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EPILOGUE:

Requiem

Let no one honor me with tears, nor celebrate my funeral rites with weeping.  

—Quintus Ennius

A Few Tendays Later, in Biemestren

The cool, clear voice of Ellegon sounded through Biemestren: *I have found them at the border, and we come. With sad news.*

They all came out to see, waiting not in the throne room, but in the courtyard, beneath the window of what had been Karl's study.

They gathered—the rulers Andrea Cullinane, Listar, Baron Tyrnael, and Thomen, Baron Furnael; the warriors Garavar, Garthe, Pirojil, Durine, and Kethol, plus a full troop of the House Guard; Master Engineer Ranella with Journeyman Aravam and Bibuz and a dozen apprentices; fat U'len, the castle's head cook, with her assistants Jimuth and Kozat; maids and scribes, coopers and blacksmiths and stablemen—they gathered, waiting.

Above, a distant black spot in the sky grew slowly, then took shape and form as the dragon descended, leathery wings beating the air in a relentless fury.

*We come.*

Dust flew into the air as the dragon stooped in for a landing.

By the time eyes had begun to clear, Bren Adahan had unstrapped himself and vaulted to the ground, reaching up to help Aeia down, then Tennetty, Jason, and finally Doria.

"Doria!" Andrea Cullinane's eyes widened. "Is it really you?"

The blond girl nodded, while Jason and Aeia ran to Andrea.

Thomen Furnael eyed him levelly, his face grim. Bren shook his head.

"He's dead," Andrea Cullinane said, her eyes searching his for some hope as she held her son and adopted daughter to her.

I can't offer you the hope you need, Lady, Bren thought, holding his face impassive.

On the trip home, he thought he had gotten used to the idea of Karl Cullinane being dead. But he hadn't, not really. Not until now, not until he had to inform Andrea that she was a widow.

They stood still for a moment, none able to give word to what everyone in the courtyard knew.

But for just a moment. Slowly, as though the motion was an immense effort, Jason Cullinane nodded. "Yes."

"He's dead, Andrea," Tennetty said.

It still seemed impossible. Bren had heard tales of the outlaw Karl Cullinane as a boy; when he had first met the giant, Bren had been only a little younger than Jason now was. Karl Cullinane had towered over his life.

Ellegon's mental voice was slow and even.

*You are certain,* he said. It was no question; it was a statement.

Andrea nodded, slowly, her face holding no trace of pain, displaying no emotion whatsoever.

Doesn't it matter to her?  

*She will not hold up her grief for your inspection, human,* the dragon said, looming above him, eyes the size of dinner plates staring back at him. *And neither will I. It is a family matter.*

Jason pried himself from his mother's arms, his eyes dry and clear.

He stood easily, resting his hands on his belt. "We have some things that must be handled immediately," he said as he turned to Thomen. "I may be my father's heir, but I have no business ruling Holtun-Bieme. Not now; maybe not ever. The crown stays where it is. You will continue to help my mother rule."

"Jason!" Andrea drew back, shocked. "You've just—"

"I may have just returned home, but there are matters that must be handled now, Mother." The boy drew himself up straighter, his face holding no trace of passion, or of compassion. "Bren will help you rule, too. He's one of you—"

"Damn you." Bren Adahan shook his head. "Damn you, Jason Cullinane."

The boy looked like he had been slapped. "What?"

Tennetty stiffened, her eyes narrowing slightly, her stare softening only fractionally when Aeia laid a gentle hand on her arm.

"You, your father, and that arrogant bastard Walter Slovotsky have always been the same," Bren said, letting the long-repressed fury flow. "You think that you're the only ones who care, you think that you Other Side people are the only ones that . . ." Words failed him; he flailed an arm helplessly. " . . . that all this matters to. You had better understand me, Jason Cullinane: There are others of us in this, too. You think Aeia doesn't care? Do you think she isn't a part of it?"

Aiea smiled at him, cocking her head to one side. For more than the thousandth time it occurred to him that there was nothing Bren Adahan had or could have that couldn't be bought by one of those smiles.

" . . . or Garavar?"

The old general nodded grimly, briefly clasping a strong hand to Jason's shoulder.

" . . . or the rest of the warriors? Do you think they aren't part of it?"

Feet shuffled on the dirt, while grim faces stared levelly. Standing side by side, Pirojil, Dunne, and Kethol faced Jason, each raising a hand in a sketchy salute, huge Durine adding an encouraging smile.

