EPILOGUE

And so it was that the wizard and the witch left behind the village of Silverfish, to go out into the dry, dead wilds of deep autumn, where the long, ghostly moan of the wind brought a biting chill that had the whisper of winter in it.

They traveled in silence, at first, and away from the road, cutting through abandoned farm fields, always ready and waiting to hear someone raise a cry, waiting to hear the gallop of hooves along the road of a party come looking for them, ready to weave their glamor and hide. Flit, still injured, rode on Martimeos’ shoulder - he could not fly well enough to rise into the air and tell them whether there were folk out and about looking for them. Their only pursuer, though, was the wind. Ritter, it seemed, had perhaps kept his word.

Still, it was hard-going, away from the road. They gave any farmhouse they saw that had smoke coming from its chimney wide berth, and they had to go the long way around the knots of tangled black thorns that had swept across and devoured some of the fields. And Martimeos was not fully recovered from the demon’s poison. He grew short of breath too quickly, and had to stop to rest more often. Still, he thought, he hardly felt as if he had been on death’s door not so long ago. The witch must have more skill in healing than even she knew. He told her so, and she just seemed embarrassed. “You are young, and healthy,” she told him, her face reddening as she refused to look at him. “You yourself did most of the work. Ah, do not bring it up!”

It was around midday that they came across the land that they recognized as Valerie Tuck’s farm. They steered far, far clear of it. Though, Martimeos thought curiously, he could not sense the old power there, the shattered one in the well. It had weighed on him, the last two times he had been there; he had been able to feel the thing there, and it should be easier now that he knew what was there, easier to sense it. And yet, he could sense nothing. It seemed now like a normal farm, abandoned to the crows, their caws faint in the distance as they descended upon the broken remains of a pumpkin harvest that no one would ever eat.

For the most part, though, they were quiet still, even after they thought that they were not being pursued by the townsfolk. The thought that Coxton Praet might be out in the wilds, that the man might, in his madness, want to hunt them. Elyse knew, at least, that the short, bald huntsman could move like a ghost when he wanted to, and the Art could not protect them from a silent arrow. And yet she could not help but find herself hoping that the man still lived, so beautifully had he been able to weave stories. Either he or Ren killed Finnel, though. She could not bring herself to believe that innocent-faced Ren had killed the man, no matter how oddly he had been acting.

“I am not convinced it was either of the men,” Martimeos told her, breathlessly, as they stopped for a break and to eat some of the bread Ritter had given them.

“Who else would it be?”

“Any who hated outsiders. And for the simple reason that he talked with one.” When he saw Elyse go pale with the thought that perhaps she had brought death to Finnel, he added quickly, “Though I think most likely it was one of them. Why else might they have disappeared?”

Sooner than they would have thought, gloom fell upon them, and nightfall approached. They built their camp far off the road, in a dense thicket of barren oaks, and in the shelter of their twisting trunks Martimeos built a campfire. Cecil went out to hunt, a quiet gray shadow, but he could not find anything. That was alright, though, for when they opened the sack that Ritter had given them, they found a bounty of dried meats and cooked fish. Food was not all the innkeep had given them, though. There were also two generously packed purses, filled with fine silver of Aurelic mint and even a few gold coins, as well, the faces of dead and unknown monarchs staring back at them. And, to Elyse’s delight, he had included a bolt of blue cloth, as well as two books. One was the book of tales of Véreline Valoir. Another was a tome bound in unmarked black leather that she had never seen on his bookcase, and when she opened it up, she found it full of stories of the men of Farson’s Pass, the fortunes of the mercenaries there.

And she thought that she could guess why he had hidden it, and then given it away, for the names “Ezekiel” and “Ritter” appeared often on its pages.

Martimeos, for his part, was quiet. Tired, his body more exhausted than it should be from a day’s walk. He hoped he would have his health back soon. He sat by the fire, appreciating its warmth, even on top of that which he had already enchanted into his cloak. Between his fingers, he idly twirled the red maple seed that Lob had given him.

He had given much thought to how he had seen the little man, when he was bound up in visions at the edge of death, and what it might mean, he could not say. He knew well that the fae were travelers in the Land of Dreams. He wondered if it were safe to be carrying the seed. He wondered if he would be alive, now, if he had not. With a sigh, he tucked it away into his satchel once more, and drew out the object of his true interest.

In his hands, he held the dagger he had taken from Ezekiel. The black blade of Dolmec iron, with the curling, branching horns etched into the pommel, with points like thorns themselves.

This had been his brother’s blade. According to Ezekiel’s journal, he had simply been given it as a gift. Ezekiel himself had been incredulous, and so was Martimeos. Why would his brother have given away something so precious? There were those who were frightened to own anything so closely associated with a demon, but his brother had certainly not been one of those.

He would know. He would learn. He would find his brother’s trail, again. He would learn more of the Art, and he would save David. Whatever had happened to him. In whatever dark place his soul dwells. I can save him, or keep him company forever. The world was vast, and full of darkness and danger, but somewhere through it ran a silver thread, the path he could follow. He thought that, at the end of it, he would most likely simply find his brother’s bones. But at least I would know what happened to him. To find the path, that was the problem. At least, knowing that his brother actually had been here, he now had some ideas on where to look.

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He laid out many sigils, that night, to ensure that they would not be approached without his knowing, and Elyse wove glamor and shadow to hide them and their fire from the eyes of those who might look for them. And then, in the black of the night, by the comforting, roasting heat of the flame, Martimeos wrapped his cloak around himself and fell asleep.

