Epilogue
Fern slid the blue, clothbound volume from the bookshelf with a little thrill and turned it over in her paws.
The cover, amidst a gilding of intertwined leaves, read—
The Straight Road in the Dark:
Travels with the Oathmaiden
by
Fern Teverlin
“You should sign it,” murmured Quillin, cocking his head close to hers.
“What?”
“You’ve got a pencil in there, don’t you?” He gestured at her satchel, which was, indeed, loaded with pencils and several bound notebooks.
“I can’t do that! That’s . . . vandalism!” she replied, horrified.
“Are you telling me that back when you had a bookshop, you would have been upset if the authors all signed their books?”
Fern blinked. “Well, no, but—”
“But, what? You’re an author. Your name’s already on the cover. Do you want me to go ask?”
“No!” she almost shouted. Then she continued in a near whisper, glancing furtively at the ancient gnome sorting things at the shop desk. “No. And my stomach just did a weird thing. Let’s go.”
Quillin shrugged, his eyes delighted. “I’ll give you two options. I’ll go ask for permission, or you can just sign it on the sly. Which is it going to be?”
Fern narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t appreciate having to choose between mortification and crime.”
“Setting aside your definition of a crime, it seems suspicious that you have trouble choosing. I wonder what that says about you?”
As they left the shop moments later, Quillin still chuckling, she muttered, “Any second he’s going to come running out and call for a Warden.”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “I think we’ll escape the law just this once.”
A sharp voice piped up from the pocket of Fern’s cloak. “If they do show, Fern still only has one stabbing on her record, and that was a technicality. We’ve got a long way to go before we can call it a respectable number,” said Breadlee.
“Tell me more about this ‘technical’ stabbing?” asked Quillin, looking amused.
“Well, it started with the word feculent, and I don’t even know what that means,” explained the knife. “So, I think it had more to do with the tone.”
Fern let their conversation fade from her attention as she glanced around the street, which was quite busy even at this late hour.
Tall flick-lanterns lit the avenue in a steady, golden glow.
It was strange to be in a place where everyone was about the same height—it had been quite some time since the Tarimite monastery.
This was Fern’s first visit to the gnomish city of Azimuth, although she’d heard tales of it from Viv.
She had difficulty imagining the orc tromping around the place like an apologetic giant.
Quillin had found a bit of what he liked to call “detective work” in Azimuth, untangling the subterfuges of multiple gnomish enterprises who were nose-deep spying on each other’s businesses. Better yet, they had all hired him independently, unbeknownst to their competitors.
Fern had mostly toured around while he worked and, of course, spent time with her notebooks.
“So,” he said, rousing her from her reverie. “How’s the new one coming?” He bumped her satchel with his hip.
“The book?” she asked. “I don’t know. I’ve been writing down the things that happened in Murk when I was young, but I’m not sure if there’s enough there to warrant the effort.”
“From what you’ve already told me, I don’t doubt there is.”
“Maybe I should write down our adventures instead.”
He looked thoughtful, putting a finger to his chin. “Crimes of illicit autography do sound compelling.”
“Hush.” Fern gave him a peck on the cheek. She still loved the way he smelled.
“Of course, if you need some fresh material, there’s always this . . .” Quillin gently tapped Astryx’s bracelet where it hung against her chest. She’d had it strung onto a necklace.
As they strolled down the curving street in the warm summer night, Fern scooped the bracelet up so that it rested in one paw, gleaming and delicate. It had almost no weight at all.
“Maybe someday,” she said. “I’m not tired of you just yet, though. Give me a week?”
They both laughed, but Fern didn’t release the bracelet.
She wondered where the last wrist was that had worn it. Fern thought she sometimes caught hints of Zyll’s passage through the Territory in news of unexpected mayhem or preposterous coincidence, but she could never be absolutely sure.
Of Astryx, there had been much more to hear.
She wondered if it had been partly because of her book—although she didn’t flatter herself that it was read so widely yet—but the Oathmaiden was the subject of more and more frequent news.
Surprisingly, many of the adventures relayed were small.
And the tone of these stories was transformed.
People spoke of the woman they met after the deeds were done, rather than the deeds themselves.
Of a reassuring touch, or a concerned question.
Of grace, and little kindnesses. Of being seen by her.
Fern wondered if she’d had a hand in making Astryx One-Ear less of a legend, and more of herself.
What had the elf said, there at the end?
You have made my road a stranger, but I am so grateful to find my way by starlight again.
Fern reflected that after wandering in her own wilderness, she was grateful for a clear night sky, too.