" . . . or Ranella?"

The master engineer raised inkstained fingers in a brief acknowledgment, then returned to her private thoughts after her lips briefly moved: I'll build you your railroad, Karl, I promise. 

" . . . or Thomen?"

Thomen, Baron Furnael, the son of the man who had had Bren's father killed, the great-grandson of the man who had kidnapped and raped Bren's great-grandmother, extended a hand to Bren Adahan and clasped it firmly.

"Or even that crazy one-eyed attack bitch of yours?"

Tennetty smiled at that.

"If you think this revolution your father began is the property of the Cullinane family," Bren went on, "you're wrong. It belongs to everyone. We're all in this together; we each have our parts. Fine: Thomen will help your mother rule Holtun-Bieme; that's what he's good at. Agreed, I'll help; I'll do what I can. Of course, Garavar will command troops, while Pirojil and Durine will fight; Ranella and Lou Riccetti will build; U'len will cook. Ellegon, Aeia, Doria—we all do our parts. But so will you, Jason Cullinane. You'll do two things for the rest of us."

"And those are?"

He wanted to say: You'll tell your sister to marry me. But he wouldn't say that. Partly it was a matter of pride. Besides, it wouldn't make a difference. Aeia was just as stubborn as the rest of her family.

"First, you'll work like a dog trying to learn everything you need to, so you can do your part, whatever that is. I don't think you know, yet; I surely don't."

"Agreed," Jason Cullinane said. His voice, while no louder, somehow seemed to gain depth and power. "And second?"

"Second, you'll accept that the rest of us are part of it, too," Bren Adahan said quietly, each word dropping into the silence. "Each in our own way; each and every one of us."

There was a little something of his father in his eyes as Jason nodded and looked from face to face, finding something there that he had not seen before.

And there was more than a little of his father in his voice as he folded his arms across his chest, nodded slowly, and said, "Your terms are agreed to, Bren Adahan."

His mother took Jason's hand. "Then come in and rest. There is much to do tomorrow."

"No." Gently, he pulled away from her. "No," he said. "There is much to do today. Today." His face was emotionless, but his eyes were wet. "Tennetty."

"Right here."

"My swordsmanship needs work. While it's still light." Tears ran down a stern, unmoving face. "There is much work to do, and the day isn't over. Let's get to it."

"Quite right," Tennetty said, with a shrug and a smile. "Walk this way," she said, walking twenty steps away and then drawing her sword, mirroring Jason.

While steel rang on steel, the words seemed to echo: There is much work to do, and the day isn't over. 

The crowd dispersed until only Bren Adahan, Thomen Furnael, Doria Perlstein, and the two Cullinane women were left with the dragon.

* * *

*Could that not have waited?* Ellegon looked down at Bren. *You leave him little time for private mourning.*

Perhaps. Bren nodded his head. But I'm not sure he has much time. He is Karl's heir. 

*As are we all. The fire burns more brightly each year, doesn't it?*

I don't understand.  

*Of course you do.*

Great wings folded tightly against his side, the dragon lowered his saurian head, turning toward Andrea. *I . . . am so sorry, Andrea. I loved him, too.*

Clumsily, her face and her tears buried in her daughter's hair, she reached up to pat a thick scale. "He's dead, Ellegon."

Doria reached out an awkward arm, and Andrea included the younger-seeming woman in her embrace.

At the sound of steel on steel, the dragon looked over at Jason Cullinane and Tennetty, their swords flashing in the daylight. Jason parried a high-line attack, stopped his own lunge just short of Tennetty's torso, then backed up a few feet, saluting before taking an en garde position once again.

Slowly, the majestic head turned to look down at Thomen Furnael, Aeia Cullinane, and finally at Bren Adahan.

Ellegon stretched his neck, the huge head moving slowly from side to side, the eyes, each easily the size of a dinner plate, staring unblinkingly.

*Andrea, the flame burns more brightly, year by year. You say that Karl is dead?* Ellegon unfurled his wings, braced himself against the smooth stones, then leaped into the air. Flame roared into the clear blue sky.

*My dear, dear Andrea, that is entirely a matter of opinion.*

In a House on Faculty Row

Even a sight that spans worlds can be blurred by tears.

Arthur Simpson Deighton sat, half bent over his desk, his head buried in his arms, weeping.

