‘But I’m so. .’ the pup paused to yawn, ‘so tired. I’ve been up for so long.’
‘I know, but stay up a little longer.’ There was no reply from the younger
‘I’ll be back, Gariath. I just want to sleep a little.’
‘No, Grahta, don’t fall asleep. Please don’t fall asleep.’ Gariath was up on his knees now, standing over the pup. ‘Don’t leave me alone, Grahta. I. . I’ve been alone for a long time now. Please, Grahta. .
‘Maybe you should. . should go and see Grandfather,’ Grahta suggested, yawning. ‘He said you should go and see him.’
‘Where? Where did he say he would be, Grahta?’
‘Somewhere. . north? I don’t know what that means.’
‘Then how am I supposed to find him?’
‘You’re. . you’re Wisest, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not very smart, Grahta. I need you to stay up and give me directions. Please, Grahta, stay up a little longer. Stay awake, Grahta.’
‘I. . I’m sorry,’ the pup said, almost snoring. ‘I just. . I’m so tired.’
‘Not yet, Grahta. Talk to me for a little longer. Tell me … tell me about your mother.’
‘Oh, my mother. .’ The pup smiled wistfully, even as his red eyelids drooped. ‘My mother. . her name was Toaghari. . it means. .’ He opened his mouth wide in a yawn. ‘It means. .
The sound of the pup snoring carried over the sound of the brook whispering, but it faded with every passing breath. More sounds returned to the world: air from the trees, breezes blowing over the sand, moisture rising from the earth. Grahta’s sound of slumber was a distant part in the world’s great chorus.
As was the sound of Gariath’s own voice.
‘Don’t blink,’ he told himself, gripping the earth in two trembling hands. ‘Don’t blink. He’ll go if you blink.’
He tried to hold the image of the little red bundle, his side rising and falling with each breath, in eyes that were quickly streaming over with tears.
‘Don’t blink.’
He tried to hold the image of wings too small to flex, a tail too small to do anything but wag, eyes that were bright as his once had been.
‘Don’t blink.’
He tried to hold the image of two similar bundles, rolling over each other at his feet, barking and nipping, wagging and whining, their voices fresh in his frills as they boasted, proclaimed, roared, growled, snarled and snored.
‘Don’t-’
When he opened his eyes again, Grahta was gone. The earth was not depressed where he had been, the sunlight continued to pour despite his absence. The sound of his sleeping was lost on the wind.
‘No,’ he whimpered, pawing at the ground. ‘No, no, no, no,
The only thing that shared the glade, that could possibly satiate the urge, was the impassive elder stone looming over him. Snarling, he levelled an accusatory finger.
‘
He struck the stone, felt his hand crack, and fell to the earth with a cry. There was nothing to hit. Nothing to kill. No anger, no hatred. He was left alone with hope. Quietly, he laid his head against the rock, his body trembling as tears slid down his snout to trickle across the rim of his nostrils and fall to the unmoved earth.
Grahta was gone. The
With the scent of nothing but salt and wind as the world continued around him.
Thirty-Five
There was very little in the supply crate to suggest that Argaol ever really expected them to return alive, Denaos thought as he rummaged blindly through the various sundries and goods within. The moon was not much help in illuminating his search.
‘Blankets. . fishing line. . but no hooks,’ the rogue muttered, rolling his eyes. ‘Rope. . who needs
His hands clenched something long and firm. Eyes widening, he pulled something stout and rounded free. Scrutinising it in the darkness, he frowned.
‘A. . lute.’ He blinked at the stringed instrument. ‘What … did he just throw whatever he could spare into this thing?’ Quietly, he noted the inscription on the wooden neck. ‘Not a bad year, though.’
‘Could you possibly hurry it up?’ someone called from behind. ‘I’m sort of. . you know, trying to keep someone’s leg from becoming gangrenous and falling off.’
‘If the Gods had mercy, such a fate should befall my ears,’ the rogue muttered.
Sighing, he sifted through everything else the captain had deemed worthy for chasing demons. His persistence, however, eventually rewarded him with the knowledge that the old Silfish prayer had yet to be proven false.
‘Gods are fickle, men are cruel,’ he recited as he wrapped his hand around something smooth and cold. He pulled the bottle from the crate and watched his own triumphant smile reflected back to him in its sloshing amber liquor. ‘Trust only in yourself and what lies in your cup.’
That smile persisted as he walked back to the fire, back to his doubtlessly grateful companions. Who else would have had the foresight to smuggle out a bit of liquid love, after all?
He couldn’t honestly say the thought of Argaol’s furious face, screwed up so tight his jaws would fold inwards and begin to devour his own bowels, caused him any great despair.
Besides, he reasoned, whatever price Argaol demanded could be paid out of his earnings.
The good captain’s sacrifice would not be in vain. Silf demanded sacrifice for His role in their victory, the recovery of the book. Fortunately, the Patron was, if His own scriptures were to be believed, satisfied with whatever revelry that might occur being done in His name.
And what was not to revel about? The book was in their possession, patiently waiting to be exchanged for hard, shiny coin. The demons were fled for a glorious three nights, the longfaces gone, as well. And, as an added answer to an oft-muttered prayer, both Gariath and Dreadaeleon had been strangely absent for the past day and night, leaving Denaos alone with two lovely women who would no doubt be at least tolerable when the bottle was drained.
