He took another deep breath before continuing. “When Dania was struggling with the spirit, forcing it out of you, Maija, I was watching, feeling helpless. And that was really the first time I became aware that there’s more going on in the world than the struggles among nations. Dania had been trying to tell me that, but I think it’s bigger than even she realized. It’s almost as though the ancient war between the dragons and the fiends was still going on—a war between, well, between good and evil, for lack of better words.
“I didn’t believe in good and evil. I mean, I clung to my way of doing things, trying to keep to the moral high ground—thanks mostly to you two and Dania steering me that way, keeping me from stooping to Krael’s level.
“But everything that’s happened here has pointed to a much larger struggle. The conflict between the couatl and the rajah it binds isn’t just a legacy of some ancient war between nations. It’s fundamentally a conflict between life and destruction, between an affirmation of beauty and goodness and life and the denial of all that.”
“But Janik,” Mathas interjected, “I think I’m echoing Dania when I remind you that Krael is a vampire.”
“I haven’t forgotten that, Mathas. But he’s still human as well. And like any of us, he can choose sides between good and evil. And today he made a heroic choice. He chose differently than I did, but I still think he chose for the good. He destroyed the Fleshrender when I couldn’t. And in that moment, I didn’t want to fight any more.”
Janik fell silent. Maija was staring at the ground, her brow furrowed, and Janik put his arm around her shoulder. He looked at Mathas, whose expression suggested that he was a little perturbed.
“What is it, Mathas?”
“I am not accustomed to learning wisdom from those who are so much younger than I,” the old elf said. “And particularly from you, Janik Martell.” His face broke into a broad smile, and he clapped Janik on the shoulder.
“Where in Khyber has Auftane gone?” Janik said, partly to hold off another rush of tears. He squeezed Maija closer as he cast his eyes around the room. “Auftane!” he called, his voice echoing in the chamber.
A moment later, he called again. “Auftane!” The smile began to melt off his face.
“Do you hear anything, Mathas?” Janik said. “Sounds of combat or cries for help?”
Mathas concentrated for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. And Auftane is not particularly quiet.”
“We need to look for him. But let’s attend to Dania first.”
“Shall we build her a pyre outside?” Mathas said. “I believe that is the way of the Silver Flame.”
“If she is to be burned,” Janik said, “there is some part of me that would rather see a grand pyre built for her at the cathedral in Flamekeep. She deserves it.”
“She deserves all the honor the world can bestow, Janik,” Maija said, “there is no doubt of that. But I can’t see her desiring it. I think she would prefer a battlefield honor, if you know what I mean.”
Janik nodded. “You’re right.” He walked over and stood beside Dania’s body in silence for a moment. “Wait,” he said. “What happened to the torc?”
“The silver torc?” Mathas said. “It was still around her neck when Maija woke up, was it not?”
“Yes, I remember looking at it,” Janik said. “But it’s gone now.”
Mathas arched an eyebrow. “Auftane?”
“He’s got some questions to answer,” Janik growled, then he knelt to lift Dania into his arms. With Maija leading the way and Mathas behind him, he carried her out of the ziggurat of Mel-Aqat, into the searing desert sunlight. They encountered a small gang of zakyas, but the fiends fled at the sight of Maija, as if they recognized that the power of their commander had been broken.
Janik shouted Auftane’s name at intervals as they walked, but no reply came. When they passed outside the walls of the ruined city, Janik set Dania’s body down and began gathering dry shrubs and stunted trees from the Golden Desert. While Maija prepared her friend’s body for the pyre, Mathas sat on a stony ledge and chanted the words of a spell. Attuning his mind to the web of magic suffusing the world, he searched for ripples from Dania’s silver torc. When Janik brought a bundle of brush back a short time later, Mathas opened his eyes, shook his head, and stepped down from his perch.
“Any sign?” Janik called.
“No,” Mathas replied. “It is possible that the torc dissolved back into nothingness, in much the same way as it first appeared around Dania’s neck. The other possibility, though, is that Auftane carried it outside the range of my spell, possibly using teleportation magic to leave the area quickly.”
“Damn it,” Janik said. “And damn Auftane, if what I’m beginning to suspect is true.”
“What do you think happened?” Maija said. “Do you think he took it to Krael?”
“There would be a certain disturbing symmetry to that,” Mathas said.
“I don’t know,” Janik said. “Somehow I don’t think Krael is involved. But I don’t have any better ideas. Without knowing more about the torc, it’s hard to know who might want it and why.”
“I’m disappointed,” Mathas said. “I really trusted him.”
“As did I,” said Janik. He shrugged, then looked down to where Maija knelt beside Dania’s body. “But in the grand scheme of things, it just doesn’t seem that important.”
Maija had removed Dania’s armor, dressed her in clean clothes, and washed the blood from her face and hair. Janik could almost convince himself that she was sleeping.
She has found her peace, he thought.
He finished assembling her pyre and carefully laid her on it. He knelt beside the pyre and worked carefully to kindle a flame. As he did, he thought of the fire engulfing Dania at the top of the ziggurat. Finally, the wood flared to life and he stood back, putting an arm around Maija.
Maija wept in his arms as the pyre did its work, but Janik found that his tears had run dry. He watched the dancing flames, leaping red and gold and blue—and here and there a tongue of silver, as if to remind them that her death was something sacred. Slowly, the flames consumed her flesh.
And as he held Maija, Janik remembered what the Keeper of the Flame—no, what the Silver Flame itself had said to him in Thrane five months before: “What you have lost lies still in those ruins, still within your grasp.” He offered a silent prayer of thanks to all the Sovereign Host, to the Silver Flame, to the couatl of Mel-Aqat, to every power of holiness that had played any part in bringing Maija back to him.
Epilogue
With an almost audible pop, the dwarf appeared in a comfortably appointed chamber.
“Home, sweet home.” He sighed, walking to stand in front of a tall mirror, shedding his pack and bags and pouches as he went. Fidgeting with the silver serpent in his hands, he looked at his reflection—covered with the dust and dirt of two months spent traveling through the Wasting Plain and the Golden Desert. Blood was still crusted in his beard, which was, at least, still neatly trimmed. He set the torc on his dresser, put his hands to his cheeks, and breathed a deep sigh, exhausted and deeply relieved that he was able to use magic to expedite his return to Fairhaven.
He took off his clothes, first draping his long coat over the back of a nearby armchair, then his vest, and his frilled shirt. He left his high boots on the floor, placed carefully together. Stripped down to his breeches, he turned again to the mirror.
He liked this body. Dwarves were solid, strong. He liked the feel of the muscles, the firmness of the skin, vaguely reminiscent of stone. And Auftane had a fine sense of style.