Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe. Gaunt’s rendition of the story of Wiglaf is inspired by
Beowulf
, which I know mainly from the translation by Seamus Heaney. Her satirical song is adapted from a praise-poem in
Egil’s Saga
by Snorri Sturluson, as translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. Katta’s song by the waterfall is inspired by works of the Tibetan poet Milarepa (eleventh to twelfth century), which I’m fortunate to have encountered in
Sixty Songs of Milarepa
by Garma C. C. Chang and
Tibetan Civilization
by R. A. Stein. Other books consulted include Nancy Marie Brown’s
Song of the Vikings
, Jason Roberts’s
A Sense of the World
, Jack Weatherford’s
Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World
, and Anders Winroth’s
The Conversion of Scandinavia
. Any foolishness in how I’ve used these sources is entirely my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo by Richard McCowen, Maritime City Photography

Chris Willrich is a science fiction and fantasy writer best known for his sword-and-sorcery tales of Persimmon Gaunt and Imago Bone. He is the author of
The Silk Map
,
The Dagger of Trust
, and
The Scroll of Years
. Until recently he was a children’s librarian for the Santa Clara County Library System in the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has appeared in
Asimov’s Science Fiction
,
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
,
Black Gate
,
Fantasy and Science Fiction
,
Flashing Swords
,
The Mythic Circle
, and
Strange Horizons
. Find the author at his website,
http://www.chriswillrich.com
, on Facebook,
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Chris-Willrich/407088872710511
, or on Twitter
@WillrichChris.