A distant voice seemed to whisper:

Strange. You treat some of them like pieces in a game, but you care about the others. It's most amusing, I suppose, and while I'm used to laws and rules shifting and changing, I never will understand the rules you live by, Arta Myrdhyn.

"I let myself care about him, Titania. About all of them."

You grow soft, old human. Weak. Your caring is distant, pointless. It's not at all amusing.

"It shall be neither distant nor pointless, someday."

Idle threats. Idle promises. You know what is necessary, but you have yet to do it. Coward. Crazy, useless coward. Now, you have another excuse to wait.

Arthur Simpson Deighton wept until his aching eyes were dry of tears.

Later, in Pandathaway: Slavers' Guildhall

"By the time we arrived, they were dead, every one. Before we were driven off, we were able to capture a couple of the Mel whores; they are outside, waiting your pleasure. They didn't see it, but they did report: Cullinane and a handful of his men took on more than a hundred of ours, and won."

"All dead? All?"

"Every one. The beach was scattered with rotting bodies. It was clear that many of them had died in some sort of gunfight, some in some kind of explosion. But the rest . . . there were those who had been killed by strangling, some with an axe, and some with a sword. I was trying to investigate further when the Mel attacked—yes, with guns."

"Captured from Ahrmin's party?"

"I don't know if it was our powder or that accursed Cullinane powder."

"Ahrmin and a score of good guildsmen and a hundred mercenaries were killed, the Mel have guns—and you say that there is worse?"

"There is. I know there's no word of Karl Cullinane returning to Holtun-Bieme—they seem to think that he's dead."

"You say that he isn't?"

"I say that nobody else has seen this. We found it nailed to the chest of one of our men; he had been hung by the heels and slaughtered like a goat. We were meant to find it; the Mel didn't attack until after we discovered it.

"The symbols on the very bottom seem to be the signatures. There are three of them. Three: an axe, a knife, and a sword. I think the writing on top is that accursed Englits of his, but you can see what's written in Erendra."

He held up a piece of sun-bleached leather, on which were written, in dark, dried blood, some English words that they couldn't understand.

And below the words they couldn't understand, also written in blood, were three Erendra words that they could:

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

EPILOGUE:

Requiem

Let no one honor me with tears, nor celebrate my funeral rites with weeping.  

—Quintus Ennius

A Few Tendays Later, in Biemestren

The cool, clear voice of Ellegon sounded through Biemestren: *I have found them at the border, and we come. With sad news.*

They all came out to see, waiting not in the throne room, but in the courtyard, beneath the window of what had been Karl's study.

They gathered—the rulers Andrea Cullinane, Listar, Baron Tyrnael, and Thomen, Baron Furnael; the warriors Garavar, Garthe, Pirojil, Durine, and Kethol, plus a full troop of the House Guard; Master Engineer Ranella with Journeyman Aravam and Bibuz and a dozen apprentices; fat U'len, the castle's head cook, with her assistants Jimuth and Kozat; maids and scribes, coopers and blacksmiths and stablemen—they gathered, waiting.

Above, a distant black spot in the sky grew slowly, then took shape and form as the dragon descended, leathery wings beating the air in a relentless fury.

*We come.*

Dust flew into the air as the dragon stooped in for a landing.

By the time eyes had begun to clear, Bren Adahan had unstrapped himself and vaulted to the ground, reaching up to help Aeia down, then Tennetty, Jason, and finally Doria.

"Doria!" Andrea Cullinane's eyes widened. "Is it really you?"

The blond girl nodded, while Jason and Aeia ran to Andrea.

Thomen Furnael eyed him levelly, his face grim. Bren shook his head.

"He's dead," Andrea Cullinane said, her eyes searching his for some hope as she held her son and adopted daughter to her.

I can't offer you the hope you need, Lady, Bren thought, holding his face impassive.

On the trip home, he thought he had gotten used to the idea of Karl Cullinane being dead. But he hadn't, not really. Not until now, not until he had to inform Andrea that she was a widow.

They stood still for a moment, none able to give word to what everyone in the courtyard knew.

But for just a moment. Slowly, as though the motion was an immense effort, Jason Cullinane nodded. "Yes."

"He's dead, Andrea," Tennetty said.

It still seemed impossible. Bren had heard tales of the outlaw Karl Cullinane as a boy; when he had first met the giant, Bren had been only a little younger than Jason now was. Karl Cullinane had towered over his life.

