The Last Talisman (19 page)

“You're not going to die!”

“What I really wanted was to make it to the very end with you, to help you suit up for the final battle, like you said in the letter.” He took a breath. “I'd have liked to see you win, to see you finally happy. I didn't even manage to protect you.”

“You saved my life. You stood by my side when I was alone. You've been a true friend to me. You've done so much. … Sennar told me about the Fammin in the clearing. You're a warrior. A hero, Laio.” Nihal was crying into her hands.

Laio smiled, though his expression quickly tensed. “Tell me the truth. Is Vraśta dead?”

Nihal nodded.

“I thought so,” said Laio, his voice quaking. For a moment he was silent. “Will you hold me?” he asked Nihal.

The squire forced a smile, but Nihal could see the fear in his eyes. She lifted him from his bed of leaves and wrapped her arms around his waist. Laio rested his head on her shoulder.

“It doesn't hurt. … I'm okay,” he said. He was breathing calmly now, easily.

Nihal pulled him close and held him like that for a long time, until she felt his body go limp in her arms.

20

A Reason to Go On

Nihal would have liked to honor Laio with a proper knight's burial—a funeral pyre—as they'd done for Fen, but in the perennial darkness of the Land of Night, to send off even a single spark would have led to their capture, never mind a blazing stake. And so Nihal dug him a simple tomb, something to keep him safe from the enemy. A resting place, there in his native land, the land he'd come to see, one last time.

They waited an extra day before leaving the hideout, partly because their grief had sapped all will and strength to continue the journey, partly because they could hear the enemy's heavy footsteps rattling the ground above their heads. They were marked targets, and the Fammin were out in numbers to hunt them down.

The following morning, Nihal placed Laio's body in the tomb gently, wrapping his hands around the handle of his sword, the one he'd fought with so heroically only a few days before. Then she sliced off a tuft of his hair and tucked it away in her armor, to keep a part of him with her always.

When they crept out of the burrow, all was silent in the surrounding woods. The hunt had apparently moved on. Nihal began shoveling dirt down into the hideout with her bare hands. She scraped her fingers, cracked her nails, but still she went on digging, displacing dirt and stones, until the entrance was sealed and Laio's tomb was secure.

“That's enough,” Sennar said suddenly, placing a hand on her shoulder. He sat by the mound of earth, rapt in thought. “I've been thinking about it for a while. For the entire time we've spent with him on this journey, really. If I don't do something, he'll become a ghost.” Sennar lowered his gaze. “My magic wasn't enough to save him while he was alive, but I think it should suffice to give his spirit peace now that he's gone. Not long ago, I read of a forbidden spell that allows you to imprison the soul of the dead. I mentioned it to Flogisto and he told me to forget about it, that it was the fruit of evil. But I can't just sit by and let Laio become another ghost in the Tyrant's army. I'm going to try and place a seal on his spirit.”

He turned his eyes up at Nihal, as if seeking her approval, but her gaze was impenetrable. “It's going to take some time, and I won't be able to perform any magic for a long while afterward. All I ask is that you stand guard.”

Nihal nodded, and Sennar directed his attention to the tomb, scouring his memory for a spell he'd read only once before in his life. After his foray with forbidden magic in the clearing, he was ready and willing to repeat the transgression in order to preserve Laio's spirit.

When he began reciting the spell—a lilting, bone-chilling litany—Nihal lowered her head and covered her ears. The sorcerer went on chanting, his soul replete with hate and despair, until the dark magic succumbed to his will and his fingers began weaving a field of light. Over Laio's tomb, he was placing a seal that could be broken only with the fall of the Tyrant. If the Tyrant's power were erased from the world, Laio's spirit would be set free again. The enchantment cost him an hour's time and the sum of his magical strength, draining him of the very hope that had kept him going up until then. Suddenly, Sennar felt the energy flee from his body. He felt lost, aimless. His hands cooled and the words of the litany dispersed from his lips.

“It's done,” he said grimly.

Nihal said nothing.

For a long while, they stayed there silent beside the tomb. Sennar was the first to speak. “Nothing pure can survive in this world,” he said, unsure if he was speaking of himself, or of Nihal, or of the friend they'd just laid to rest. “You may have been the only one capable of saving the Overworld. Your heart was true and your hands pure.”

He stood, carrying Nihal up with him. “It's time we go. I hear footsteps.”

They set back out on the trail.

