Final Passage (The Prisoner and the Sun #3) Read online

  Iliff could read the foreboding on their faces. On Filo’s, who stood with the bearded line of his lips in a stiff frown, hands thrust in his coat pockets. On Newt’s, who bore the same expression, eyes large and imploring, as on the night Iliff had stayed behind to defend the crumbling walls of the Keep. It was even there on the grim faces of Stype and his wife, Severna—the two who best understood their journey. They had all stayed up late the night before talking it over.

  “I cannot say how,” Stype had told his sister. “But I sensed this day would come, this day that you would leave. And though it saddens me, I know it is what Mother intended for you.”

  “You are well with this?” Skye asked, placing her hands over his.

  Stype looked again at the folded parchment that Skye had given to him to keep. “I feel the truth in what our mother has written,” he answered, “and in the words you speak.” He looked to Iliff. “Both of you.”

  Severna nodded. “And perhaps one day a living Garott will venture south,” she said, “beyond the lands of our own stories.”

  Iliff looked around the shore again. He kept hoping to find Tradd’s hulking figure, half hidden behind his plumes of breath, looming over the others. But he neither saw Tradd, nor felt him.

  When Skye stepped before the skiff, the lakeshore fell silent save for the roaming wind and the sound of water knocking up beneath the ice. Though the breeze fluttered her hair into strands, she kept her hands bundled deep inside her cloak. Iliff could feel her gathering her strength, could see the air around her begin to shimmer with color. For a moment, her eyes shone blue.

  “Good people,” she called. “Friends and loved ones. This is a day of passing and of passages. One goes to his final rest so that two may follow and venture beyond.” She looked to the skiff where Depar lay, white and tranquil. “I know that this may seem strange to some of you, worrisome, even. But look around you. Did not the idea of a rapprochement between our races, between Fythe and Garott, seem strange and worrisome once? Did it not once seem beyond our reach? And now we live and labor together, as one race.”

  Iliff felt Skye’s words resonating through those around him.

  “We have found our common root, yes,” she continued. “But deeper it runs. Beyond this life, beyond death, even. And so that is where we must go. And that is why we must go. For to push beyond our age-old beliefs, to find the source, the Sun, will be to know who we are and where we come from. Our death, indeed, our living, will no longer be a blind sleeping, but a brilliant awakening.”

  Iliff heard Adramina’s words again, as though they were being spoken in his ear:

  The path, if it be true, will demand many deaths of you. The path, if it be true, will demand many births of you.

  “How will you know that we have arrived there?” Skye was asking. Iliff, too, felt the question lingering in people’s minds. “How will you know that we have not simply gone to our own ends?”

  Skye paused here, eyes closed. Iliff became aware of the townspeople stirring around him. Her silence became longer, more imposing, and Iliff looked on in concern, fearing that she did not have an answer. But when she opened her eyes and spoke, she did so with calm certainty.

  “Because a messenger will come and tell you,” she said. “A messenger from the south, though we go north.”

  A messenger? thought Iliff. She had never spoken of a messenger before. He would have to ask her about this.

  Skye then recounted for the people the community’s trials and triumphs, from Depar’s treachery to his repentant return, and in this way she honored both the community and, in another way, the fallen man before them. At last she turned to Iliff and stood to one side so that he could address the people.

  Iliff’s vision blurred as he looked over them. He coughed into his fist and smiled.

  “My dear, dear friends,” he said. “Many years ago I came to this very lakeshore, alone and adrift, in search of community. And a community I found—or rather, one found me.” He glanced toward Skye. “You took me in as one of your own, and now a lifetime I have spent among you, or so it feels. So much have I learned. But for my experiences here, my experiences among you, I would not be standing here on the shore. I would not be about to embark on what will be the final leg of a quest I began as a boy.”

  Iliff thought of the young troweler who seemed another person entirely.

  “I would like to close by thanking you,” he said. “For sharing your food, your firesides, your labors and celebrations, indeed, your joy of life. One and all, I thank you.”

