The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

23.1. Kind and Gentle

That night, Liran awoke after sleeping fourteen hours. He said nothing when he entered the yurt, and Grandmother said nothing to him, but nodded with a grunt and gave him a simple meal of stewed tomatoes and bread.

A lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to eat. He spent the next few minutes pushing the food around on his plate while trying to avoid looking at Hannah, who was staring at him with her wide brown eyes. He could see her disappointment clear as day. He should be a big brother and hug her, sit with her and share the meal, but he couldn't look at her.

After eating, he left the yurt without a word to Grandmother or Hannah. He was physically exhausted, but he needed to escape. He took no supplies except a waterskin and a bedroll and walked into the desert. The open sky with stars shining above comforted him.

It took him only a few hours to walk the same journey that had taken an entire night while carrying the girl. When he arrived at the place where he'd hid her belongings, he stopped first to start a fire.

He gathered some dried brush and set up his bedroll in a shady spot to rest for the day. He'd decided to stay, rather than returning right away. He couldn't face Grandmother or Hannah....

He dragged the woman's monster pack to the fire so he could see inside better, then shoved his hand down inside and rifled around, searching for something that felt like a book. When he touched the cold leather, he knew he'd found the pouch. He pulled it out and let the large, unwieldy pack flop to the ground. Pulling open the cord, he carefully reached inside the pouch. He could already smell it down in there. Musty and old.

He'd seen many books in his time with Ithabar, who even had a shelf full of some old classics in his office, but he still knew how special it was.

What a precious thing—a book. He opened the cover and fingered the thick paper, darkened by the oils of many fingers before his. The writing was cursive, beautiful, and completely unrecognizable. Liran could not read it.

He flipped to a page somewhere in the middle and found a sketch. A rough pencil sketch. Curious, he flipped through more pages, looking for drawings.

Then he landed on a rough pencil drawing that shocked him. It was an image, a drawing of a woman crying over the body of a man.

Liran shivered and slammed the book shut, his heart racing. The image was distrubingly similar to the scene a few days earlier. Could it be? he wondered. No, it's not possible. This book must have been written over a hundred years ago.

He held the book to his chest, and lied down on his back on the bedroll, looking up into the night sky. Although the image obviously couldn't be depicting the death of his father, it still disturbed him.

He lay there, letting his breathing slow down. The book was heavy on his chest, rising and falling with his inhallations. He held it in his arms, and breathed in its musty smell.

Finally he sat up and, out of curiosity, opened the book again, flipping through pages to find the drawing. Where is it? He couldn't find it. Where is it? He saw a few other images, but none of them were familiar. He flipped and flipped, but couldn't find it.

Finally he started systematically flipping one page at a time. Eventually he found it. And again, it was like a punch to the gut. The image was eerily accurate—it looked too much like Imorah leaning over his father's body. The pencil drawing was amateurish, but there was a natural skill. It was a dark image, full of sadness and death. Although the body was blocked by the woman crying, it was clear the person lying on the ground was dead and that the woman was crying for him.

It can't be.... Women have cried over the dead bodies of their men since time began. It's just my imagination that it's about me. It's not about me. It can't be about me....