Epilogue SHADOWS AND SUNLIGHT
Duncrag,
The Realm of Albia
Five turns of the moon later …
“ARE YOU READY?”
Staring down at the unraveled parchment before him, Alar nodded. Even so, nervousness fluttered to life in his gut. Ridiculous really. He could face down the Slew—but reading a poem made him falter.
Upon returning to Duncrag with Lara, one of the first things he did was learn how to read. He hadn’t done so out of shame or even embarrassment that he didn’t know his letters. Instead, curiosity had driven him to ask Gil for lessons.
A mountain of scrolls existed in the High Queen’s archives, knowledge he’d never access—unless he asked someone to read them to him. He didn’t want that. He wished to immerse himself in history and knowledge, to learn about the past.
“Go on then.” Gil’s tone, often laced with impatience, was gentle this morning.
After many moons of painstaking lessons, of fumbled sentences and writing that looked as if a bairn had scrawled it, Alar had reached this point.
It was an important day for them both. Usually, the two apprentices Gil had recently taken on worked alongside him in the archives, but this morning, he’d sent them away. His student needed privacy.
Clearing his throat, Alar began to read.
“Sometimes I stumble on the mountain path,
Sometimes I find my footing sure and strong.
Sometimes the battle ends in golden victory,
Sometimes in ash and sorrow’s bitter song.”
His voice was halting at first as he sounded out some of the words. But as he continued, the words flowed more easily.
“My choices carved this long road,
But I’m more than their sum.
My shadows do not own me—
They show me how far I’ve come.”
He paused then, his chest tightening. The words on the page had come alive. Suddenly, another world opened to him. Swallowing, he completed the poem.
“Let ravens carry off my darkest deeds,
Let a cool burn wash my bloodied hands.
I am the spring that follows winter,
The seed of hope in barren lands.”
His voice died away then, and he glanced up, meeting Gil’s eye across the table. “How was that?”
Gil’s lips quirked. “A good effort.”
Alar harrumphed. Praise indeed from the sharp-tongued archivist. “I like that one.”
“It’s another by the High Queen’s great-great-grandsire. He wrote many poems … some better than others.”
“It speaks of hope,” Alar murmured, running his fingertip down the edge of the parchment. “That we are more than our mistakes.” His breathing grew shallow then. “Maybe that’s true … for some people.”
“You aren’t still brooding about Dulross, are you?”
Alar’s chin kicked up, his gaze narrowing. Gil sometimes pushed things. They rarely spoke about what had befallen The Brooch of Albia four moons earlier for a reason. Even thinking about it made Alar’s gut clench.
It still haunted him.
They’d lingered longer at Crask than initially planned. And so, it was nearly a moon’s turn later when Lara and her escort had stopped off at Dulross on the way home—only to discover that the wulvers and Circines had turned on each other.
A massacre had ensued, leaving the fort a smoking ruin.
Dolph had been among the survivors, and his despair had haunted Alar ever since.
His brother blamed him for the turn of events.
Alar had been the one to encourage them to want more than their former simple existence, and now Lyall was dead. Dolph had then departed Dulross with the few surviving wulvers—returning to the shadowy Upland forests and clear rivers full of fat trout.
In the moons following, Lara had sent a garrison to Dulross. The rebuilding was still going on. Roth now captained the Guard, and Duana stewarded the fort. She and Eithne hadn’t continued to Duncrag, after all. Instead, they’d returned home.
But memories of the ruined fort remained with Alar.
He didn’t appreciate Gil making light of it.
“Speaking of which.” The archivist gestured then to a leather-bound volume that sat at his worktable a few yards away. “I’m writing about The Brooch of Albia at the moment.”
Alar nodded. “How is your transcribing going?”
Gil pulled a face. “Slowly … there are a lot of blank pages to fill.”
Alar’s gaze lingered on the book. It would be the first to ever grace the archives of Duncrag. Gil had told him that such objects existed in Sheehallion, where they’d bind stacks of written parchment with glue and then make a cover out of leather. “You’re writing everything we’ve told you down?”
Gil nodded. Of late, his role had widened to scribe as well as archivist. He’d spent much time with both Lara and Alar over the winter, taking notes as they recounted the events of the past years. Recording it all would take him a long while. Fortunately, Gil had the patience for such tasks.
“I’m up to the Circines and wulver clash,” Gil admitted then. “But I need to check I’ve got things right.” He paused, a groove appearing between tawny eyebrows. “Can I read it to you?”
