Chapter Thirteen: Ghosts

-x-x-x-x-x-

It had been a lifetime—one both too long and far too short.

Sanar watched her feet as they traveled the overgrown path. Their not-so-merry little band had left behind the black Plasa sand three days ago and had come out of the mountains the night before. Now…Sanar breathed deeply and looked around…Brin.

She did not find, as she had half-expected, an inferno, or wailing and despairing people. Instead, only several scattered, abandoned houses remained. Time had worn some down into crumbling shacks while others had better withstood the years. Few and far between, there was nonetheless no mark to remember the homes that had been burned down.

There were no bloody corpses, nor grieving family members. No soldiers stalked Sanar with their malicious eyes, thinking niftyax at her. The wind blew through the grass and Sanar's hair, carrying with it the stories this land had seen. The dark green trees creaked and swayed on the other side of the river.

Had she never been here before, would Sanar still know what this town had seen? A ghost town, Brin—a home for ghosts. Sanar's ghosts.

Libby beckoned, her ebony hair flying in her face. "C'mon, Sanar! Me ma's gonner make them swayt cakes fer us!" Her desert accent was still thick, but Sanar understood her agemate.

Sanar stumbled a little. Suddenly, she was a ten-year-old girl again.

And there was Tonny, and little Juba playing with the colourful "boo-ta-fi." Clayra ran ahead of her, pale hair looking just like a halo as she giggled.

"Sanar, catch me!"

She caught herself. No, no—Tonny and Juba were dead or, at the very least, much older and far less playful. And Clayra… Sanar winced in pain, as she always did when she thought of her sister. Despite Clayra's supposedly loving husband, who knew how Sanar's little sister was? Alone, probably—in danger, always.

To her left had once been her uncle Iplan's one bedroom "bachelor home." She, Mama, Clayra and Devnos had lived there for nearly a year before Jarran had died. The soldiers wouldn't let them live at home, even with Iplan as their "lord"; for being rebels by connection, they lost comfort.

Mama sobbing hysterically; Devnos' pale face; Clayra's uncomprehending, unaware indifference; Uncle Iplan's horror. Her pain—terror—and the Strings shuddering and hissing at her of things to come…

Now there was only long grass. She wondered—had Rafintair's men burned his home, and perhaps her uncle too? Or had they simply dismantled it? Perhaps the soldiers had killed her uncle, and the other villagers had rescued some objects. Maybe they had taken down the house themselves and used the wood for their forbidden fires. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

But despite her wandering thoughts, her feet found it. The traitors she walked on had led her to just that spot, and Sanar was just masochistic enough to look up.

Their home was still mostly there, though Sanar couldn't guess why. Rafintair's men had not known the extent of Jarran's role in the Resistance, and so they had not made an "example" of him. After all, even in Quatroc some men succumbed to their wives' witchery; Jarran was not so different in weakness, to their eyes. They had not burned the house he had built, nor had they put him to death. Instead, they had sold him away to the Imperials, where he died. She wondered if someone had bribed one of the officials to leave her family alone…

The front door was broken and hung precariously, as if an extra gust of wind would blow it down. Sanar's mother had tried to teach her to make curtains, once; her examples still hung in the windows, where they had become ratty from moth holes. The roof sagged.

"Sanar?" called someone from behind. "I wouldn't go in there, if I was you. It looks danger—"

Sanar ignored them, and stepped up on the mouldy deck, then through the door.

"Mama, I'm home!"

The lantern filled the front room with a warm glow. Clayra was playing with Mama's string, and she didn't look up from the colourful strands. "Sa-ah-ar," she sang happily.

"Hey, Clayra. Whatcha up to?"

"Play-in, play-in, mountains and sky, storms-a-comin…"

A ghost home. It was made of dead wood and cloth and filled with slaughtered contentment. The front room was dark; she couldn't imagine there was much to see. Some of her mama's yarn, missed by scavengers, and perhaps only that. The furniture and pictures had moved with them to Iplan's now missing house, and—some of them—to Quatroc. Sanar didn't need pictures to know what she had lost. Yet she still had one image of her family, tucked away in her bag, where it had nearly faded from too much studying.

Would anyone ever treasure her picture, the way she did Clayra, Devnos and Jarran's?

