Only Cowards Stay While Traitors Run


When Last We Met: From Central City to Finaqua, to the Midlings of the East, sent south, beyond Finaqua, beyond the mountains, to the southern tip of the Outer Zone, Cain and his companions had followed DG. Power and promise, however, never come without a price.


Chapter Thirty: For Those Left Behind

DG was gone.

It was Raw who confirmed it, little to Cain's surprise, though, if the truth be known to none other than himself, the entirety of the situation had his mind reeling in ways that left him without legible thought or coherent speech. Words had all but abandoned him. Of course, Raw's deceptively simple, utterly cryptic clues fell on deaf ears as Cain was able to finally rouse himself into action, helping Glitch search for DG through each cold, ruined room.

An empty hope, effort spent in vain. The Viewer had the truth of it. Cain's own eyes struggled with what heartsight knew all along. The girl had vanished.

Within the palace, sections of the great hall's high domed ceiling had collapsed, shafts of sunslight spilling in, thick with dancing dust. The falling rubble had smashed the floor mosaic into so many jagged, red pieces. Sand had blown into drifts, burying the first two steps at the far end of the hall. The upstairs had fared much worse, Cain found, frowning as he nudged the toe of his boot against an iron grate, the intricately-wrought scrollwork spotted with rust. Scattered across the balcony, splintered beams, broken brick, and clay roof tiles, more sunslight creeping in through gaping holes above, more dust motes swirling on a wayward draft.

There was no sign of the girl, not until Cain had walked the long length of the upstairs balcony to stand before their doom. Gone back to the way they'd found it, the painting was no more than a mottle of mouldy plaster, the dull glaze webbed with hairline cracks. At the base of the wall, he found DG's sketchbook, half-hidden among the debris. Taking it by the spine, he shook the pages free of sand, brushing a hand over the soft blue cover, over the marks she'd left with ink and lead.

When Glitch saw Cain coming down the stairs with the book in hand, his face paled. "I didn't know she had that with her."

"She doesn't, it's right here. Might be that she dropped it."

Glitch closed his eyes, shook his head. "When, during that storm? Then by rights it should be long gone with her. I didn't see it when I was up there."

Cain handed the book over, wearied by the very sight of it. He'd nearly passed by it himself, his eyes too busy staring a fiery hole into the wasted painting – the painting that was not a painting, he'd been reminding himself when he'd finally torn his eyes away and caught a glimpse of blue among the sand and brick.

"Where," Glitch muttered, mostly to himself. He fingered a worn corner of the sketchbook's cover. "Raw hasn't said –"

"Gone," was all Cain repeated, just plain sick of the word by then.

"Gone where, where has she been whisked off to?"

Cain sighed. He thought of the red witch, her dark eyes and faded gown. "Where's she been sent is more like. That old hag is still here somewhere." He paused then, waiting for the rest of the roof to fall in on his head in retribution. The moment passed with Glitch turning the book over in his hands, fanning through the pages with his thumb. He didn't open it, and the roof didn't cave in. Suddenly done with the doubt and destruction, Cain turned on his heel and strode from the hall, hungry for a bit of fresh air.

Glitch called out after him, the ringing echoes chasing after Cain as he ducked out the doors. The dry heat of the late afternoon hit him like a wall, and his first breath of in the courtyard tasted of dust, settling heavy upon his tongue. He pulled the brim of his hat down lower, glad to shield his eyes against the suns. From his refuge beneath the wall, Raw glanced up and solemnly nodded a greeting.

"Not there," said the Viewer. Cain's jaw hardened against a response, and wondered if he'd ever rid his mouth of sand, grains cracking and foreign between his clenched teeth. He was just about done with this cursed place – knowing, all the while, that it had yet to become gods'-forsaken. That knowledge wormed its way deep inside of him, took root inside, and a quiet oath formed upon his lips, never to be uttered. Raw's eyes were on him, words unspoken still heard by the tender heart of a friend who knew, a friend as hurting and confused as he was.

Cain tucked his thumbs into his belt, eyes on the sky. A vast expanse of purest blue, another reminder of what – who – was so suddenly missing from their lives. Only to the north were there strings of pale grey clouds to mar the illusion of perfection, gathering over the mountains to beckon them away from suns and scorching wind here at the end of the world. He knew then, watching those harbinger clouds, that there was little use in staying. When the suns set –

Glitch walked out the doors then, waving DG's sketchbook in front of him. "Have you taken a look-see at this?"