Alar stiffened. He didn’t want to relive it all, to be reminded of his mistakes. But Gil was only doing his job. After a moment, he gave a stiff nod.
“Iron, stop flagellating yourself over it,” Gil muttered. “You aren’t responsible.”
“What if I am?” Alar snapped, pushing himself up from the table.
Few people knew how to get under his skin, but Gil did. Bree’s brother was too sharp for his liking. He noticed things others missed. In truth, they were alike in many ways, and that galled Alar even more.
“Maybe you should pay greater attention to the poem you just read to me,” Gil replied, his gaze steady. “You are more than the sum of your mistakes … we all are.”
Alar’s pulse thumped in his ears as he stared down at him.
Gil stood up too then. The two men were of a similar height, and their gazes locked in silent combat for a few moments before the archivist shrugged.
“Aye, you encouraged the wulvers to want more for themselves … but you didn’t put daggers in their hands.
Nor did you put them at odds with the Circines.
” He paused then, his hazel eyes shadowing.
“Your brother Dolph was grieving, and he lashed out. He didn’t want to take responsibility for the part he played in things …
but he wasn’t blameless. Your shadows don’t own you … but neither do his. Remember that.”
Alar stared back at him. Anger still burned under his ribs, yet Gil’s words calmed his pounding heart. Lara had told him similar things, yet in truth, he’d humored her. He’d wrapped self-recrimination around himself in a tight cocoon.
But Gil had just pierced it.
Huffing out a sigh, he raked a hand through his hair. “Smug bastard. I hate that you’re always right.”
Alar emerged into bright sunlight, blinking.
Even with cressets, torches, braziers, and hearths blazing, the windowless interior of the broch was dark.
But today, the contrast made his eyes water.
It was a sparkling spring day. The sun was high in a deep blue sky.
After another long and bitter winter, he welcomed the warmth upon his face.
Noon drew near, and the aroma of baking bread drifted out from the nearby bakehouse.
Walking across the wide yard before the broch, Alar spied Cailean and Torran standing together near the gates. Skaal sat behind the chief-enforcer, scratching behind her ear.
He lifted a hand to acknowledge the enforcers, and they nodded back.
Both men smiled.
Seeing him, Skaal smoothly rose to her feet and padded over, pushing her nose into Alar’s chest. He stroked her massive head before glancing back at Cailean and Torran. “Have you seen Lara?”
“The High Queen is out at the market,” the chief-enforcer replied, gesturing to the open gates behind him. “Bree’s with her.”
“As is Mirren,” Torran added, grimacing. “Which means they’ll be a while.”
Alar huffed a laugh. Of course. Duncrag held a weekly market, but the first of the new moon was the biggest. Merchants came from all over The Wolds, although ever since Braewall and Baldeen claimed independence, the market hadn’t been quite as busy. Nonetheless, Lara rarely missed it.
“The noon meal isn’t far off … I’ll see if they’ll be joining us,” Alar replied.
“Good luck,” Torran quipped, “But if they’ve found a cloth merchant, you won’t drag them back into the broch for a while.”
Alar moved on. “We’ll see.”
Passing through the great stone arch, he walked out onto The Thoroughfare.
As expected, a heaving crowd—mostly women with shopping baskets slung over their arms—greeted him.
This high in the fort, the air wasn’t too bad, and this morning, the aroma of freshly-baked mutton pies and grilled garlic sausages made his belly rumble.
He wove his way through the press, noting that the crowd parted easily for him. Of course, he was a distinctive sight: clad in black with his long dark hair, scars, and the grips of his fighting daggers protruding above his shoulders. A cloak rippled out behind him as he walked.
Many of the gazes were veiled, others curious.
Their return to Duncrag had brought an uproar, but these days, tempers were cooling.
Tales were still being told in ale-halls nightly about their ‘adventures’ in the North.
About what the High Queen and the Half-blood had done.
Even before their return to Duncrag, the people here had known something had changed.
The Slew stopped hunting at night, and the host of malicious spirits that made them dread each dusk had disappeared.
One of the men nodded as he walked by. A lass then blushed and curtseyed.
Alar acknowledged them both, and as he did so, the lingering tension from his exchange with Gil unraveled.
He’d remained for a short while in the archive, listening as Gil read out his notes about the events that had unfolded at Dulross in early winter.
He’d corrected a few things, and although his mood had improved by this time, he’d been relieved to take his leave.
Gil was right. His shadows didn’t own him.
But that didn’t mean he wanted to relive his mistakes either.