"Oh, Sanar…" Her mother sighed in exasperation. "Look at you! You're covered in mud…again. Aren't you too old for this yet?"

"Sorry, Mama," she said. But she wasn't.

"Well, go wash up." Caesarea shook her head in surrender. "When you're clean, come and help me with supper." With a last despairing look, the blond woman returned to the kitchen, muttering under her breath as she did so.

Sanar grinned, but Devnos wasn't there to laugh with her, and Clayra was too sweet to appreciate storm mud. Sanar enjoyed it alone.

The dark-haired woman thought, Jaina might. She bit her lip. Jaina might miss me, when I'm gone. Sanar, for one, hoped that she would not have to survive the reverse situation.

Sanar was a survivor, but she didn't want to survive that.

A floorboard cracked under her feet. She stepped off it quickly, then left for the bedrooms. When she walked, dust and at least one rodent scattered. A left behind rug practically disintegrated when her foot landed on it.

Sanar didn't pass the threshold of her parents' old room. Their marriage bed was still there. Her mama had screamed and clawed when Jarran's brother tried to move it. Sanar didn't doubt that all her father's left behind clothes still hung in the closet.

A dead room…and Sanar couldn't face her father's ghost right now.

Daddy wasn't home yet, so Sanar closed her parents' bedroom door, and skipped to the room she shared with Clayra. Before she reached it, however, something caught her eye….

Her old room had been stripped completely bare. Only the curtainless window remained. Sanar kneeled before it and looked out. The sky rumbled dark grey, and the clouds blocked the sun.

A storm approached. Sanar smiled, just a little, before leaving her room to pursue an idea.

Devnos had been so…secretive on his last days here. Now, she wondered if he had already known of their father's impending death. Perhaps he even had known they would be taken to Quatroc after Carida's destruction. He had certainly basked in being at home far more than usual. Had he been working on something?

"Hey, Devy-boy," she sang as she entered his room without permission.

He looked up, startled, then frowned. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Nope." She grinned and hopped onto his bed, landing next to him.

"Oh—great, that's just great, Brownie. Did you have to do that while covered in mud? Mama's gonna kill me."

"Psh," she brushed it off. "Mama adores you. She wouldn't harm a hair on your head, and you know it."

How many times had she simply barged into Devnos' room—his sanctuary—to see him writing? How many times had she unknowingly interrupted the Strings'—the Force's—whispers of Prophecy?

When she pushed open the door, she was amazed to find that she still had to fight the excitement. Devnos and his stories wait just behind this magical, wonderful door…

But when she passed the threshold, Devnos was still dead. And so was his sanctuary.

Parchment had been pinned up all over his walls; some thought they were only old scribbles Devnos had used to make his room his own.

Sanar knew better: they were the start of her brother's writing. They were gold.

The walls, which had once been covered with sketches and discarded scribblings, were bare. It was like every other surface in her old home. What surprised her, however, was that half the room had despaired into rotting wood and scummy stone. Time and the elements had not treated Brin's houses kindly, to be sure, but the damage that had been done to Devnos' room was…unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought the weather had Devnos' number.

"Go get cleaned up, Brownie," Devnos muttered. His features were strained, and he massaged his temples as if he had a migraine.

Whispering—the Strings were whispering—so why couldn't she hear them? "You promised you'd tell me the rest," she pouted.

If anything, his face became even tenser, and he furtively glanced to the far side of his room. "Can't you just…wait? I don't like that story. I want to stop it."

"No!" Her eyes widened in panic. "It's my favourite. Please!"

He flinched. "Sanar…not the Kavishka story. Why don't I tell you a different one? Maybe—the one about Mek, Jane and Sarah? Or—or maybe—"

"No!" she cried, her eyes becoming glassy. "The Kavishka!"

Devnos looked as if he wanted to argue more, but he gave up. "Fine," he said despairingly. "I'll finish it."

She beamed widely and hugged him tightly. "You're the best brother in the galaxy!" she gushed.

Over her shoulder, a tear escaped his eyes, and slid a path down her skin. "No, I'm not," he whispered.

I wonder, she thought suddenly, if he emptied it. Devnos had used a loose board in his closet wall to hide things. Sanar had discovered it a year or so before the soldiers came. Devnos had thought he was so clever about it, she hadn't had the heart to tell him she knew all about it. Besides, sometimes he had written down new stories (prophecies?), or had added more to the old ones, that he had yet to tell her. She hadn't wanted to give up that wealth.

