Final Passage (The Prisoner and the Sun #3) Page 13

  No, he thought. You mustn’t think that. Not even for a moment.

  He ran his gaze back over the sea, where there was still no sign of Tradd. His eyes fell back to the prints. Should he follow them into the trees? Should he remain and search for Tradd? Back and forth flew his thoughts.

  At last, he made himself kneel in the sand, though his instincts resisted it. With his eyes closed, Iliff breathed until his attention surrounded his pounding heart. He pushed his awareness outward and soon experienced the calm of the sand and water, the lightness of the trees. The trees proliferated as they climbed inland, becoming confusing and difficult to feel past. And out toward the sea, his awareness was blunted by the wall of mist and water.

  He felt nothing of Skye and Tradd.

  Iliff took a deep breath. He would try again. As he drew his awareness back in, he became aware once more of the lightness of everything, as though this place were little more than concentrations of mist. All that seemed solid were the skiffs that marched along the beach, and the debris from the barge—inanimate artifacts from the outside, things he normally could not feel with as much clarity. With his awareness, Iliff combed over the debris. In the shallows he felt two of the timbers still tethered together. Up on the beach lay part of a wall from their sleeping cabin, and then another timber, farther up.

  And then something else.

  Iliff’s eyes flew open, and he sprang to his feet. The debris was perhaps a quarter-mile from the skiffs, and he closed the distance quickly. He felt light and lithe. Indeed, he had not run this fast in years. Soon he could see Tradd, half risen, looking about. He appeared just as perplexed as Iliff had been upon his own awakening some minutes before.

  “Tradd!” he called, slowing to catch his breath.

  Tradd turned to him, the yellow crescents of his eyes blinking slowly. He looked around once more, then back to Iliff. Though he wore the same tunic, vest, and trousers as on their voyage, they were no longer gray with salt and sweat. They showed clean, his tunic nearly white. Iliff looked down and saw that his own clothes appeared similarly fresh. They felt fresh as well.

  “Is this…?”

  Iliff nodded as he helped Tradd to his feet. “The Far Place,” he said. “Yes, we made it. We are here.”

  He walked once around Tradd, running his hands along his arms and over his back to make sure he was not injured. He felt as solid as ever. Back in front of Tradd, Iliff seized him. He was sure he had lost him. When Tradd hugged him back, Iliff could feel his unease.

  “What happened to you?” Tradd asked.

  “The same as you, I was thrown from the barge. I only just awoke on shore, over there.”

  “You look different.”

  “Yes, somehow our clothes were cleansed—”

  “No,” Tradd broke in, lifting a lock of Iliff’s hair from his shoulder. He held it to where Iliff could see it.

  Iliff took the dark lock between his fingers and thumb and rubbed the hairs apart. Not a single thread of silver. He released the lock and raised his hands to his face, where the skin felt smooth. The knot on his forehead, the one he had suffered battling the seas that first night, was gone.

  “You look different,” Tradd repeated, frowning now. “Younger.”

  Iliff dropped his hands and looked around them. He did feel younger, stronger, swifter. He had felt so ever since awakening. And he noticed now that he was neither hungry nor thirsty. Nothing hurt.

  “Are we dead?” Tradd asked quietly.

  Iliff thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, Tradd.”

  “How do we know?”

  “The Far Place is a realm where the fallen go to sleep.”

  “And because we’re not sleeping…?”

  “We cannot be dead,” Iliff finished.

  Tradd looked up sharply, then all around. “Where’s Skye?”

  “Yes, yes, come along,” Iliff said. “I discovered her tracks not far from those boats. They lead into the forest where there is a path.”

  “Why did she go in without us?”

  “She may not have seen us,” Iliff said as they broke into a run. Or she may not have had a choice.

  “Is that yours?”

  Iliff turned to where Tradd was pointing. Only a bit off their path sat Salvatore’s bag, as clean and dry as when he had packed it two weeks before. Iliff lifted it over his shoulder mid-stride, thankful to feel the weight of their provisions still inside.