In silence they traversed the dark, in single file, their senses alert. On several occasions, the sound of footsteps or a suspicious rustling forced them to duck into the woods and take cover among the bushes. They were tired of killing, and in no mood to fight. To Nihal, even her sword, batting against her leg as they crept through the forest, seemed more of a nuisance than ever. Sennar, meanwhile, was wounded and, with all his power drained, could treat himself only with the few herbs they'd gathered for Laio.

After three days' travel, they came upon a wide gravel bank lined with sharp rocks: the first sign of the Ludanio, the great river that sliced the Land of Night in two. In the past, it must have been a grand, booming river, but now it was almost completely dried out, a two-mile stretch of rocky riverbed. They traversed it as quickly as possible. Out in the open, they made for easy prey.

Before long, they came to the river itself. Its murky, malodorous waters oozed downstream, tracing a shoreline of dead grass. It reminded Nihal of the rank, sludge-filled river that surrounded Salazar, the river she'd jumped in on the day of her father's death. Rather than stop and rest, they decided to push forward, crossing to the other side of the trickling current. This time, they were forced to hike out in the open for an entire day. When at last they reached the sparse-looking trees that had once been the Forest of Mool, they both let out a sigh of relief.

They moved steadily through the forest, resting only when their legs tired. On several occasions, while one of the two slept, the muted sound of voices and footsteps forced them to pick up and move on. The entire dispiriting journey was made in silence, but it was not the sort of silence that came from the lack of something to say. They were silent because they knew they shared the same suffering, and that to speak of it would bring no comfort.

For ten straight days, they picked their way through the forest, and with each mile, the woods grew thicker, a sea of dead trees and dry thorn bushes, though they were no longer disturbed by the sudden sounds of voices and footsteps. Their enemies, it seemed, had gone hunting elsewhere.

The darkness, the perpetual, insufferable shade, ate away at their nerves. The air seemed pregnant with a stale, closeted odor, as if the blackness were growing like mold over everything around them. Which is why, as they stepped back into the light, it felt as if their lungs were reopening. On the tenth day, they noticed a faint glow in the distance: a pale, paradoxical dawn rising in the west rather than the east.

“We're almost at the border,” said Sennar. “We should check the talisman.”

Gradually as they advanced, the glow became more intense, lending shape to the world around them: the sharp outline of trees against the sky, now and then a vague hint of color. It felt like a rebirth, the world once again new and wondrous. Even the surrounding desolation seemed more pleasant in the light. The forest began to come alive, as if waking from a long sleep. Patches of green appeared among the yellowed ferns. Leafy branches rose up alongside the dried fronds.

By the next morning, the glow was all but radiant, the forest all but flourishing. They were pacing along in silence, Sennar in front and Nihal behind, when the sorcerer stopped short.

“What is it?” Nihal asked, her hand already resting on her sword.

Sennar turned. On his face was the first smile in what seemed like ages. “Wait here,” he said, and darted off into the bushes.

“What's going on?” Nihal asked again as she drew her sword.

“Don't worry,” came the sound of a distant voice.

Nihal stood there alone in the woods, clueless and clenching her sword, staring anxiously into the bushes where Sennar had disappeared. When she could no longer hear him rustling about, she began calling out to him. But there was no response.

“Sennar!” she shouted again. “Sennar!”

Just then she saw him step out of the brush. His cheeks were lined with scratches, and the backs of his hands were red with cuts. He held them cupped against his chest.

Nihal ran up to meet him. “Care to tell me what's going on?” she asked, irritated.

Sennar smiled again and slowly opened his palms. Nihal saw something bright red.

“Huh?”

“Has it been that long? Don't you remember when we used to go picking them in the forest?” Sennar asked. “Raspberries!”

At the sight of the fruit, Nihal was flooded with memories. She looked at Sennar and saw him as she had when they'd first met, long before they'd set off on any crazed journey. She placed a hand on his cheek. “I don't ever want you to harm yourself for me again,” she said, tracing a finger over one of his scratches, and then wrapping her arms around him.

They sat to enjoy the raspberries. As the sweet juice with a whisper of tanginess filled his mouth, Sennar felt a long-absent serenity lighten his limbs. He'd lost all hope. He'd sunk to the very bottom of pain and suffering, but now he felt it was time to reemerge, to remind himself of their purpose. The world he'd been thrown into wasn't perfect, but neither was he—certainly not anymore. And yet there was always someone or something that needed saving, that didn't deserve to disappear. No, he couldn't let hate overcome him. It was conviction he needed, the refusal to give in. If only he could find the strength to believe, maybe then they
could
truly build a new era from the ruins of the crumbling present.