Her hunger for the Kavishka story temporarily satiated, Sanar allowed Devnos to send her away fifteen minutes later. She was half-way down the hall before SomeThing pulled her back to peek through the crack in the door.

Devnos' head was in his hands, and he rocked slightly on his bed, as if he was in pain. "Stop it, please, please, please," she heard him whispering brokenly. "Not her, don't do it, please…"

Abruptly he stood, expression dark and lost and twisted. "You're sick. Sick. She's just… Damn you. Damn you."

He went to his secret hiding place, and a moment later he returned to his bed with his other book, the one he never let Sanar read. Looking as if every second killed him, her brother wrote.

Furiously.

She smirked in triumph when the wood plank gave. At the bugs, wet wood, and the smell of decay, however, she made a face. "Lovely." What would her neat-and-tidy brother say if he could see the mess his room had become?

At first, she thought that the hiding place had been cleaned out only to fill with disgusting things. But—Sanar's eyes widened—that wasn't so. Devnos' private journal/storybook had been left behind. The cover had been clawed by something, and the pages were no doubt as weather-beaten as the house. And yet, it was the book Devnos had never allowed her to read. She had begged, cried, bargained and schemed, but he had remained ever stubborn.

Well, what he doesn't know now can't hurt him, Sanar thought, a little guilty, as she snatched his precious journal. She hadn't seen even a phantom-y glimmer of Devnos since he died, so she assumed he was all about death-puts-things-in-perspective. He would realize that Sanar was adult enough to read the—she assumed—more mature versions of his stories/prophecies, right?

Despite the mould and damp leather, Sanar held the book close as she left.

When she next turned around, she was out in the pouring rain, with one of her storms coming. And the ghosts still remained.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Kyp had brought her in from the storm, though not before she was already drenched. Sanar now sat at a window seat in the front room, puddling on the cushioned seat out of petty spite. The rain beat against the windows with a comforting, loud drum. Despite the…questionable…shelter they had taken, Sanar felt at home.

The group had taken over a building with minimal structural damage. Sanar almost laughed at the irony when she recognized it as the barracks of the soldiers' captain. To an eleven-year-old, the red house had been large and expensive, with its "windows" and stone foundation.

Before they left, Sanar planned to do some serious damage. Maybe she'd start by destroying the busts of Rafintair and Gaffil. Or perhaps by cutting up the tapestry of "Pucijir's triumph," which hung over the fireplace. That might be fun, too. Veras would want in on it, of course, but Sanar was sure there was enough defacing for the both of them. Sanar grinned as she leaned against the window pane. The smirk soon disappeared however, as her thoughts returned to Devnos and his journal.

"Are you alright?" a voice asked, interrupting her musings.

Sanar looked at Braun through wet lashes. "Huh? Of course I am." A little curious despite herself, she queried, "Why?"

"Veras gets the same look sometimes," he explained. "Usually after we leave this place."

Sanar shook her head. "I'm fine," she stated.

Smirking, she spoke frankly, though not on the topic he had been directing them toward. "I can't get over Veras being married. She was almost warier of guys than me."

The sandy-haired man rubbed his jaw, and smiled very faintly. "It took patience."

"I bet," she said dryly. "Did she scream at you, no holds barred, at least once?"

"The second time we met, which was the first time we were alone."

"That's Veras," Sanar told him almost proudly.

He smiled across the room at the woman herself.

"You do realize," the dark-haired woman said, "that if you do something stupid, I'll help her kill you, right?"

"Sure," Braun replied amiably. Then, "I'll leave you to your reading." With a nod, he walked away.

Sanar scowled. Apparently, she hadn't been discreet enough about Devnos' book. Glancing around at the others, who were trying to make the "living" room bearable for the storm, she stood. "I'm gonna…" She made a vague hand gesture. "See you."

"Okay," Krista said. "Have fun." Despite the girl's light tone, there was something wary and cold in Krista's blue eyes. No doubt it was because of Sanar's insinuation the night before. Since then, Krista had been sticking quite close to Miko; she was suspicious around Sanar. The dark-haired woman, for one, wished she could explain what she had said.

"I'll try," Sanar muttered, with a shrug. "But I'm sure fun'll just find me on my own. 'Cuz there's just so much of it in this place."

