Havec stared at him, at a loss. He had imagined death gave people a sense of perspective, but his recent experiences were telling him that, on the contrary, death stripped the soul of what common sense it possessed. The Empire had already kept away because no one gave a shit. Now they’d served notice upon her that Moritia was willing and able to kill her citizens, that would change. With terrifying rapidity.

His eyes flicked onto his mother, and she raised her chin as she met his gaze. It was the look of one resigned, determined to wear a proud face as she met her fate: she understood this was going to fail. Whether she had made contingencies accordingly, that he could not tell. Havec looked at them both, feeling helpless and wondering what a son did in these circumstances.

It was Qanath who came to him, laying a hand on his elbow as gently as one might cup the broken wing of a bird. “If we take her,” she nodded to his mother, “we could still get there in time.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes off his parents but turned his head toward her.

“If you give them an authority figure to hold accountable for the massacre,” she persisted, “I’m sure my people wouldn’t insist on punishing yours for the folly of their leaders.”

“Siva Qanath is right,” Farait interjected. “They will show restraint, if for no other reason than that you are the one asking for mercy. The people in question are yours.”

Speaking mostly to himself, Havec murmured, “Then I can turn this place over to my uncle and go home.”

“Jonet is a weakling,” his father said forcefully. “If he were capable of guiding our people into the future, I would be resting peacefully in my grave.”

“She thinks I’m a weakling,” Havec reminded him, nodding at the man’s wife. “I’m beginning to realize it’s nonsense not to root for my own team.” Spinning a finger in the air to indicate that they should get moving, he turned away.

Farait sheathed his sword and made for Havec’s mother, who made no attempt to flee. Smooth Guy, however, hesitated. “And him?”

Havec laughed, although he wasn’t entertained. “What better fate than to sit here eternally, thundering his significance to the echoes in a cave?”

The Adventure Almost Comes to an End

They made their way out of the cave with his mother, leaving his father shouting at their backs to come back and help him and be good. Havec wasn’t clear whether his father had convinced himself the country needed him or just been unwilling to let go. If the former, he had gone about securing their future in the worst conceivable manner. He felt bad about his cousin suddenly, although he had accidentally saved the man from a far worse fate. He had never heard that a soul might be grafted onto a body belonging to someone else, but if it was possible, it would be gruesome. The displaced soul must be damaged by it.

It came as a surprise to find Moida and Hib still waiting with the horses, alive and well. He had forgotten about them, but there they were grinning, Moida showing off her dentures and Hib too shy to meet their eyes. Another angry bellow echoed out of the mouth of the cave and their smiles faltered as they peered into the fog. It occurred to Havec to wonder what spooky rumors would attach themselves to this place. It was already thought to be an entrance to the underworld and now it was home to a raging voice.

Maybe in time someone would scrape together the courage to investigate, and then they would learn the truth. Havec couldn’t see what was to be done about it. Even had he known how to kill someone who was already dead, he would never bring himself to. Whatever else his father may have been, he’d always loved his son.

It took them a while to find the other party’s horses, because his mother refused to speak. She just kept her chin at a regal angle and looked all of them very intensely in the eyes. Maybe she was attempting to make the point that she wasn’t afraid, but Havec felt like she was still trying to force him into submission by sheer force of will. It made him want to strike her, so he left her in the others’ care.

This deep in the mountains, there wasn’t much risk that they would encounter other people, and they let the exhaustion take them as they rode away. Only maybe an hour after they quit the cave, the sun broke through the clouds. Its warmth was welcome, but the glare off the snow was unpleasant and Havec found himself wishing Qanath had more of those goofy hats to pass around.

At one point, the girl urged her horse forward clumsily. He thought to give her lessons, then wondered with a prescient pang of loss if he would get the chance. “It seemed like he couldn’t move,” she said quietly. “Maybe none of this was his doing.”

Havec shook his head. “His body hadn’t decomposed, did you notice? I was kidnapped the day of the funeral, that very night. The second they put him in the ground, they dug him right back up. I don’t know why it took six years, but the idea wasn’t new.”

Even more softly, she asked, “Do you think he knew?”

“About me? He knew my mother removed me from Moritia, and I think she did it with his consent. But I don’t think he knew she had me abducted violently and he definitely didn’t know she had me sold into, well, that.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He glanced at her. “Don’t be. It’s not that big a deal. I mean, inasmuch as your dead dad turning up a revenant and starting a war can be.”

She watched him, not responding, and the set of her shoulders was tense. He shrugged for her benefit and forced his mouth to smile. “Come on, girl, who cares? All this really did is give me permission to go my own way.”

She let out a gusty sigh, sagging into herself. “You haven’t changed your mind, then. About staying here and taking the throne.”

Havec was so startled he drew his mount up short. Patting the fellow apologetically on the neck, he urged him back into motion. “No,” he told Qanath forcefully. “Why would I ever? My uncle Jonet is still around, and now I come to think about it critically, I’m not sure there was ever anything wrong with him aside from the fact that he didn’t get along with my dad.”

He chose not to say but thought to himself that, if he remained in Moritia, he wouldn’t do it as himself. Tabbaqera was where he felt at home. In Moritia, there would be no Hot Priest for him; they would want him to marry a girl and sire heirs. They would make him wash his makeup off and grow a bread. Erl had been impressed by his martial talent, but also seemed to consider it effete. Once he’d hung up his swords, what was left?

