on a wave. They seem to grow paler as they reach the shallows.
Are they alive?
That depends on your working definition. Once, long ago even in the memory of the gods, the Nalumin were men and women like you. But a flame possessed them at the core, and they spent their lives stripping away all layers that did not feed that flame. Something changes in the dark queen’s voice and when Ringil looks at her, he sees that distant sadness smoking off her again. When the book-keepers came, the Nalumin made a choice. Like so many of us, they perhaps did not fully understand what that choice would mean.
And what did it mean?
Firfirdar shrugs. That all layers were stripped away. That they gave themselves over wholly to the flame. Just as you see.
They burn brighter on the water than on the land. He’s speaking more to himself than to the goddess at his side. But Firfirdar nods.
Yes. Brighter on water than on land, guttering to nothing if they leave the sea behind for very long. And brightest of all when they ride the waves. A crooked smile. It was, by all accounts, what they wanted.
They’re trapped here, then?
To the extent that all mortals are, I suppose. The dark queen appears not to have given it much thought. A flickering limen of existence between the saltwaters you all come from and a darkened hinterland beyond. Yes, trapped—you could say so. Though they seem not to mind. Eternity is what you make of it, I’d say.
They’re eternal, then? Immortal?
So far, yes.
It conjures out the ghost of his own smile. He rolls her a sardonic look. Right. And this is supposed to make me feel better about my own situation, is it?
Firfirdar shrugs again.
There are worse fates, are there not, than being forced into a place where your choice of acts is limited to those that cause your soul to burn the brightest?
He draws a breath that hurts his throat, because he can see where this is going. Right. And now we get down to where my soul burns brightest, do we?
The goddess looks at him—no, not at him, past him—past his face and left shoulder to where the hilt of the Ravensfriend spikes in silhouette. Her eyes glitter, like the Nalumin dancing on the waves.
Oh, I think you already know that, she whispers.
H E CUT ACROSS THE LAND, STAYING OUT OF DIPS AS MUCH AS HE COULD— climate in the Hironish made for boggy ground wherever water could easily collect. He picked up sheep tracks along his path, used them where they helped, ignored them when they meandered too far wide of the direction he wanted. Less than half an hour in, sweat had collected on his brow and under his clothing. He’d set a marching pace without realizing it.
As if battle lay ahead, or something behind was gaining on him.
About an hour later, he came over a rise, panting the steady rhythm of the march, took in the ruined croft and the short column of men on the sheep track below, not really grasping the detail for what it was.
He stopped anyway, half wary, an alarm bell tolling somewhere gut deep.
A large sheep—no, he narrowed his gaze, saw horns, make that a ram—broke from the path, ambled away through the long grass toward the croft. Guffawing laughter drifted up to him on the damp air. The man in the vanguard of the column looked up.
Long hair, gaunt face, all-around evil-seeming motherfucker, looked like a scar on one ch—
Understanding knifed through Gil’s hangover blur, hit him like a mace blow from some unsuspected attacker off his flank. He staggered backward, cloak flapping around him in the wind. Sat down hard on the wet grass at the top of the rise. Rolled frantically for cover.
You didn’t see me. You did not see me.
It came through gritted teeth, part wishful thinking, part statement of fact, part ikinri ‘ska incantation.
If magicking against that thing down there was even possible.
We can swim to the shallows, yes. Seethlaw, on the possibilities of existing within the Grey Places. With practice, we can step into places where
Are they alive?
That depends on your working definition. Once, long ago even in the memory of the gods, the Nalumin were men and women like you. But a flame possessed them at the core, and they spent their lives stripping away all layers that did not feed that flame. Something changes in the dark queen’s voice and when Ringil looks at her, he sees that distant sadness smoking off her again. When the book-keepers came, the Nalumin made a choice. Like so many of us, they perhaps did not fully understand what that choice would mean.
And what did it mean?
Firfirdar shrugs. That all layers were stripped away. That they gave themselves over wholly to the flame. Just as you see.
They burn brighter on the water than on the land. He’s speaking more to himself than to the goddess at his side. But Firfirdar nods.
Yes. Brighter on water than on land, guttering to nothing if they leave the sea behind for very long. And brightest of all when they ride the waves. A crooked smile. It was, by all accounts, what they wanted.
They’re trapped here, then?
To the extent that all mortals are, I suppose. The dark queen appears not to have given it much thought. A flickering limen of existence between the saltwaters you all come from and a darkened hinterland beyond. Yes, trapped—you could say so. Though they seem not to mind. Eternity is what you make of it, I’d say.
They’re eternal, then? Immortal?
So far, yes.
It conjures out the ghost of his own smile. He rolls her a sardonic look. Right. And this is supposed to make me feel better about my own situation, is it?
Firfirdar shrugs again.
There are worse fates, are there not, than being forced into a place where your choice of acts is limited to those that cause your soul to burn the brightest?
He draws a breath that hurts his throat, because he can see where this is going. Right. And now we get down to where my soul burns brightest, do we?
The goddess looks at him—no, not at him, past him—past his face and left shoulder to where the hilt of the Ravensfriend spikes in silhouette. Her eyes glitter, like the Nalumin dancing on the waves.
Oh, I think you already know that, she whispers.
H E CUT ACROSS THE LAND, STAYING OUT OF DIPS AS MUCH AS HE COULD— climate in the Hironish made for boggy ground wherever water could easily collect. He picked up sheep tracks along his path, used them where they helped, ignored them when they meandered too far wide of the direction he wanted. Less than half an hour in, sweat had collected on his brow and under his clothing. He’d set a marching pace without realizing it.
As if battle lay ahead, or something behind was gaining on him.
About an hour later, he came over a rise, panting the steady rhythm of the march, took in the ruined croft and the short column of men on the sheep track below, not really grasping the detail for what it was.
He stopped anyway, half wary, an alarm bell tolling somewhere gut deep.
A large sheep—no, he narrowed his gaze, saw horns, make that a ram—broke from the path, ambled away through the long grass toward the croft. Guffawing laughter drifted up to him on the damp air. The man in the vanguard of the column looked up.
Long hair, gaunt face, all-around evil-seeming motherfucker, looked like a scar on one ch—
Understanding knifed through Gil’s hangover blur, hit him like a mace blow from some unsuspected attacker off his flank. He staggered backward, cloak flapping around him in the wind. Sat down hard on the wet grass at the top of the rise. Rolled frantically for cover.
You didn’t see me. You did not see me.
It came through gritted teeth, part wishful thinking, part statement of fact, part ikinri ‘ska incantation.
If magicking against that thing down there was even possible.
We can swim to the shallows, yes. Seethlaw, on the possibilities of existing within the Grey Places. With practice, we can step into places where
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