"Take a candle," Miko told her. He lit one and held it out to Sanar, who took it carefully.

"Thanks."

She exited the living room in favour of the hallway. She peered into the inky blackness, which was relieved only a little by her candle and saw several doorways. "Alright, which one of you isn't a torture chamber?" she asked them under her breath. She shut the door to the living room.

"Already driven you to talking to doors, have they?" a gravely voice asked. "The memories, I mean."

She started. "What— Oh. Durron." He had been hiding behind the door; she wondered why.

The Kavishka grinned as he stepped into the corridor, and the light of her candle. Still wet from the storm, he left a dark trail behind him; his hair was unruly and in his face. "Do you usually wander abandoned buildings during a storm?"

"No." She brushed her dripping hair back in an affronted manner. "Usually I'm out in them. I like storms, thank you very much.

"I thought I'd go wreck something. Maybe one of the awful tapestries they made us girls weave."

"You sure you weren't trying to read that mouldy book of yours in private?" Amused, he raised an eyebrow.

"It isn't mouldy."

"Not after you spent five minutes scraping it off," he agreed. "What is it?" He moved as if to look at it, and she withdrew with a scowl.

"It was my brother's," she informed him in a glacial tone. As far as she was concerned, their little conversation could end there. And would, if Durron was able to pick up on the 'drop it' vibes.

Deciding to just take any room and hope for the best, she swept past Durron to enter the first door to the right. She lucked out—it appeared to be a guest's room. It was smaller than the front room by half with a fireplace had been built into the far wall. A window, half-covered by a ratty, torn curtain, was several feet away. Quickly, she pulled aside the material; she jumped back when a winged animal shrieked and flew past her.

"How sweet," Durron said as he walked into the room after her. "Even pets run away from you."

"Maybe you could follow it out," she suggested, pasting a sweet smile on her face.

"Well, I would, but I'm curious… Why would Devnos leave his book in the home you had to abandon?"

"It isn't important," she muttered. Having checked the window sill for further life, she perched on it in a prim manner.

"The book isn't?" he asked disbelievingly. "Then why are you holding it so tight?"

Because it's Devnos' and it's full of his stories. "It's important to me," she answered sullenly.

"Why?"

Sanar bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. "Because," she snapped instead.

"No need to get snippy." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just asking."

"Yeah, well, leave me alone," she grumped.

"Your wish is my command, dear lady."

Despite his reply (which really abused sarcasm, in her opinion), Durron leaned against the doorframe. Sanar lovingly opened the book to read, pointedly ignoring him. His stare unnerved her however, and she could barely enjoy reading the first story. It took her nearly eight minutes to realize that she was reading Jaina and Zekk's story, with details and backstory she hadn't heard before meeting the couple.

Impatient, she flipped through the pages until she found the tale of the Kavishka. Unsurprisingly, it had been starred as important. She wondered, suddenly, if Devnos had taken down any notes on her role.

Those dark green eyes were still staring.

In his gaze, there was something compelling and strange—like a name that hid from her conscious mind, taunting her with her inability to remember. Sanar looked up.

"He never let me read this when we were kids," she heard herself explain. "Judging by the detail, I'd guess these are the actual prophecies. Jaina and Zekk are in here."

"How much?"

"Well, I learned way too much about their little vacation to 'Bob.'" She made a face. "It was all hero-y and angsty and romantic, with declarations of undying love and stuff. Really not what I wanted to read."

He frowned and walked further into the room. "It bothers you," he realized. "Jaina and Zekk, I mean. Because you, uh, loved Onyx?"

"Ew, no." She gave him a condescending look. "I never loved Onyx. Especially now, that's just gross."

He raised one thick eyebrow—an action she could just make out in the dim candlelight.

"Okay," she amended. "I thought I did, but it was a total accident. I got him mixed up with—" Her eyes fell to the floor as she realized what she was saying. "With someone else."

"Who?" Durron pressed. No one had ever said that Kyp Durron knew when to quit. It was the second time Sanar had let something like this slip, though. He was becoming increasingly curious.

"I was just going to start reading the Kavishka prophecy," Sanar quickly told him. Hopefully, she thought, the subject change would distract him.

Either it worked, or he allowed her to drop the subject, because he said, "Really? Anything new?"

