The Alabaster Staff

EPILOGUE

Demok walked stiffly, trying not to strain his rib cage. Despite the bandages that tightly bound his broken ribs together, the freedom of motion he needed to breathe was motion enough to cause himself pain. The magic of the healers had helped knit the bones back together-in all likelihood they had saved his life-but he was still an injured man.

It was closing on high noon, and the sun shone weakly in the winter sky. It was nice to see it again, to know that indeed it had been lurking behind the clouds the past few tendays. His skin felt warm where the sun hit it, if only for a moment before the chilly breeze swept the sensation away again.

He walked outside Messemprar, his boots making small squishing noises in the muddy cart track that led from the city to the Hill of the River. The hill's name did not refer to the River of Metals, which flowed behind him, slowly and gracefully heading toward the Alamber Sea, heedless of the small, short, squabbling lives of the mortals who encamped by its shores. The name instead spoke of the river that was said to separate life from afterlife.

To his mind, the only such river the Untherites ought to believe in was the river of blood that had marked Gilgeam's rule for the past two and a half millennia.

The Hill of the River was far enough from the city that it had no strategic value. It had been chosen so that the dead could see their beloved city and also so that the tombs and graves would not be too close, which in summer could be problematic. A fence encompassed the lower slopes of the hill, a thin line of sticks and reed work that kept only the most incurious or overfed vermin out. The cats that lived and hunted on those grounds were far more effective at maintaining the sanctity of the place.

The top of the hill was also surrounded by a fence, a well-built wall of stone. Behind those walls stood the tombs of the city's wealthy and important. The lower slopes were for the rest of the city.

Demok passed through the gate in the lower fence and turned, circling the hill toward the back, where the unmarked graves were.

After a long, quiet walk through the tall, brown stalks of grass, he stepped up to the side of a familiar, if bulky, figure.

"Knew you'd find me here, did you?" asked Tiglath.

Demok said nothing.

"Such a waste," said Tiglath, looking over the graves covered with freshly turned dirt. "So many good people fell. So many more lives ruined and sacrificed to Gilgeam even after he was dead."

"You?" Demok asked.

"I still have nightmares," she said. Then she chuckled. "Smelling fifteen-year-old morning breath is not something you get over easily."

"Your arm?" he asked.

Tiglath looked down at the sling and wrappings that held her arm across her chest and said, "It'll heal with time, but I don't think I'll ever have full use of it again. The chirurgeon set it as well as he could, but I can feel the broken chips in there. Gilgeam didn't just break my arm; he crushed it like a shell."

"I know some healers," he said. "They can help."

Tiglath snorted, "Tiamat takes a dim view of those who resort to magical healing."

Demok considered that, then said, "So?"

Tiglath cast a sideways look at him, then chuckled.

"Yeah," she said, "I guess you're right. I accept your offer."

"Let's go."

"Hold on," said Tiglath. "I'm not quite finished."

Her eyes passed back and forth over the graves one more time, trying to sense the magnitude of loss.

"Any idea where Kehrsyn is?" she asked.

"Jackal's Courtyard," said Demok. "Her favorite."

Tiglath smiled, thinking of the young woman's penchant for performance, and said, "Good for her."

The two turned and left the graves behind, walking side by side, each lost in their own thoughts. As they exited the gate, Tiglath looked up at the sun, squinting against its pale light.

"Spring will be here soon," she said.

Demok nodded and said, "For the kids in the courtyard, it's already here."