Turning his attention back to the long road home, Cain gave a non-committal shrug. "Not since Finaqua." No, he hadn't opened the book, studied the pages. She'd kept it close over the long days and cold nights they'd spent on the road. He'd caught a glimpse, once or twice, and there'd been the rare occasion that she'd shown him one sketch or another, one she'd been proud of, perhaps, or one that had brought that sad, wistful twist to her lips that had come to settle there so often as her resolve had taken hold so strongly. He remembered pages upon pages of her mother, pencil-drawn or blotted with blue ink, studies she'd been doing long before he'd left Central City, when Lavender was still hale, hearty; days, he reminded himself, when DG would spend her sunlit hours at her mother's side, and would seek him out come nightfall, to curl up in the quiet comfort of his company.

How many books had she filled in the months after he'd left her in the city, he wondered, and how many nights had she spent alone with only the comfort of her pencils as her father kept his distance, as she watched her sister struggle and her mother waste away.

The book that he'd found half-buried in sand was the book he'd all but ordered her to bring from Central City when they'd left for Finaqua. He'd hoped – however foolishly – that having her supplies with her would bolster her jaded spirits. Dutifully, she'd pulled the book out every night as the stars began to appear, drawing at the fireside until her head had grown heavy.

He thought then of the nights she'd pulled herself from her bedroll and tucked herself against his side, thinking herself safe in the quiet comfort of his company, whether lakeside or forest or crumbling courtyard. He closed his eyes against it, those memories that held no semblance of easement, then gave his head a shake, as if the thought of those simple, silent hours could be shed so quickly.

The only comfort he was able to draw was from the waiting. To the others, the hours of sunlight that lasted into the early evening were some of the hardest they'd faced on the journey, and it certainly took no length of imagination to know the uneasiness that had fallen upon each and every beating heart among them. But to him – and there was no pride in admitting it – there was an undeniable calm, as everything about him ground to a standstill. Whatever callous significance it held, he didn't dwell upon it – and he wasn't about to sit through the scathing psychoanalysis of a bored and agitated Glitch – though he couldn't rightly say anyone was about to take notice of his tenuous ease.

Hours passed, and the suns began their slow descent into the west. The sky turned a pale rose, the clouds gathering to the north ablaze with the deeper reds that Cain remembered from – truly, had it only been a single day? The thoughts of the girl crept up on him again, the two of them alone in the gloom of the dusk-fallen ruins, a fitful embrace and a soft, fleeting kiss.

"Home," she'd whispered into his chest, "please, Wyatt, take me home."

It was hardly a leap of faith to assume her wish had been granted, words spoken before none but him. How foolish of him, of them both, to stand within that long-forgotten hall and lay out their hearts so openly. Under the stars, he'd taken her into his arms again, tasted her kiss, but by morning she'd already started to drift away from him, from everyone. DG had spent her last reserves of determination searching and questioning. Only then had the sorceress of the south made herself known, well veiling her intent as illusively as she'd veiled herself.

"This story is one told before," the witch had said. "You know the way of it."

The way of it. He'd been wilfully blind, ever helpless, no more than a guide, or an assurance of safety. They all were, in their own ways, shields against what the world might throw at a girl so singular as DG. The way of it, all told before; once upon a time... now how did that go again? He'd said the words himself, told the story to her as she'd pressed herself so innocently to his side, the lights of the Midling village mere pinpricks glimpsed at through the trees the night Bluesire had sent them searching south.

"With nowhere left to turn, the little girl went looking for the help of the last witch... and she sent the little girl home."

DG had all but begged him for the story, and he'd summoned it out of the dregs of his memory, a dusty relic of a life that had been out of his grasp too long. He'd seen a hundred reproductions of the tale in his life, paintings and street theatres and paper copies in tiny print. The night he'd arrived back in Central City, the room where Glitch had conferred each dark and dangerous truth had spread the tale along all four walls, ribbons of yellow gold stretching over patchwork hills and a city of gleaming, emerald towers.

Central City.

How many weeks had it been since he'd awoken in his own bed, his home that smelled of wood-smoke and new-cut lumber. He'd watched the suns come up on the dock, the creek making its sluggish way beneath his feet. He remembered the worry in the eyes of the messenger who'd come riding up his road, a boy younger than Jeb and uncertain of his commission. A single letter, and Cain had left his solitude behind for friends who'd wanted him – needed him. He'd found Central City less than welcoming though, a regent fading, a young queen struggling for redemption, and a little princess watching helplessly as everything she'd fought for began to fall apart.

