Nothing. There was nothing calling him, nothing awaiting him. Beautiful though Rashemen might be, and numerous the memories he had made there, it was not enough.
He and Thaena stood side by side as the dead were carefully loaded onto the felucca. The number of men onboard would be doubled since their landing here, but the bodies could not complain of cramped quarters, would not call for jhuild or water, had no need to walk on deck staring out across an expanse of floating ice. The few survivors would drink for them and sing songs of battle, glorious epics and dirges to please the spirits of the Ashane. And they would look upon the lake and the sky, the world around them, with eyes for the dead, their brethren fallen that they might live to fight another day.
Bastun whispered a spell, raising the body of Duras into the air. The berserkers made way, solemnly watching as their former leader was gently laid at the bow, his head forward such that he would be the first to have returned to his homeland when the ship made landfall. Thaena made to follow, and Bastun touched her arm, anticipating this moment, though whatever prepared words he might have had were lost in view of her tear-filled eyes.
"I'm not going back with you. I will stay here… for a time, before moving on," he said, shifting his hood so that he could see the edge of her shoulder.
"I assumed as much," she said, hesitantly, mastering her voice past the grief lodged in her throat. "I do not fully understand all of what happened here, but I know we were-I was
Ii7rrIner oKr» nr aKr» nr en manv rhincre "
Bastun said nothing, only nodded slightly as she turned to look over his shoulder. The Shield was invisible from where they stood, hidden as it should be amid the mist and ruin of the dead city. He recognized that silent stare, having no need to see the familiar face beneath her mask to know the regret she felt.
"Keffrass told me many things I thought I had forgotten over the years," he said, just loud enough for her to hear. "But occasionally, at certain random moments, I recall the greatest of wisdom in the simplest of memories."
She turned, listening as he continued.
"The finer points of magic were difficult for me at first, learning among the vremyonni as a child. I was so full of anger all the time, homesick and lost. Finding the focus needed to manipulate the Weave took more effort and patience than I had." He smiled slightly behind his mask. "With one of my first spells I injured a raven by accident, and the bird's pain drove me to teats. I swore I would never use magic again."
He turned toward Thaena, smile fading, eyes shadowed within his hood and narrowing as he made his point.
"But Keffrass sat me down, calmed me, and said, 'It is not what you have done that matters, it is what you will do that counts.' "
Thaena looked away slowly, staring at the northern horizon for long moments. Hidden by mist and distance lay the Firward Mountains and beyond that Erech Forest. Somewhere in that distance, many believed, lay the dark meeting places of the durthan sisterhood. Bastun feared for his friend, feared that Anilya's voice, in spite of all that had happened, had not yet been quieted for either of them.
"And the raven?" she asked.
"I mended its wing as best I could," he answered. "One day it flew away, and I never saw it again."
The ethran nodded, folding her hands before her as she made to leave.
"Farewell, Bastun," she said. "The Land will miss you, as shall I."
He watched her walk the long dock slowly, the remaining Ice Wolves waiting to assist her boarding, when a dim shadow fell over his shoulder. He turned to find Syrolf behind him, the warriors stealth surprising him. The runescarred face stared him down for several moments, expressionless, though a well-hidden grief could be seen in the redness just around his eyes. He said nothing, but finally raised an eyebrow and managed what may have passed for a brief smile as he clapped Bastun soundly on the shoulder and shook him as one might a fellow berserker after a long battle.
Wordlessly, his hand slid away and he followed his ethran to the felucca and assisted with the unfurling of the sails.
Bastun stood on the shore, snow gathering on his shoulders and around the hem of his robes as he watched the vessel and his countrymen push off into the Ashane. The gray disk of the sun had slipped ever closer into the west when he could no longer make out the felucca's masts through the mist or hear the low humming songs of the Rashemi across the water.
Glancing once to the north, to the unseen places from which Anilya had come to Shandaular, he whispered a prayer for Thaena and then one for Rashemen.
Turning away from the lake, he made his way back to the Shield.
The library slowly succumbed to the vremyonni s sense of organization. Minor spells had dealt with the dust and ice, sealing cracks in the windows and stone. The energy that flowed through him was in direct opposition to the amount rest he had of yet to take advantage of. He had dealt with the body of the old vremyonni in the loft first, making sure he was laid to a proper rest.
Bastun repaired the bed and the desk nearby and took an old chair from one of the guard posts. He found candles there, too, and an old lantern and some torches to light his way as night fell over the city. He found he could not sit still until all was in order, everything in place as he imagined it should be.
He kept the Breath at his side throughout it all, in the back of his mind working out how he might once again hide the weapon from the world-or if he should. He had not seen the spirits of the children since his return and wondered if he would need to defend himself.
Despite these concerns, he found himself blissfully alone and free. Though he looked out upon a city full of the suffering dead, stood within a fortress unwittingly cursed by good intentions, and held at his side the key to a frozen hell that had left its cold mark upon his spirit-he saw a hope in the future he could not have imagined several days ago.
He double-checked the library from top to bottom, making sure it would serve him well in the coming months of winter. Satisfied and making mental notes for improvements in the days to come, he delved furthet into the work that needed to be done. He ascended into the loft and sat down at the old, weathered desk. A large tome-the first he had collected for study-lay before him unopened, the text on its cover unreadable. He pulled back his hood with shaking hands and made to remove the first of his gloves.
The Flame glowed with a soft orange light on his ring finger. The skin of his hand was pale, more so than normal. He flexed his fingers and still refused to remove the ring, still unsure of what other purpose the ring served, though in truth he was loathe to dwell on the subject just yet.
A shadow moved on his left, and he pretended to ignore it, careful not to frighten it away.
Taking a deep breath, he reached up and removed his mask, letting cool air wash over his face before opening his eyes and stretching his jaw. A piece of polished dark glass lay nearby, and he picked it up hesitantly and looked at his reflection in its surface.
His skin was pale-much as he remembered himself since last seeing a real mirror. What he expected to find, however, stared at him through eyes as brilliant and white-blue as ice. He held his breath, unable to look away, unable to fathom the true depths of the sacrifice he had made. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, throbbed in the fingers holding the glass. He exhaled and breathed in, grateful to feel cold air on his throat, his lungs expanding with air. Life still flowed through him-more so than ever it seemed.
A tiny giggle drew his attention, and he lowered the glass. The smallest of the ghosts, the Magewarden's daughter, stood staring at him, smiling shyly. He smiled back, enjoying this change. She leaned forward conspiratorially, placing her small hands on the edge of the desk.