He glanced over at Nihal, who sat eating raspberries in silence.

“Don't give in,” he said suddenly. “I know it seems hopeless right now, but if you and I don't keep up our spirits, then who will?”

Nihal stopped eating. “I can't help but think of Laio, of everything we did together. I just miss him so much. …”

Sennar lowered his head. “Laio died having achieved his goal. He protected you. He faced his fear and became a warrior.” He raised his eyes to meet Nihal's. “We must push on and accept the suffering. We have to. If for nothing else, then for Laio. When you left Thoolan, you made a choice—you chose life. Don't undermine your own decision.”

In that moment, Nihal told the sorcerer of how she'd killed Vraśta and of her run-in with Fammin on the way to the sanctuary. “I'm tired of all the blood,” she lamented. “Of death, of war. I'm tired of killing.” Her voice seemed almost tranquil.

Sennar turned his eyes from hers and looked back at the ground. Nihal watched him, nervous. She too lowered her head. “If this whole thing weren't so tragic, it would almost be humorous,” the sorcerer muttered.

“What would?”

Sennar looked up. “In the clearing, where Laio and I fought, I killed a man and the group of Fammin with him.” He hesitated. “Using forbidden magic.” Nihal's head snapped to attention. “And it wasn't for our defense. It was like I was possessed, like I needed to kill, to erase every last particle of them from this world.” The words came as if in a fit of anger, though his voice was tinged with melancholy. He knew Nihal would understand, that she shared his same suffering. “You see, while you were off discovering the horror of killing, I was busy learning how to enjoy it,” the sorcerer said, a bitter smile on his lips.

Nihal stared back at him in silence.

“So I'm an assassin now, too. But I won't let that stop me from pushing forward, not as long as there's someone out there who's counting on me.”

But his last few words were snuffed out by Nihal's shoulder, as she threw her arms around him and held on tight.

Sennar returned the hug with equal force, caressing her back, tracing the supple curve of her spine downward, then up to her shoulders again, until his hands came to a stop, resting lightly on the back of her neck. In that moment, he needed her. He wanted to be as close to her as possible. He was leaning forward to kiss her when, suddenly, Nihal backed away and slipped from his arms. Her cheeks were flushed, and she hid her eyes shyly. Sennar, too, lowered his gaze and closed his eyes. Gradually, he regained his calm, banished his foolish thoughts, and popped a few raspberries into his mouth.

“Let's rest here for today,” Nihal said softly, her voice quivering, almost frightened.

They finished eating in silence. For the first time in a month, they saw the sun set. Their eyes stayed fixed on the horizon until darkness closed the curtains on the awkward scene.

That evening, after a sparse, quiet meal, they spread out their map and took stock of the situation. They were camped just outside the Land of Fire. From what Ido had described, they knew it was a land filled with hundreds of volcanoes, each one used as a forge for weapons. The cities were situated along the valleys, between one volcano and another, and were linked by bridges and tunnels.

“All of the major thoroughfares will be under heavy surveillance and swarming with enemies,” Sennar observed.

Nihal sighed. “So what can we do?”

The sorcerer stared off into the darkness. “I have no idea.”

After a brief silence, Nihal suddenly sat up straight. “The water supply system!” she exclaimed.

Sennar cast her a look of bewilderment.

“Ido told me about it,” she went on. “Dwarves from the Land of Rocks constructed it for the Land of Fire. It's a network of underground canals that runs throughout the region and connects it with the Land of Rocks.”

“But we don't even know where the entrance is,” Sennar objected.

“I'm afraid we do,” Nihal replied with a smile. She placed a finger on the map. “Ido showed me. It's not far from the border of the Land of Night.”

Sennar met her gaze. “So you mean we'll have to go underground,” he muttered, his voice stripped of enthusiasm.

“It's the only way,” Nihal replied. “Or at least the safest.”

Each night they'd been swapping shifts as lookout, but this time Sennar couldn't hold up his end of the bargain. Between the exhausting journey and the rush of emotions from earlier that day, he was completely spent. Right in the middle of his turn, weariness took hold, and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep, his head against a tree trunk. But it was no night for dozing.