  The townspeople spoke their own thanks as Iliff bowed before them. He took his place beside Skye. Stype and Severna joined them, and together they pushed Depar’s skiff through the skein of ice and out into the lake, where it began to drift onto its Final Passage.

  The townspeople cleared a path for them to the barge, moored between the two docks by ropes and thin plates of ice. Iliff and Filo had made a final inspection of the barge the night before, and now Iliff’s eyes roamed over it once more—over the long steering oar, the twin cabins in the rear, one with a small chimney, over the stout poles of the mast where the canvas sail waited to be unfurled and, higher up, the wooden platform looked out.

  While the boat builders rowed to the front of the barge and fastened tow lines, Iliff and Skye remained standing before the dock to bid their final, tearful farewells.

  When Stype approached, Iliff embraced him and held him close.

  “Go well, brother,” Stype whispered.

  “We will,” Iliff assured him. “And please, look after Tradd upon his return. See that he is not alone.”

  “Of course,” Stype replied.

  At last, Iliff and Skye stepped onto the barge. The mooring ropes were thrown aboard, and the boat builders rowed out in their skiffs until the tow lines drew taut. As the barge broke from the ice in short tugs, Iliff and Skye waved to the townspeople who crowded the docks and surrounding shore, many deep. Once again, Iliff looked helplessly about for Tradd.

  “He will be all right,” Skye whispered, taking his hand.

  The shore fell farther and farther behind them, until the people became a silent mass, difficult to discern. The barge was drifting of its own now, and the boat makers rowed their skiffs in to remove the tow lines. Iliff helped them and, one-by-one, bid them farewell.

  When the skiffs had all left, the barge was nearly to the center of the lake, where a weak current took them in and steered them north. Far ahead, Depar’s skiff bobbed among the small, gray waves, its lantern pole peeking back at them. Iliff looked again to the shore. The corner of the bluff was now moving between them and the townspeople, and he realized he was seeing them all for perhaps the last time. Iliff raised his arm as they slowly drifted from view.

  He sighed, his gaze wandering up the high bluff. From the middle of the great lake, he could see all of the pillars: the two on the west side for the living Fythe, the two opposite for the Garott. He looked along the height of the lone south pillar that stood for the fallen Garott, and at last, up and down the pillar on the north end, the direction they traveled. A figure stood there, arms resting on the low wall of the bluff. Iliff straightened and was preparing to alert Skye, when he realized that it was the old Garott woman from the marketplace. He stared up at her, afraid to move. She made no gesture herself, but simply watched.

  “Depar’s skiff is becoming hard to see,” Skye said. “Should we unfurl the sail?”

  “Mm?” Iliff started slightly. “Oh, yes, yes.”

  He climbed the ladder and began untying the lashing that held the canvas closed. When he turned and looked back to the bluff, the north pillar stood alone. The woman was no longer there.

  Chapter 13

  The south wind filled the sail and helped the barge catch up, then keep pace, with the smaller, lighter skiff that rocked ahead of them. They tied the sail off. Then Iliff sat on the block beside the steering oar, while Skye went into the cabin to prepare lenk over their small stove. Behind
them, the high bluff receded to a knob, nearly beyond Iliff’s seeing. The land that rose up and away to either side of the barge was steeply wooded and snow covered.

  The barge chopped along through the cold, and by mid-day, Iliff could see the opening of the lake ahead and the Great Sea beyond. He called Skye from the cabin, and they stood bundled together at the bow, watching its misty approach.

  “So long have I dreamed of making this journey to the Sun,” Skye said. “And now here we are.”

  Iliff nodded behind her.

  “Look!” she cried.

  Skye pointed out a small inlet on the western shore of the lake, hidden from the land above by a rocky overhang. Iliff smiled in surprise. On the near side of the inlet sat a massive hump, dark and glistening. Shortly, another hump rose beside it, water sliding silently down its sides.

  “Water kelpies,” Iliff said. “Your father believed them to be good omens.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Let us hope.”