  They chased the prints up through the tall grass. Iliff expected to find many prints here, for this was the way the young Fythe man and woman had gone as well, but there were only the two sets he believed to belong to Depar and Skye. Their prints proceeded inland before fading onto a wooded path.

  Tradd slowed, peering up into the trees. “It’s so quiet in here,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” Iliff said, his lowered voice sounding loud. “The Far Place is a land of rest.”

  The wooded path climbed for a time before falling into the gentle slopes of a deeper forest. The air smelled fresh and pleasant. In fact, every feature of the forest was pleasant, from the arrangement of the trees to the colors and spacing of even the smallest leaf. There were no fallen branches or rotting debris to litter the forest floor. Iliff tried to project his awareness ahead of them, but some quality of the trees frustrated his efforts.

  He hoisted his bag higher and sped their pace. Though he saw and heard no one among the pale trunks, he could not dispel the sense that he and Tradd were being watched. He turned to Tradd.

  “Do you sense anything?” he asked.

  Tradd lifted his nose to the air. “Nuh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “No people or animals. Just the trees and—”

  The sudden appearance of the Fythe man and woman startled them both. They had come up the trail from behind, unheard somehow, and were now walking past them. They turned their heads to where Iliff and Tradd stood, but spoke no greeting. Around them, Iliff observed the same misty air as he had upon awakening, and for a moment, his thoughts became faint. He could see by Tradd’s heavy eyelids that their presence induced the same lethargy in him.

  By the time Iliff had recovered himself, the man and woman were gone.

  “Who were they?” Tradd asked, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them wide.

  “They are Fythe, but I do not recognize them. I saw them on the beach when I awoke.” It suddenly occurred to Iliff that they may also have been with Skye. “Come,” he said, waving for Tradd to follow.

  The path slipped deeper into the forest, occasionally rising onto small wooden bridges that forded deep ravines where water ran. Shortly grass appeared at Iliff and Tradd’s boots, and the path opened onto the verge of a meadow. The bordering trees rose into a fair canopy high above. Iliff looked around for the Fythe man and woman, but saw no sign of either.

  “There is a basin beyond the rise there,” he said, pointing ahead of them. “It should give us a sense of where we are.”

  Soon they were at the top of the meadow, looking down. The tree canopy hid the greater valley, but what Iliff could see of it spoke of shelter and quiet rest. For far below, he beheld beds. Many beds. They were not arranged in strict lines, as the boats had been, but seemed to ride the grassy swells of the valley floor as though on a gentle sea. Here and there threads of mist stood and drifted. The scene was impossibly soothing. Iliff heard Tradd sigh beside him and turned to find his lids sloping down again.

  When Iliff gave his arm a gentle shake, Tradd’s eyelids fluttered back open. “We must remain vigilant,” Iliff said. “Skye may be down there.”

  Tradd clenched his brows together and nodded.

  As they descended, Iliff began to make out the faces of the sleeping farther below. They appeared from fine linens and coverlets that swathed their bodies and skirted the grass. And the mist alongside the beds—Iliff saw that it was not mist at all, but Fythe men and women, similar to the ones he had observed earlier. They moved among the sleeping in quiet, mysterious motions, stroking
their hair, making small adjustments to the sheets, whispering over them.

  They were attendants, Iliff realized. Attendants to the fallen. Iliff turned to Tradd, who seemed to understand as well.

  “Is… is Skye down there?” Tradd asked.

  Closing his eyes, Iliff swept over the beds. But all he could feel was a deep and drifting sleep. Not even the attendants appeared in his awareness.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  They left the trees and walked down into the open. Iliff looked over the multitudes of fallen. Whether done in by illness or battle or the incessant march of days, he could not say, for none appeared aged or injured. Iliff then recalled that the same could be said of himself now. When they arrived among the first beds, he noticed Tradd peering down on one of the fallen while trying not to get too close. Tradd showed no outward changes, but of course he was already young.