"I haven't started reading it yet," she admitted.

"Well, go ahead—out loud," he said. Cautiously, as if he thought she would run at a too-quick movement, he leaned against the wall by her.

She shifted uneasily at his proximity before reminding herself that it was just Durron, and she could handle his irritating qualities. "Well, okay."

Sanar reopened the book carefully, mindful of its age. When the first page seemed unusually heavy, however, she flipped it quickly. "Oh, please."

"What?"

She held it up for him, and his brow furrowed. Just like with Devnos' room, it seemed as if someone had specifically gone after this prophecy. While some words were still legible, Devnos' chicken scratch writing had been marred with blotches of damp and thin fuzz.

"Can you read any of it?" Kyp asked.

She shrugged, disappointment clearly written on her expression. "Some. From the beginning?"

"Anything new, I suppose," he told her. The green eyes that had made Sanar so uncomfortable were now trained on the book.

"O…kay…" She returned to the first page. Pensive, the woman stared at it a moment before reading.

"'In the year of the goddess, 77 of the second age, a dark one came to ambitious men…he promised them power and strength, should they prove worthy of it…'"

Sanar gave the page a disgusted look. "This reads like one of Horaire's books."

"Keep reading." When she scowled at him, Kyp added, "There's something going on here."

She huffed unhappily, but continued nonetheless. "A bunch of stuff happens. Mujir's dominion gets overthrown by…oh. Well, Horaire never bragged about that."

Kyp wondered who Horaire was; the name sounded familiar. "About what?

"Well, apparently they sacrificed Mujir's priestesses the day Pucijir's Order was declared. Among them was the emperor's wife and—" She swallowed "—and his daughters. In addition, this event was to be echoed every seven years." She sighed. "This is why I hate this planet."

He gently pried the book from her fingers. "I almost feel sorry for Devnos," he muttered absently. "These descriptions…. How old was he?"

"I don't know. He was always writing. The first time he told me the Kavishka story, he was…I don't know. We were both pretty little. He could have been as young as ten."

"Sick."

She grimaced. "Knowing everything now? I would definitely have to agree with you. And all that time, I thought…I hated him, because I thought he had turned on us, but…Mujir."

"Do you want to put off reading until later?" Kyp asked, concerned.

Taking a deep breath, she raised and shook her head. "No. I want to see if it says anything about me."

When he looked confused, she reddened, almost as if she thought she had assumed too much. "Devnos…before he died…he told me that I'm in the prophecy somewhere. I just—I can't remember any mention of a female that fits me; if it's anywhere, the information will be in this book."

He blinked as he recalled Jarran's accidental mention of Sanar being "able to do what her mother was too weak to do." Neither Jarran nor the Force (through hours of meditation) had been willing to explain what Sanar was meant to do. Now, Kyp began to look at the muddled book with more understanding and frustration.

Sanar grew impatient with Kyp's silence and snatched the book back with greedy fingers. "'From the stock of blood…through the line of blood and the old code…shall come the Kavishka…and by his side comes those whom he needs. Among these—" Her brow furrowed. "Gunk. Um…

"'The Kavishka will be tested sorely by…' Damn—moisture…'the loss would bring immediate failure.'" Sanar raised an eyebrow. "Well, that might have been important."

Kyp didn't like this one sithing bit. "Keep going."

"'Should the Kavishka prove his worthiness, Vengeance will accept him, and the women scorned will grow in power until their peak, on the anniversary of the seven hundred seventy-seventh year.' Okay, the women scorned are 'Vengeance,' are the Sildar? That explains some stuff."

"'Thereupon, the Kavishka and—' more gunk '—shall attack, and—'" She sighed angrily. "Oh, really!"

"'And' what?" he pressed.

"And nothing!" She flipped the pages irritably. "It's all messed up until the end. I can't read any of this."

"Let me see." Taking it carefully, he scrutinized the pages. True enough, the writing was blurred, stained, or otherwise indecipherable, up until the last sentence:

Vengeance will be fulfilled, and order restored, no matter the cost.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Foolish hope was his for brief moments when he recognized the book. Devnos let some false naïveté within himself believe that They had missed something, and Sanar would be warned.

Yet Vengeance had not forgotten something as small as even his notebook, and Devnos cursed himself a thousand times for being a fool.

And Sanar continued on, unaware.