He dreamt of a field of silver flowers, and a starless sky. A field of silver flowers that he walked through forever, forever towards darkness, a knot of black, an awful stain on the world that he knew he must bear witness to. It was what he was meant for.

“Martimeos!” came a voice, in a fierce whisper. He glanced behind him, and there, amongst the silver flowers, stood Elyse. The witch was pale, and staring, and her strange blue eyes so fierce they almost seemed to glow. What was she doing here? This place was not meant for her.

“Martimeos!” she whispered again sharply, and with it came the dim awareness that this was a dream. The silver flowers shimmered and trembled around him, and he was roused from his sleep.

The witch whispered his name again. He glanced over at her groggily, his mind still full of silver. In the dim light of the moon, he could see her huddling against a tree, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror. Then he heard, to his right, very close by, a rustling, snapping noise.

He glanced over, and there was a huge, hulking figure standing over him, making strange snuffling sounds, clawing at his satchel, its form hidden by darkness. Whatever it was, it had made its way past his warning sigils. He shouted, scrambling back, and even as he did he could feel the sense of wrongness worming into his heart, that sick sense of dread clawing through his guts, and he knew, he knew what it was that waited for him there in the dark, but he could not stop himself from reaching out with the Art to the red embers and hot coals of their fire, could not stop himself from flaring them into a dirty, orange flame that bloomed light and illuminated the creature.

It was the Dolmec which stood over him. The same one he had spoken to, which had told him to go to Silverfish, its too-large fox face, full of awful life, black lips peeling back to reveal snarling black fangs, those gleaming dark eyes boring into him, its tattered and dirty robes dragging along the leave-carpeted forest floor, obscuring its misshapen body. From beneath those robes extended three pale arms of dirty white flesh, looking dead and rotten, the fingernails talons of black metal, and where the flesh was torn away, Martimeos could see the bone beneath was made of gleaming black metal as well. In one of those arms, it clutched the dagger of Dolmec iron he had taken off of Ezekiel.

He knew the danger he was in. But in that moment, the echo of sleep dulled his senses, and burning anger gripped his heart. That dagger was his, he had won it fairly, it was a memento of his brother. “Bastard!” he cried, lurching to his feet, trying to draw his sword. But the Dolmec merely laughed, an awful, rattling sound, and then Martimeos found that his bones turned to jelly and he fell to the ground, unable to even lift a hand. To his side, he could hear Elyse collapse as well, cursing under her breath in panicked, frightened gasps.

The Dolmec laughed again as it shuffled towards them, its arms moving oddly, disjointedly as it did, the shadows from the campfire dancing over its hunched, wicked form. Martimeos felt his heart freeze with fear as the demon stood above him, regarding him hungrily with those glinting black eyes. Eyes from another world, the thought ran wildly through his mind. Eyes that have seen that which should not be.

“Martimeos,” the demon crooned,in its strange, echoing, musical voice. The voice that came from somewhere within it, with a voice that may not have said anything aloud at all. Its fox-head swung to regard the witch, as well, and its animal grin seemed to widen. “And Elyse, as well. So you managed to hunt him, little witchling.” Elyse seemed to try to say something, but managed only a gasping croak, and the Dolmec’s rattling laughter was the only reply. “What shall I do with you? Flay the flesh from your bones? Carve out your hearts?” The fox-head swung back, swaying as if on a puppet’s string, to regard Martimeos once more. “Ah, but it is such a fine…gift that you bring me.” One pale, dead hand held the dagger in its sheath, and another drew the black blade free delicately, lovingly. And then, with a violent, sudden jerk that belied the grace of its former movements, the Dolmec slammed the dagger into its own flesh.

Its robes bulged and squirmed eagerly, happily around the dagger, and the Dolmec raised its snout to the sky, and seemed to breathe. There were no stars, there. They were in the demon’s darkness, now. And when it drew the dagger away, there was no blade any longer. Only the hilt remained.

“That was my brother’s,” Martimeos said weakly. And then he immediately realized the mistake he had made, as the Dolmec swept forward with suddenly serpentine elegance, and its fangs stopped a mere hair’s breadth from his throat.

“Never his,” The Dolmec answered in its not-voice, “Never yours. It is mine, it is ours, it is always ours, mageling. Would you like to trade for it, fair? I will take your blood as payment.” Those black fangs whispered across the skin of his neck. Martimeos knew the slightest cut from them would mean death. And for a moment, death was what he expected.

But then the demon stood. It threw the hilt of the dagger onto his chest, discarding it, worthless to it now. “No,” it said. “You have been useful to us. You will be useful to us. A good hound is hard to come by.”

And with that, the foul creature turned, laughing, rattling, to walk off into the night’s darkness. Perhaps it was the fact that death itself had just kissed at his neck, but Martimeos felt seized, in a moment, with manic boldness. “Wait!” he cried. “Wait! You owe me a favor! For the return of the blade!”

The Dolmec did not turn around, but it did pause. “My favor is your life spared, Martimeos. Your life, and the life of Elyse. But you have freed me from this land, and a good hound deserves kindness.” The Dolmec continued shuffling, disappearing into the shadows, but as it did, its voice called out to them, strange and echoing through the night. “You want to follow your brother’s path, mageling?”

“Go west, young Martimeos. Go west.”