Ellegon's mental voice was slow and even.

*You are certain,* he said. It was no question; it was a statement.

Andrea nodded, slowly, her face holding no trace of pain, displaying no emotion whatsoever.

Doesn't it matter to her?  

*She will not hold up her grief for your inspection, human,* the dragon said, looming above him, eyes the size of dinner plates staring back at him. *And neither will I. It is a family matter.*

Jason pried himself from his mother's arms, his eyes dry and clear.

He stood easily, resting his hands on his belt. "We have some things that must be handled immediately," he said as he turned to Thomen. "I may be my father's heir, but I have no business ruling Holtun-Bieme. Not now; maybe not ever. The crown stays where it is. You will continue to help my mother rule."

"Jason!" Andrea drew back, shocked. "You've just—"

"I may have just returned home, but there are matters that must be handled now, Mother." The boy drew himself up straighter, his face holding no trace of passion, or of compassion. "Bren will help you rule, too. He's one of you—"

"Damn you." Bren Adahan shook his head. "Damn you, Jason Cullinane."

The boy looked like he had been slapped. "What?"

Tennetty stiffened, her eyes narrowing slightly, her stare softening only fractionally when Aeia laid a gentle hand on her arm.

"You, your father, and that arrogant bastard Walter Slovotsky have always been the same," Bren said, letting the long-repressed fury flow. "You think that you're the only ones who care, you think that you Other Side people are the only ones that . . ." Words failed him; he flailed an arm helplessly. " . . . that all this matters to. You had better understand me, Jason Cullinane: There are others of us in this, too. You think Aeia doesn't care? Do you think she isn't a part of it?"

Aiea smiled at him, cocking her head to one side. For more than the thousandth time it occurred to him that there was nothing Bren Adahan had or could have that couldn't be bought by one of those smiles.

" . . . or Garavar?"

The old general nodded grimly, briefly clasping a strong hand to Jason's shoulder.

" . . . or the rest of the warriors? Do you think they aren't part of it?"

Feet shuffled on the dirt, while grim faces stared levelly. Standing side by side, Pirojil, Dunne, and Kethol faced Jason, each raising a hand in a sketchy salute, huge Durine adding an encouraging smile.

" . . . or Ranella?"

The master engineer raised inkstained fingers in a brief acknowledgment, then returned to her private thoughts after her lips briefly moved: I'll build you your railroad, Karl, I promise. 

" . . . or Thomen?"

Thomen, Baron Furnael, the son of the man who had had Bren's father killed, the great-grandson of the man who had kidnapped and raped Bren's great-grandmother, extended a hand to Bren Adahan and clasped it firmly.

"Or even that crazy one-eyed attack bitch of yours?"

Tennetty smiled at that.

"If you think this revolution your father began is the property of the Cullinane family," Bren went on, "you're wrong. It belongs to everyone. We're all in this together; we each have our parts. Fine: Thomen will help your mother rule Holtun-Bieme; that's what he's good at. Agreed, I'll help; I'll do what I can. Of course, Garavar will command troops, while Pirojil and Durine will fight; Ranella and Lou Riccetti will build; U'len will cook. Ellegon, Aeia, Doria—we all do our parts. But so will you, Jason Cullinane. You'll do two things for the rest of us."

"And those are?"

He wanted to say: You'll tell your sister to marry me. But he wouldn't say that. Partly it was a matter of pride. Besides, it wouldn't make a difference. Aeia was just as stubborn as the rest of her family.

"First, you'll work like a dog trying to learn everything you need to, so you can do your part, whatever that is. I don't think you know, yet; I surely don't."

"Agreed," Jason Cullinane said. His voice, while no louder, somehow seemed to gain depth and power. "And second?"

"Second, you'll accept that the rest of us are part of it, too," Bren Adahan said quietly, each word dropping into the silence. "Each in our own way; each and every one of us."

There was a little something of his father in his eyes as Jason nodded and looked from face to face, finding something there that he had not seen before.

And there was more than a little of his father in his voice as he folded his arms across his chest, nodded slowly, and said, "Your terms are agreed to, Bren Adahan."

His mother took Jason's hand. "Then come in and rest. There is much to do tomorrow."

"No." Gently, he pulled away from her. "No," he said. "There is much to do today. Today." His face was emotionless, but his eyes were wet. "Tennetty."

