Astathan motioned for him to be still.
“Did you … save anyone?”
Par-Salian realized Astathan knew everything already, or at least most of it. He saw no admonishment in the highmage’s eyes, only concern and a terrible sadness that seemed to reach down into his very soul. It was no time to protect himself. Astathan was speaking to him as an equal.
“A boy,” Par-Salian admitted. “One boy. He’s with my aunt right now. She’s a kind woman.”
Astathan nodded but said nothing. His head fell deeply until it almost touched his chest. His age truly showed in those terrible moments.
“It-it was horrible. We must do something,” Par-Salian whispered. “The Black Robes went against your wishes and now innocent people are dead. Not just Berthal or his sorcerers, but women and children. None of them deserved this,” he said. He couldn’t stop himself from weeping at the memory, at the screams.
“If there is justice for this action,” Astathan said. “It will not be in my time.”
“What?” Par-Salian said. He wiped away his tears.
“All mention of this is to be erased. You and Ladonna are forgiven your transgressions, but nobody must ever know what happened in the Vingaard Mountains.”
“How can you say that?” Par-Salian said. “The Black Robes orchestrated a massacre!”
“Yes,” Astathan said. He struggled to rise, and Par-Salian helped him to his feet. “And for that we are all damned for our complicity. I only learned of all this from Reginald, but heed me well, Par-Salian. There are dark times ahead. Far darker than this, I suspect, for the orders, for everyone. Already the Black Robes are pulling away, and I fear we cannot stop them.”
“What are you talking about?” Par-Salian asked.
“I do not envy you, my boy,” Astathan said. “You will see more precarious times than I could imagine. When I am gone, the Black Robes will drift away, and it will be your responsibility to ensure their absence doesn’t shatter the orders completely. It may even be your responsibility to bring them back again. As much as I want to see justice done, this incident with Berthal will only drive an irreparable schism between us if we demand satisfaction. And what the future holds is too important to lose the support of the Black Robes. They are crucial to our survival, and we to theirs.”
“So … we just forget this ever happened?!” Par-Salian asked.
“See what the future holds,” Astathan said, “and then decide. You may realize the future is more important than history. Or perhaps the future must reconcile with the past to be stronger. But wait and watch. You owe the world that patience, at least.”
Par-Salian nodded, though he wasn’t happy with the notion. “If that is your wish,” he said, his mind dark with bleak thoughts.
“Of course it isn’t,” Astathan said. “My wish was to save Berthal and welcome him back into the order. He was a good man. Misguided and still wounded by the death of his protégé, but good nonetheless. He didn’t deserve this.”
“Highmage,” Par-Salian said. “What of Ladonna? Is she safe? Do you know?”
“She is safe,” Astathan said. “I couldn’t scry Berthal’s movements, but I could follow yours. Likely, she is your best hope of keeping the Black Robes from isolating themselves completely. You have a connection with her, no?”
Par-Salian shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with sharing his personal life with Astathan “Did anyone else survive?” he asked.
“No … and it’s easier for history to forget about them if it believes them dead. Leave the dead where they are. The future is consigned to the living.”
EPILOGUE
It was a quiet night for Palanthas, but the city hummed with speculation and omens. Some rumors surrounded the growing bands of goblins that were moving through the countryside. Where they were going, nobody knew; nobody survived long enough to ask. Of greater worry, however, was the spread of the Medusa Plague. It had struck Solamnia the hardest, melting the skin of its victims, until their arms turned into three-headed snakes and the afflicted became stone. Refugees clogged the High Clerist’s Tower, but the temples were closed and the Knight’s Spur sealed to prevent Palanthas from becoming inundated. The port of Palanthas was calm. A handful of ships came and went, but the navy quarantined all arriving ships and inspected them for carriers of the plague. Still the infection somehow found its way into the city.
It was a time of fear, and thus, the only time to travel unmolested.
Ladonna knew the streets well, the buildings of Smiths’ Alley wedded together so closely over tight alleys and corridors. She knew the area well enough to keep a spell at the ready. No trouble met her; she arrived at her destination with her package cradled in one arm.
The building was as she remembered it, the painted rose barely visible over the barn door in the alleyway. Yes, it was still Rosie’s place, the only home she’d ever known, the one bright spot in her childhood. That brought a smile to her face. She knocked on the door and looked around just in case. Through the cracks in the barn wall, she could see the dance of approaching candlelight.
“Who is it?” a woman asked.
“Ladonna … Adwin’s daughter.”
Someone pulled the latch off; the door slid open.
The woman standing there was strong, with a thickness to her waist and arms that said her strength was muscle as well as fat. Her biceps were meaty, her hair fading from dirty blond to gray. She was no Rosie, Ladonna realized sadly, but Tythonnia was doing a good job of following in the old woman’s footsteps.
Tythonnia cast one look at Ladonna, at the package she carried wrapped in red cloth, before gently pulling her in. The baby in Ladonna’s arms whimpered in her sleep.
The barn had changed; the stable walls had been removed and the floor brushed of its hay. A row of bench desks faced a small podium beneath the loft, and along one wall rested a row of books. Rosie’s barn was a classroom. Ladonna inspected the books with a glance; they were all simple reading and history books, nothing of magic. Ladonna continued nursing her child as she sat on one of the benches.
“What’s her name?” Tythonnia asked. She offered Ladonna a glass of warm cider and sat next to her.
“Kira,” Ladonna said. “I told people the baby belongs to Arianna, my mentor, but …”
“Par-Salian?”
“He doesn’t know he has a daughter,” Ladonna said. “I’m keeping it that way.”
“Why?” Tythonnia asked.
“It’s … a long story.”
A shuffle in the loft distracted them both. Staring down at them was a boy. He was perhaps seven or eight with brown hair and shockingly light green eyes that seemed almost gold in hue. Ladonna knew those eyes; she’d watched them die before.
The breath fled her lungs, and she stared at Tythonnia. “What’s his name?” she asked.
“Berthal,” Tythonnia answered with a wistful smile.
Another face appeared overhead in the loft; it belonged to a mousy woman with a curiously intense gaze. Ladonna knew her as well: Mariyah. Mariyah recognized her in turn. Her eyes widened in shock.
“Mariyah, love,” Tythonnia said calmly. “Could you please put Berthal back to bed?”
Mariyah nodded, her gaze still on Ladonna; the suspicion never left her as she took the boy by the shoulders and ushered him out of sight.
“Should I leave?” Ladonna asked.
“No,” Tythonnia replied. “Whatever anger I felt towards you for Berthal’s death is gone now. My son is alive because of you. I’m sorry if that’s why you didn’t visit while Rosie was still here.”
