The Beauty of Darkness - Mary E. Pearson Page 0,183

ruins that towered over us. The weight of the centuries pressed in.

We walked together for a time. Rafe looking up at the cliffs, first at one side, then the other, Kaden turning, imagining, studying.

The grass of the valley brushed the tops of our boots.

I looked around in wonder. So this was the last valley Morrighan had led the Remnant through before they reached their new beginning.

“I’m going up top to see what’s there,” Rafe said, pointing at the ruins that looked down on us.

“I’ll check out the other side,” Kaden said, and both left on their horses, searching for trails that led to the summits. I walked ahead, deeper into the valley, listening to the quiet, the breeze, and then a whisper shivered through the grass, rushing toward me, its cool fingers brushing my face, my hands.

It circled my throat, lifted my hair.

This world breathes you in … shares you.

The wind, time, it circles, repeats.…

I felt the breath that was held, and then the slow exhale. I kept walking. The valley grew wider, little by little, like welcoming arms opening up to whatever lay at the other end. I studied the low hills, the rocky crags, the outcrops of boulders, the soft grassy ridges, the face of a valley that studied me too, its eyes turning, its heart beating. Why are you here? My gaze traveled to the valley’s crown—the ruins. I heard Gaudrel speak, as if she walked by my side.

In an age before monsters and demons roamed the earth …

There were cities, large and beautiful, with sparkling towers that touched the sky …

They were spun of magic and light and the dreams of gods …

I felt those dreams now, hovering, waiting, hoping, as if their world could be wakened again. The universe has a long memory. I kept walking and as Captain Reunaud had said, the ruins watched me as I passed. Ten miles of immense valley. Ten miles of towering wreckage. Breathtaking. Powerful. Frightening.

Rafe’s warning hummed in my ears.

Their army will stretch for miles. You can’t speak to them all.

I kept walking.

I would find a way.

Some of the ruins had tumbled to the valley floor. I passed giant blocks of stone taller than a man, now covered with moss and vine, the earth still trying to erase the fury of a star. Or was it many stars? What had truly happened? Would we ever really know?

But I knew the power and greatness of the Ancients had been unlocked by the Komizar. He would use it against us in a matter of days. We had little chance even with Rafe’s troops. Without them, we had none. My heart beat faster. Had I brought everyone here to die in a distant forgotten valley? The cries of the Ancients whistled past on the wind, and the Holy Text whispered back to me.

A terrible greatness

Rolled across the land …

Devouring man and beast,

Field and flower.

Time circles. Repeats. Ready to tell the story again. And again.

The drum beat louder. The days were slipping by, and the Komizar was getting closer. Keep going, I told myself. Keep walking.

The scent of the crushed grass beneath my boots wafted up to meet me. I thought of Dihara and another meadow. It was a lifetime ago, but I saw her again. She spun at her wheel. Her head angled to the side.

So you think you have the gift.

Who told you that?

The stories … they travel.

Her wheel turned, whirred. The valley waited, watched, its heartbeat a murmur on the breeze.

The truth was here. Somewhere. I walked on.

The pluck of a string.

And another.

Music. I spun, looking back from where I had come. The valley was empty, but I heard the mournful strum of the zitaraes, my mother’s song floating, and then when I looked back to where I’d been heading, I saw something else.

All ways belong to the world. What is magic but what we don’t yet understand?

A girl knelt on the rim of a wide bluff above me.

There.

The word fluttered in my belly, familiar. A word that had pushed and prodded me toward the maps, and then this valley.

Her eyes met mine.

“It was you,” I whispered.

She nodded but said nothing.

She kissed her fingers, and I heard the Holy Text braiding with the air.

And Morrighan raised her voice,

To the heavens,

Kissing two fingers,

One for the lost,

And one for those yet to come,

For the winnowing was not over.

The song that had filled the valley only seconds ago, was now hers, winding, lengthening, beckoning. I stumbled up the steep trail to the