Eve of Enlightenment

Chapter 48

Without the moon to outshine them, the stars seem to burn all the brighter. I trace the constellations, recounting their stories to myself since there is no one else to share in the telling. Wart is my only audience, and, if he is not captivated, at least he is my captive.

I am transported back to the time when I first heard them.

We lay on our backs: the twins, flanked on either end by Corsa and I. Corsa stretches her arm to the sky, her fingertip a paintbrush on the canvas of the heavens. The twins' imagination is grander than mine ever was. Their collective curiosity seeks to undo everything. Even the stars, lightyears hence, are not safe from their ever grasping minds.

Arri prefers the gentler tales of princes and romance. Alvi, the swashbuckling adventures. I have no idea how much the stories are tailored to suit their tastes, but, to my unbiased ears, Corsa's fantasies are just as real as any ever told.

She has such a way with words, her stories miraculously gaining steam whenever she senses the children growing restless. For as wonderful as she is with them, I asked once why she never had kids of her own.

"With who?" she laughs, not even granting the question her full attention as she finishes putting away the dishes.

"There has to be someone you fancy."

"What would it matter? I have enough on my plate without adding that to it. Besides, who would want to get involved in this?" She gestures around her at the cramped house, noises of the children shouting clashing against Enos's rattling snores. "I have to take care of them first. Maybe if there is some life left over after that..." Perhaps sensing my disappointment, she puts down the glass and crushes me in a soapy hug.

"I'm happy," she assures me. "You and the twins are plenty to keep me occupied. Don't worry. Now help me with this." She thrusts a towel into my hands, the rest of the conversation overtaken by the clink and clatter of dirty dishes being made clean again.

Looking back, I can't help but let this paint my opinion of her. I feel ashamed for all of the things I've missed, caught up in myself. Enos's loss, Corsa's sacrifices. If I ever see them again, I vow to be more sensitive. Less selfish.

Thoughts of our fields, robbed and barren from the Wolves, make me shudder. After what I have learned, there is little faith left in me that Dager will have stayed true to his word. I need to return for them as much as for Mab. I need to know that they are okay. How could I ever have left? I should have stayed and fought. But would I ever have fought if I hadn't left?

There is no denying that this journey has changed me, not just in my mind but in my body. My limbs have grown long and lean. My priorities, like the stars, have aligned. I am no longer in or out of the majority. I am, always, only me. And that is enough.

I follow the stars that make up Verios's pointed sword. Its glinting tip will show me the way home just as, in the legends, it could decipher the truth from lies. A dowsing rod more than a dagger, the weapon prevented more wars than it won. Many discounted Verios as a coward, but those wise enough to recognize his abilities prized them above all.

Greedy warmongering generals were buried with more accolades than the man who saved nations. It is rumored that you can find it now, alone on a hill, only his truth-seeking scabbard to denote the grave. But, just like the truth itself, many have sought what few have found.

In these vast, empty plains, it is easier to trust my footing without the surety of sight. There is less to lose than there was in the sloping mountains, and I am more confident in both myself and my surroundings. I walk with energized steps, imagining that I am closing the gap with each of them.

It is only when I stumble over a hillock of loose sand that I reconsider my strategy. The ground catches me, its surface pillowy and forgiving. Wart looks, huffing his exasperation, but if all that is hurt is my pride, then it is a small sacrifice for learning from my mistakes.

I get to my feet, gauntlet ratting, and dust the grit from my clothes. I pull my foot from the hollow in which it was caught and thank the heavens that my ankle did not suffer for it. I am considering what, within my pack, I can turn into a torch, when I feel a scuttling sensation against the exposed skin of my ankle.

It is too dark to make out what is the matter, if not just my imagination. A beetle? I have seen the rare, indomitable Scarab shuffling away on some unidentifiable mission to and from nowhere. Well, if they want to cling to me, I will help them along in their pursuit.

I dig through my bag, absently praising myself for how well I have maintained my supplies, until, at the very bottom, I find a sheath of dried umbrella leaves. I roll them into a cone and ask Wart for a light, ignoring the continuing creeping of the beetle. It occurs to me now that there are several. I must have walked unknowingly into a nest. Perhaps I had best let them stay here. Home is home, after all. Who am I to take them from that?

Wart lights the cone, and I am muttering a spell to contain it when I feel a pinch. No... A sting. There is another and another. I shine my light on my inconsiderate guests and am horrified at what I find.

Armor plated bodies have infiltrated my clothes, stingers reared and striking. Scorpions. Panic overtakes me as I try to fling them from my being, but their pincers hold tight. I am an invader into their nest, and they are fighting to defend it.

A whole body shiver runs through me. My limbs flail and kick at odds with one another, but it does nothing to slow the creeping. I can feel welts rising where they have assaulted my flesh. Barbs of poison sink into me.

Wart, wide eyed, tries to rescue me, but there is nothing he can do. Against these tiny creatures, his strength is of no use. He could do nothing to them without maiming me in the process. He stood more chance against the bear.

I whip my shirt over my head, shake free of my trousers, and sprint until I can no longer feel the brush of foreign feet against my fevered skin.

My torch was left somewhere in the chaos, doused by the sand, but I run my hands over myself in a quick check. Gone are my assailants, in their place several angry, painful bumps. I stand, panting, hands on my knees, in nothing but my knickers. I can see Wart in the distance, burning my infested clothes.

Only when I have recovered do I sheepishly return. This time I choose my steps carefully. Flame licks and billows from Wart's snout until I pat his heavy haunches to assure that I am okay. It is only when I assess the decimated ruins that I realize he has done too well. Not only are my clothes an unrecognizable heap of ashes, but so are the supplies. Wart seems to recognize his mistake as soon as I do.

I pick through the remains. My sword remains intact, though the leather holster is unsalvageable. The food is ruined, the water spilled and half-evaporated by the intense heat. I collect the gemstones that have survived, cursing their resilience.

We are miles from civilization. No food. No water. No salve. Nothing in sight but shifting mountains of sand. I shiver in the breeze, possessing nothing but a sword and an abundance of useless jewels.