Was it any wonder she'd undertaken this task her sister had set her to? The long shot, the last and only hope.

Lavender had warned him; he'd stood before her in Central City and promised to keep DG safe should they need flee to Finaqua. Hide the girl from those who would attempt to put her on the throne, and separate her from her mother, to stop the girl's power from falling victim to the whims of her emotions. It'd seemed so easy. Easier, certainly, than facing DG and her reproachful, sky-coloured eyes again after so long. The chilly reception she'd given him was all too sharp and clear a memory. She'd tried convincing him she didn't want him, didn't need him, but the days had passed and the weight of her burdens had worn her down as he'd quietly remained at her side.

South they'd gone together, surrounded by the friends they trusted most, south then north then south again. Further and further, as south as south goes. Five strong, they'd faced Papay, the guild-fighters of the Midlings, the resistance in Ammenium, and the near week-long journey through the summer passes of the Ruby Mountains; all the while, the voice of his conscience had become the voice of the dreaming Lavender, still lingering somewhere in between.

"She cannot go back."


Dusk crept across the world as the second sun slowly slipped beneath the western horizon. Beyond the walls of the courtyard, breathing in the cool air of the grassy plain, Cain watched the last vestiges of the sun flicker and vanish into the shadow-taken west.

The hours had dragged on, and finally, finally it was time to leave the wretched place behind. Their horses were rested, the heat of the afternoon had dissipated, and a soft, cool breeze whispered through the sea of grass in which Cain stood solitary, waiting for the others to finish with their preparations. He'd become so accustomed to the sounds of this place, the grass and the winds and the insects. Foreign to him, or so it seemed, was the sound of approaching footsteps. There was nothing to fear, no, and he didn't not turn around.

"Raw's gotten a glimpse, or thinks he has," the old man said, voice thick and slow with exhaustion. It seemed to Cain that he'd aged a good ten annuals since DG's disappearance. "A little house, broken windows. A barn, and a swing."

Cain didn't need any more explanation than that. "She slipped over."

"It does seem that way. I don't think we'll be finding any answers here."

Sighing, he could feel the old man's eyes heavy on him, the man who'd once guided, betrayed, and saved them all. Lavender's emerald-haunted goose chase, DG dead set upon a plan gone wrong from the start. And now, in the aftermath of another fool endeavour, the girl once again hopelessly beyond his grasp, Cain turned to face the man DG called Tutor only to find him holding her sketchbook, offering it up before he could say a word otherwise.

"I suggest we go looking in Central City," Tutor said. He harboured no doubt in this, that much was clear. Again, he offered the sketchbook.

As the light faded and the twilight began to steal across the plain, covering the suns-parched grass in a mantle of endless grey, Cain took the book in hand. He touched the soft blue cover, running a thumb over where DG had scrawled her name.

The old teacher had no patience for his reticence. "The last few pages, Mr. Cain, if you please."

His heart was hesitant, but his hands were curious; silently he cursed himself, even as he leafed through to the back of the sketchbook, but he found nothing more than he'd expected to find. Portraits and studies and half-finished sketches, all of Lavender. But even in the blue gloom of evening, it was easy to see the change that had come over DG's chosen subject, where hope and despair had kindled inside the princess to try piece together a happier ending from the sad, broken shards she'd been left with. The face of her mother, lovingly constructed from a lonely memory half a kingdom away; a face that so resembled her own, softened and smiling, content, awake. Pale, unshaded eyes, seeing eyes.

Cain closed the book without a word. Those waking eyes, empty and colourless as they were, burned into him. One more failed woman, to add to all the rest. Mother, sister, wife, kid, queen...

She'd warned him, she'd known, and yet –

He turned his gaze north. The dark clouds he'd seen forming over the mountains during the afternoon had turned the sky a deep and unforgiving black, hearkening their return with all the darkness due tidings such as theirs.

Storm's coming, he thought bitterly.

Wasn't that always the way?


Author's Note: I haven't left many of these, have I? First, a great big thank you and much love to all my readers, as always. I hope it won't disappoint anyone to know this story will soon reach it's end. No fear! A short sequel, or "extended epilogue" will follow. But first - Cain and Tutor deserve some answers, don't you think?