  They watched the kelpies drift toward the middle of the inlet, each one at least as large as the barge. Iliff felt Skye glowing inside his embrace. He was glad that at last she was able to see the creature that had eluded her child’s eyes so many years before. Too soon, though, the barge was passing the inlet, and the cliff walls concealed the pool and its magical creatures once more.

  Late in the day, the barge sailed between the steep cliffs at the lake’s mouth and rose onto the surf. Iliff held fast to the bouncing oar. Salt water leapt and frothed around them. But true to Filo’s word, the barge was built for conditions as these, and before long, the barge was through and the surf breaking behind them. The gentle swells of the Great Sea now lifted them along.

  When the sky grew dim and the land had fallen far to their backs, Iliff opened the sail. Skye placed a lantern on the end of a hooked pole. When the skiff was within reach, she leaned from the bow and hung the glowing lantern at the skiff’s rear. Iliff closed the sail and let Depar drift ahead of them again before tying the sail to half-mast. They did not want to get so close that they altered the skiff’s course, but neither could they risk losing sight of it, especially in the coming night.

  Iliff positioned the steering oar so that the bow pointed to the light of the lantern before tying the handle to each side of the barge. He joined Skye for dinner in the cabin. The effusive light that had given strength to her features that morning and returned when she spied the kelpies was all but gone now. In the shadow beside the stove, she appeared dim and drawn.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked after they had eaten.

  “I will not lie to you, Iliff. I am tired. So much has happened today.”

  “Please,” he said, nodding toward the bed. “There is nothing more to do this night. I will watch our progress.”

  “But you need your rest, too.”

  “The barge is sound. All I need do is check to see that it remains on course.” He leaned and looked through the cabin door. “There it is now, the light of the skiff. Exactly where it should be.”

  “Iliff…”

  “Here,” he said, helping her to her feet and over to the bed. He held the covers back, and as she lay on her side and drew her legs in, he thought she looked especially small. He tucked the covers firmly around her and touched his lips to her forehead. “Now rest,” he whispered. “Sleep. You can help again in the morning when you have your strength.”

  She murmured something that he could not make out. The planks rocked and creaked beneath them. He remained kneeling there until he was certain she was asleep, then stepped out into the cold wind and took his seat beside the oar.

  * * *

  Sometime before midnight, the loud rapping of the sail startled Iliff awake. He rose onto stiff legs, scolding himself for having drifted off. And now something about the barge did not feel right. He peered past the lantern outside their cabin door and into the night. Horror seized his gut.

  Depar’s skiff was gone.

  Iliff looked all around, but nothing shone from the sea. There was only the darkness and wind. And he realized that the wind was no longer gusting from behind, but buffeting his face, blowing ever harder. He squinted through sea spray to the sail, which flapped this way and that. The barge had turned while he slept. Swells of sea now lifted the boat from the side.

  Iliff took the steering oar and dug its blade into the water, leaning against the long handle. The sea pushed back and hissed around him, but bit by bit, the barge swung to. Before long, the sail billowed forward again. Breathing hard, Iliff set the oar and stood. The sea remained dark ahead of them. He opened the sail until it stood full, then hurried back to the oar.

  He could only hope that he had not slept long, that they were not far from the skiff, nor too far off course.

  For the next hour Iliff kept vigil on the darkness ahead, while the winds continued to build, layer upon moaning layer. But while the winds sped the barge, they also upset the sea. All around, white peaks rose and tossed their great heads from side to side. Suddenly from the darkness came a swell of water so large that it seemed to look down on the masthead. Iliff shouted to the cabin, but the wind buried his voice. He braced himself as the front of the barge was swept up.

  Iliff waited for the sea to crash over them, but to his astounded relief, the barge remained dry. It swung upward and peaked before sliding down the far side of the swell. The water that frothed along the barge’s edges and onto the deck quickly drained between the wood planks to rejoin the sea.