"Right here."

"My swordsmanship needs work. While it's still light." Tears ran down a stern, unmoving face. "There is much work to do, and the day isn't over. Let's get to it."

"Quite right," Tennetty said, with a shrug and a smile. "Walk this way," she said, walking twenty steps away and then drawing her sword, mirroring Jason.

While steel rang on steel, the words seemed to echo: There is much work to do, and the day isn't over. 

The crowd dispersed until only Bren Adahan, Thomen Furnael, Doria Perlstein, and the two Cullinane women were left with the dragon.

* * *

*Could that not have waited?* Ellegon looked down at Bren. *You leave him little time for private mourning.*

Perhaps. Bren nodded his head. But I'm not sure he has much time. He is Karl's heir. 

*As are we all. The fire burns more brightly each year, doesn't it?*

I don't understand.  

*Of course you do.*

Great wings folded tightly against his side, the dragon lowered his saurian head, turning toward Andrea. *I . . . am so sorry, Andrea. I loved him, too.*

Clumsily, her face and her tears buried in her daughter's hair, she reached up to pat a thick scale. "He's dead, Ellegon."

Doria reached out an awkward arm, and Andrea included the younger-seeming woman in her embrace.

At the sound of steel on steel, the dragon looked over at Jason Cullinane and Tennetty, their swords flashing in the daylight. Jason parried a high-line attack, stopped his own lunge just short of Tennetty's torso, then backed up a few feet, saluting before taking an en garde position once again.

Slowly, the majestic head turned to look down at Thomen Furnael, Aeia Cullinane, and finally at Bren Adahan.

Ellegon stretched his neck, the huge head moving slowly from side to side, the eyes, each easily the size of a dinner plate, staring unblinkingly.

*Andrea, the flame burns more brightly, year by year. You say that Karl is dead?* Ellegon unfurled his wings, braced himself against the smooth stones, then leaped into the air. Flame roared into the clear blue sky.

*My dear, dear Andrea, that is entirely a matter of opinion.*

In a House on Faculty Row

Even a sight that spans worlds can be blurred by tears.

Arthur Simpson Deighton sat, half bent over his desk, his head buried in his arms, weeping.

A distant voice seemed to whisper:

Strange. You treat some of them like pieces in a game, but you care about the others. It's most amusing, I suppose, and while I'm used to laws and rules shifting and changing, I never will understand the rules you live by, Arta Myrdhyn.

"I let myself care about him, Titania. About all of them."

You grow soft, old human. Weak. Your caring is distant, pointless. It's not at all amusing.

"It shall be neither distant nor pointless, someday."

Idle threats. Idle promises. You know what is necessary, but you have yet to do it. Coward. Crazy, useless coward. Now, you have another excuse to wait.

Arthur Simpson Deighton wept until his aching eyes were dry of tears.

Later, in Pandathaway: Slavers' Guildhall

"By the time we arrived, they were dead, every one. Before we were driven off, we were able to capture a couple of the Mel whores; they are outside, waiting your pleasure. They didn't see it, but they did report: Cullinane and a handful of his men took on more than a hundred of ours, and won."

"All dead? All?"

"Every one. The beach was scattered with rotting bodies. It was clear that many of them had died in some sort of gunfight, some in some kind of explosion. But the rest . . . there were those who had been killed by strangling, some with an axe, and some with a sword. I was trying to investigate further when the Mel attacked—yes, with guns."

"Captured from Ahrmin's party?"

"I don't know if it was our powder or that accursed Cullinane powder."

"Ahrmin and a score of good guildsmen and a hundred mercenaries were killed, the Mel have guns—and you say that there is worse?"

"There is. I know there's no word of Karl Cullinane returning to Holtun-Bieme—they seem to think that he's dead."

"You say that he isn't?"

"I say that nobody else has seen this. We found it nailed to the chest of one of our men; he had been hung by the heels and slaughtered like a goat. We were meant to find it; the Mel didn't attack until after we discovered it.

"The symbols on the very bottom seem to be the signatures. There are three of them. Three: an axe, a knife, and a sword. I think the writing on top is that accursed Englits of his, but you can see what's written in Erendra."

He held up a piece of sun-bleached leather, on which were written, in dark, dried blood, some English words that they couldn't understand.

And below the words they couldn't understand, also written in blood, were three Erendra words that they could:

Back | Next
Contents
Framed