She rose and stood looking down at the fresh patch of earth. “I want you to remember me, Tavo. I want you to remember that I will always be thinking of you. I will always miss you and love you.”
She went back into the house to put away her clothing and supplies, goods and weapons, then made herself dinner. The darkness was complete by the time she sat down to eat, the last of the daylight vanished, and the sky was filled with a scattering of stars above a slender crescent moon just visible through the treetops to the east. She took her time with her meal, not tasting much as she ate, washing it down with several glasses of ale. She was no longer crying, and the food and drink helped ease her hunger and thirst. But she was not sleepy, and the thought of taking to bed right away was not attractive. Too keyed up, too distraught, she needed to fill the time in some other way.
So she wrapped herself in her cloak to stay warm against the night’s chill and walked back out to Tavo’s grave. Once settled, she simply sat there, listening to the night sounds and looking about for reassurance she was alone. Finally, she began to whisper to her brother, recounting the memories of their life, one after another, describing them in full. She took her time, and let her thoughts wander and her words carry her where they wished. She avoided the harsh and unpleasant recollections and confined herself to the ones that made her smile. She hoped it might ease her mind and her grief—and, to her surprise, it did. She lost herself in those memories, pausing now and again to recall details, her smiles frequent and genuine. She did not cry this time—not once—but simply gave herself over to the recounting of all she remembered about her early years with Tavo and how much he had meant to her.
She spent a long time confessing how she had discovered the wishsong within herself and how uncertain it had left her, the magic a force she could not deny and one she needed to understand and master. She admitted how Tavo’s discovery of his own magic had worried her, because by then he was beginning to exhibit signs of instability. But she kept her words soft and light and positive, and did not assign blame or infuse her narrative with negative feelings. She told him how much she had always loved and admired him; told him, too, how she missed him when he was gone and how hard it had been not to be able to see him. If there were holes in their love for each other, they came mostly because of their parents’ decision to send him away and keep her at home.
Was it all true? Perhaps. And perhaps not. It didn’t matter. She just needed to talk about it with him. Even if he could not hear her—though she liked thinking he could—the words needed to be spoken if she was ever to find peace.
Somewhere halfway through her effort, Fade appeared again—at first no more than a pair of gleaming eyes that she recognized immediately, then the rest of the big moor cat materializing as she lay down on the other side of Tavo’s grave and listened. It was comforting to have Fade there—a reassuring presence in the darkness, an audience of one that would never judge or attempt to interrupt, reassuring in her steadfastness.
When Tarsha had said everything she thought needed saying, she sat silently in the darkness once more, wondering how long she had been speaking, how much of the night was gone. The moon had set and the stars had changed their positions in the sky, but there was no sign of morning yet. She felt at peace from having told her story. Sleep overtook her, and she nodded off.
When she jerked awake, aware suddenly of what was happening, Fade was gone. Yawning, she rose and went into the cottage, and she slept undisturbed for the remainder of the night.
* * *
—
The next morning when she rose, the sun was already climbing the sky toward midday, and the air was warm and welcoming. She washed and dressed, fixed a breakfast of cakes and cured meat on a small, fire-heated griddle, served the cakes and cured meat with sliced apples and cold water, and ate on the porch. She took her time, thinking through what she had decided to do once her meal was consumed.
Then she cleaned her dishes, tidied up the cottage, and went out into the day to keep her promise to craft a headstone for her brother. She found the materials and tools she needed and for several hours worked to craft her marker. Then, deciding she needed a break, she set off on another mission.
She had promised she would go after Clizia in order to settle accounts, and she would. But first she must attempt to find Drisker. Yes, Clizia had the scrye orb, which would allow her contact with the Druid, but gaining possession of the latter required tracking down the former, and she knew from sad experience this might be much harder and require more time than making a different choice. Finding Drisker was more important than settling scores with the witch, and she thought she knew a better way to do this that did not require the orb.
The books of magic would not be far, she told herself. At one time she had thought they might have been hidden in the cottage, but on reflection she realized the cottage was still being built when Drisker had departed for the last time. The site of his former residence was too unlikely, as well. Nothing remained but burned timbers, ashes, and scorched earth. So what did that leave? Would Drisker have given them to someone to keep watch over while he was away? She could think of no one—the airfield manager included—who would be a good choice. Just having such books in your possession was an invitation to an unpleasant end, should those searching discover you had them. No, Drisker would have been far more clever. He would have been careful to choose someone so unlikely, no one would ever expect it.
Someone like Flinc.
Once Drisker had retrieved the stolen books from the forest imp, he might have carried them right back and charged the imp with their care. He might have warned Flinc that they would be sought by enemies and Flinc must find a way to make sure they were sufficiently concealed.
But Flinc was dead. So if her speculation was true, where would he have hidden the books? Could they be somewhere in the forest imp’s underground lair? It was a long shot, but it was possible.
She walked into the trees, making her way through to the deeper forest. As she progressed farther in, the light began to darken and the sounds of the forest dwellers began to change. Yet she did not feel intimidated or in danger. By now, she was sufficiently familiar with this patch of woods that she felt certain there was no threat she could not handle. She kept a close watch on her surroundings but pushed steadily on.
There was a chance—well, more than a chance—that she was mistaken about what had become of the books. But this was her first best guess about where they might have been hidden. It was also true that she might be wrong about how they got there. Drisker might not have taken them back; Flinc might have stolen them once again. It was not out of the question. Flinc was a Faerie creature, after all, his behavior mercurial and unpredictable.
But he would have had to steal back the books in the little time that remained following Drisker’s departure for Paranor and Clizia’s arrival in Emberen. After that, his days had been numbered.
Thinking of Flinc forever gone made Tarsha sad all over again. So many had died in this struggle with the rogue Druid. So many had given everything, Tavo included.