  More mountains of water surged toward the barge, some larger, some smaller. And though each one tested Iliff’s nerve, he found he had only to keep the oar straight so that the barge took the approaching swells head on. Iliff wiped spray from his face and looked to the cabin. He could feel Skye safe inside, thank goodness, for he could not risk leaving the oar, not even for a moment. If the barge turned again, it would founder before the swells and capsize.

  The wind’s moans turned to shrieks and the sea thundered around him. All of the swells were large now. One of them heaved the barge skyward, higher than the others had. The descent was so sheer that it felt to Iliff that they were plummeting down a hole. Before the barge could turn back up, a second wave hammered the bow. The barge was jarred backward, flinging Iliff from his seat. Free of his command, the oar bucked between the tholepins.

  Iliff tried to stand, but another swell knocked the barge sideways. Iliff landed on his stomach just as cold water crashed over him. The force of it flattened him from above, then pulled him from below as the cold water gurgled down between the planks.

  Sputtering, Iliff wobbled to his feet. He had time to tie himself to the rear of the barge before another wave fell in from the side and pummeled him again. Sweeping his dripping hair from his face, Iliff looked to the cabins. He was reassured to see that the supply cabin was blunting most of the water’s force, protecting the cabin opposite, the one in which Skye slept. The lantern that swung near the door continued to cast its small light.

  But for how much longer?

  Iliff stood and put his whole weight into the oar, until it groaned against him. The sail thrashed. Iliff feared that at any moment the canvas would tear from the ropes. More waves pounded the barge, but though Iliff’s palms burned and his entire body trembled, he did not relent. He held just as fast to the oar when it lifted clear from the sea as when it became submerged wholly beneath it. But every time the barge began to straighten, and the sail fill with wind, a fresh wave hit them broadside, and Iliff would have to begin the struggle anew.

  How long this went on, Iliff could not say. Each frigid minute seemed an hour, and at one point it seemed impossible to him that it should still be night. Now and again, he was aware of the wind slapping into him, of his lungs inhaling salt water and his chest clutching for air. His arms and legs became so numb that they no longer seemed a part of him. Soon a cold mist began to gather across his vision. But it was not the mist of the sea, he knew. It was his utter exhaustion.

  I
liff’s chin dipped to his chest, and he felt himself being jerked back and forth on the oar handle. Though he strained, his eyelids would not stay open.

  For the second time, it was the crack of the sail that brought him to. A corner had torn free from its rope and now beat against the supply cabin. Iliff undid the rope that bound him and fell into a crawl. If they lost the sail, he told himself, they would never find Depar’s skiff again.

  When he reached the gangway between the cabins, the barge listed sideways and water frothed around him. The supply cabin leaned and groaned. He crawled past the sound of toppled boxes. When he arrived at the bow, he found the remaining ropes that held the sail open, but the knots he had made earlier were now soaked and swollen. Try as he might, his cramped, icy fingers could not work them free. He managed to grasp hold of the mast just as another tower of water collapsed over him. The force splayed him partway across the deck, pressing all of the air out of him. When the water drained and bubbled away, Iliff lay there heaving. He lifted his arm and tried to push the mist from his vision before remembering that it was inside him.

  The sail continued to beat overhead. Groping along the deck, Iliff soon came to the ladder to the masthead. If he could not undo the ropes from below, he would have to cast down the sail from above.

  He was partway up the narrow rungs when the barge pitched sideways, so violently that he felt it must capsize. The barge teetered on its brink, but at the last moment righted and lurched to the other side, though not so steeply. Iliff looked to the cabin beneath him where, by some miracle, the lantern still shone outside the door. He scrambled up the rest of the way and reached the ropes. They had not yet become saturated. He untied them in succession and threw them out. The sail collapsed to the deck.

  The sea throttled Iliff again on his descent. Water poured from him. He fell the final few feet, but kept his legs, somehow, and made his way to the canvas sail. It lay there tangled, water weighing it to the deck. He hauled the sail to the pole and tied it there as well as he could, then sagged to the deck among the loose rope ends. The barge lay sideways to the sea. He knew he had to get back to the oar, to steer the barge true again, but he was spent. He had nothing.