Only Kebbal, which was terrible and powerful, and wanted for him not to be sad.

The choice was easy, frankly, and his parents had done him a favor by exiling him. It gave him all the license he would ever need to justify a decision that might have looked selfish in other citcumstances. If he had a duty to these people, they should have taught him how to perform; instead, they had sent him abroad, where he made a new home.

Qanath accepted what he’d said and fell back to ride beside her sullen swain. Havec would never like Smooth Guy but decided he ought to make an effort to be nicer to him for her sake. And for the sake of his creepy thing: it had saved the day. It had been at the girl’s side when Havec couldn’t get there in time.

By the time they made camp, he was beginning to feel the effects of the day. Not just the bone-deep weariness that came on the heels of hard emotion, but the more prosaic result of being kicked repeatedly and thrown into a wall. He settled gingerly to the earth before the actual fire the sorcerers had made tonight in lieu of their glowing rocks. Real fire was brighter, warmer, friendlier, but also carried a greater risk that it would get them noticed. Havec had the sense they had taken the chance for him, in hopes it would cheer him up. Everyone was treating him with exquisite caution, as if they feared that, at any moment, this brave façade would crumble.

Fat lot they knew. He was in a pretty good mood, all things considered. And his spirits were about to get a boost: he heard soft footfalls at his shoulder a moment before Farait stepped up to his side. He had a small pottery pot in hand: “For the bruises.”

Havec nodded and drew his shirt up off his back, then over his head. It was cold, he wasn’t about to take it off entirely. Fine, and he was extremely nervous. He rested his elbows on his knees and turned his face toward the fire, glad the man was behind him.

His shoulders writhed at the greasy touch of the ointment, and again at the hot-cold sensation as it began to sink in. “This is a very popular remedy,” Hot Priest murmured reassuringly. “It won’t speed the healing, I’m afraid, but it will do a lot to minimize the pain.”

He didn’t need help with Kebbal around but kept that thought to himself. “Not my first exposure. I didn’t learn nearly as much about Tabb as I should have in the last few years, but I got my share of bruises.”

“Of course. I meant no offense.”

He became conscious of how carefully the others kept their eyes turned off them. All save his mother, who was staring directly into his face. He met her gaze and refused to look away. He never did learn who might have won their staring match: Moida approached his mother with food and water, stepping between them as she did.

This distraction denied him, there was nothing to pay attention to but the hands on his back. “So,” he said, and it came out aggressive, like a challenge, “you’ve come to counsel me?”

“Counsel?”

“Is that not what priests do?”

“It’s not what I do. The disciples of Mahudar believe that what truly defines suffering is the fact that everyone endures it alone. We see what those in need see and feel what they felt so that there is one person in the world who truly understands what it was like.”

“Oh,” he said uncomfortably. A hand slipped around his waist onto his bruised ribs and he bit his lower lip between his teeth, glad he wasn’t making eye contact with his mother.

Then, unfortunately, it was over, and the man was scooting around to sit at his side. Havec pulled the shirt back over his head and settled it on his slimy back, where it plastered itself against him like a second skin. He cast his eyes around in search of a new topic of conversation to keep the priest’s attention on him, and it was then that he became conscious of the fog. It was rolling in from the west, upslope, very visible because of its luminous contrast against the dark. The forward front was practically solid, billowing as it bore down on them with the implacability of an avalanche. For a moment, he simply stared at it, trapped between surprise and the desire not to say something foolish in front of Hot Priest.

His companions just went on gazing into the fire or their cups of soup, though. Finally, he said, “Am I the only one who finds that creepy?”

They turned to find out what he was looking at, and one by one they stood. The others were puzzled and alarmed, but his mother seemed to draw meaning from this uncanniness: her pale skin had gone the hue of ice. There was a hiccup when she was too appalled to react, then she spun to face him. “Look what you did, you miserable, ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful?” he demanded, and he was on his feet with no recollection of having stood. All the anger he hadn’t been able to summon during their first confrontation coursed through him. “Why would I possibly be grateful to you? The only decent thing you ever did for me was ruin my life!”

He might have said more, but the fog was upon them, encircling their camp. It carried with it the familiar sulfur smell from the bubbling pits around the mouth of the spooky cave, as if they had dragged it behind them all this way. It was filled with screams, muted and echoing, as if the cloud itself was in agony. It seemed shy of the fire and formed a hollow dome around them, unwilling to come closer. While they were still spinning in circles wondering how much danger they were in, a pair of semi-solid, milk-white arms reached out of the encircling wall. They wrapped around Moida’s chest and yanked, and she was gone. The fog itself kept screaming, but Moida never made a sound. The roiling wall where the night had swallowed her held mum.

Hib screamed “Moida!” His anguish cut at the ears, and he hurled himself forward, prepared to run right into the murderous fog to search for her. Havec grabbed him before he could take more than a step, but the boy thrashed so hard he was forced to wrap both arms around his chest. Hib stopped fighting, sagging into his embrace and sobbing helplessly.

“Guys?” His voice sounded weird rebounding off the low white ceiling overhead. “Do we have any idea what this is?”

Turning in another wary circle, Farait raised his sword. More out of force of habit, one had to assume, than in hopes that it would do any good. “Is it… alive?”