“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.
