Endas, 4th day of Radiance

My whole life, I have dwelled on the hour of my death. Would I leave great works undone? My family unprovided for? Would my name live on while my flesh sours in the tomb?

Too late, I realise that these were the wrong questions.

from the Last Sermon of Konor Belenzo

Twenty-Six

The mists of Krayna Dell defied the light of dawn. Revekah wasn’t surprised. It was often thus in the Forbidden Places, where old magic wore thin the walls between the living realm and Otherworld. For those who didn’t heed the priesthood’s warnings about such places, a thousand tales counselled caution. Spirits lurked within the mists, or so it was said. Spirits, and worse. Revekah had never seen such peril for herself – nor spoken to anyone who had – but the fear remained.

Mists or no, the Forbidden Places were different. As if the turnings of the world held little influence on what passed within, or distant seasons lingered jealously beneath the boughs.

A time-worn statue projected from weed-choked waters. Remnants of a site of worship, cloaked in ancient power that held constructs at bay. It was also the subject of so many terrible stories that the phoenixes kept fires burning at the nearby cave mouths, just in case. Revekah rubbed her hands together to ward off the cold. Yes, too many tales. Of blood and malice, and foolish youngsters doing what foolish youngsters do. At that moment, with ethereal keening echoing through the mists, she was more inclined than ever to believe.

“I still don’t see why you dragged me out here.” She kept one eye on young Tarn, and another on the mists.

“Don’t you hear that?” he replied.

“I hear a weeping woman. It’s hardly remarkable.” It was likely to become a whole lot less remarkable with armies on the march.

Tousled curls shook insistently. “Could be a woman. Could also be a prizrak, or a cyraeth.”

Revekah snorted. “Ghosts, is it? Your mother filled your head with too many folktales.”

“Then what happened to Tornas?”

“Tornas was a lecherous old bastard who tried things too hot and heavy with one of Gavamor’s lasses. No mystery. No ghosts. And no cyraeth.” She sighed. “I’ll take a look.”

“No!” Tarn hissed. “It’s too dangerous!”

“Then why did you want me here?”

He stared mutely at his feet, confirming what Revekah already knew. Part of him believed that the woman was merely as she sounded and wanted her gone before she drew down a northwealder patrol. Another part – perhaps the larger part – feared she was indeed a cyraeth, the tattered hood concealing withered features and bloody fangs.

“I’ll talk to her,” she said firmly. “You can head back.”

He twitched. “No, I’ll stay.”