  Iliff lifted his gaze to where hundreds upon hundreds more beds sloped down before them. The attendants that glided past seemed not to notice his and Tradd’s presence, or if they did, seemed not to mind.

  “There he is,” Iliff said, walking toward one of the beds.

  “Who?”

  And now Iliff was standing over the young, blonde figure he had seen in his dream some nights before, the man who had guided them over the Sea. He wore the same white vestments, but he was no longer the feeble man whose skin creased and broke with guilt. His smooth face appeared peaceful.

  “Depar,” Iliff replied.

  Tradd came and looked upon him.

  He had led them to the Far Place, thought Iliff. He had kept his word. But had they arrived too late?

  When one of the attendants, a young man, passed near, Iliff reached for him. He encountered what felt like a slender wrist, but when he looked, he saw that his hand had become lost inside the mist of the man’s sleeve. A pervasive sense of sleep began to climb his arm.

  “My wife,” Iliff said. “Skye… I’m looking for Skye.”

  The man smiled, but said nothing.

  “Skye,” Iliff repeated.

  But try as he might, he could not convey the urgency he felt, neither in his voice nor the force of his grip. Everything seemed so pleasant. When the man’s image began to waver, Iliff released him. The man smiled once more, then turned to resume his duties. When the mist before Iliff dispersed, he saw that Tradd had left his side. He turned to find him climbing toward a long shelf that looked over the rest of the valley.

  Iliff jogged after him. “Where are you going?”

  “I want to see the man’s hat.”

  “What man?” he asked. “What hat?”

  “I saw it when we were coming down.”

  Iliff did not try to dissuade Tradd, deciding they would have a better view from the shelf. When they arrived over the near lip, Iliff saw that the shelf ran the middle length of the valley. The beds here were perhaps a little larger than the ones below and the men and women more finely ornamented. Some of the men held swords over their chests.

  “There,” Tradd said.

  He pointed to a handsome man who slept quietly. He was young, like the others, and yet bore the staid countenance of experience. On his head was a gold crown, nearly white. It was the gold that had attracted Tradd, Iliff decided. He was half troll, after all. When Iliff arrived at his side, he drew his breath in.

  “What? What is it?” Tradd asked.

  “I know this man,” Iliff whispered.

  “Him?”

  Iliff looked over the red and white jewels that adorned his crown. “This is Skye’s father,” he said. “He was our king.”

  Iliff lowered himself to the ground at his bedside, his head bowed in deference. He remembered how this man had taken him in all those years before, how he had entrusted him with the defenses of the township. He recalled their walks along the wall, just the two of them. Indeed, the King had been as a father to him. When Iliff stood at length, he looked at the bed beside the King’s, where a young woman rested, a woman of sage beauty. Her hair lay strong and golden along her sides. It was the same woman he had seen in Skye’s memory, though younger, for this was her mother.

  Iliff knelt beside her bed now.

  “I have heard so many stories of you, my lady,” he spoke softly. “Of your love for your people. Of your power, your faith. And in the Sun’s presence will we meet at last, I trust.”

  He reached for her in his awareness, but as with the King, he felt only the silence of sleep. He stood and raised his eyes. Beyond the Queen’s was another bed. In this one lay Skye herself.

  Chapter 21

  For a moment, Iliff was back in the township. But the township was small, embraced by wood walls and watched over by the King. Iliff was on his way to meet the King, and as he stepped past the guards and out onto the top of the high gatehouse to the Keep, he felt his old earnestness. But it was not the King he found there. Waiting in the King’s stead was his daughter, back straight, hands folded in the lap of her gown, her fair face just beginning to turn toward him.

  The memory dissolved from his mind’s eye, but the young woman remained.

  Skye lay straight, her sleeping face as quiet and soft as the pillow beneath her head. Fine gold hair warmed her placid expression. Iliff followed her slender arms with his gaze to where one hand rested over the other. Yes, it was the same woman who had stood with him atop the wood gatehouse as night fell, telling him of the old legends, of her long-held yearning to seek the Sun, of the great Mountain guarded by something large and fearsome.

  Iliff knelt and lay his hands over hers. He looked to the valley below them, then back on her face and understood. He understood that the large, fearsome guardian was this, was death.

  His jaw began to tremble. He closed his eyes. Behind him, he listened to Tradd shift his weight.

  “Is she…?”

  “No,” said Iliff.

  He clenched his jaw. This is not going to be how it ends. He stood and reached beneath Skye. She felt light and cool in his embrace. He lifted her from the bed, duvet and all, and stood. When he looked on her sleeping face, his knees faltered, but he straightened himself and pressed his lips to her soft cheek. His forehead touched hers. Do you hear me? This is not going to be how it ends.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re taking her with us,” Iliff said. “We are not going to leave her behind.”

  Tradd frowned and looked around. “But she’s sleeping. And you said…”

  “It doesn’t matter what I said.” Iliff’s words sounded hard in the serene valley. He pressed his eyes closed, then opened them again. “We just need to get her through the Far Place, get her to the other side. Once we ascend the Mountain, once we arrive before the Sun, she will be well.”

  When Iliff saw Tradd’s eyes begin to moisten, he spoke softly.

  “It is all right. She will be all right.”

  Tradd drew his forearm across his nose. “I don’t understand this place.”

  Iliff looked from Tradd to the attendants who drifted among the sleeping. “No, neither do I. That is why the sooner we leave here, the better.”

  They walked along the shelf, following what Iliff guessed to be the Fythe’s royal lineage, back and back, to the earliest generations. As they neared the final bed, Iliff wondered whether the grim-faced man lying there was the king who had first banished the Garott to the Hinterlands.

  “Why don’t we go up through the trees?” Tradd asked.

  “That way is steep and thickly wooded,” Iliff said, peering into the forest above them. “It will be hard to travel through and easy to lose our way. No, we must emerge from these lands on the far side. Better we go the length of the valley.”

  By the time they reached the valley floor, Iliff felt that the day should be late, but the sky remained white and pale through the trees, as though time were absent here. From where Iliff and Tradd stood, beds flowed out in all directions. Iliff’s eyes found the far end of the valley, which remained distant. He loo
ked down to where Skye continued to sleep.

  “Can I carry her for a while?” Tradd asked.

  Iliff hesitated before nodding.

  The duvet swept between them as Tradd lifted Skye from his arms. Iliff was reassured by Tradd’s gentleness, his gray lips frowned over her as he held her close. Iliff led them swiftly. He looked over the beds of the fallen as they went, knowing that his old friend Gilpin would be here and their captain, Horatio, and all who had fallen in the Great Battle. So many would be here. So many he had known and loved during his years in the township.

  Before long, the valley began to narrow and the beds to dwindle away. Ahead of them, the upslope of the land met the descending forest.

  “There,” Iliff said, pointing out a path among the trees.

  But Tradd had stopped. His large eyes shifted to either side. When Iliff turned, he saw them too. The attendants had come down the slopes of the valley and from behind. They gathered on three sides, their presence as silent as it was sudden.

  “Stay close to me,” Iliff whispered.

  The attendants stood some meters away, watching. At last a young man and woman stepped forward, reproductions of the ones he had seen on the beach. They arrived before Tradd and lifted their arms out to where Skye slept.

  “No!” Iliff said, pushing his way in front of them.

  The Fythe smiled and looked on Iliff with expressions of utmost patience. Iliff fought to keep his eyelids open, for they were suddenly heavy. When the man and woman spoke, their voices sounded in gentle unison.

  “She cannot leave the valley.”

  “Why not?” Iliff said.

  “She must sleep here.”

  “She is not fallen,” Iliff said.

  But the man and woman were already moving around him. Iliff’s protests fell to mumbles and he collapsed to the ground. He struggled to raise his head and found the pair reaching into Tradd’s arms. Though Tradd wavered, he continued to hold Skye to his chest. When Iliff went to grab the man’s cloak, it became mist inside his hand. More of the attendants moved between them until he could no longer see Skye.