mouth wide in a yawn. ‘It means . . . Greatest. I . . . I hope she comes back . . .’ He settled down upon the earth, pressing his face against his tail. ‘Soon.’
The sound of the pup snoring carried over the sound of the brook whispering, but it faded with every passing breath. More sounds returned to the world: air from the trees, breezes blowing over the sand, moisture rising from the earth. Grahta’s sound of slumber was a distant part in the world’s great chorus.
As was the sound of Gariath’s own voice.
‘Don’t blink,’ he told himself, gripping the earth in two trembling hands. ‘Don’t blink. He’ll go if you blink.’
He tried to hold the image of the little red bundle, his side rising and falling with each breath, in eyes that were quickly streaming over with tears.
‘Don’t blink.’
He tried to hold the image of wings too small to flex, a tail too small to do anything but wag, eyes that were bright as his once had been.
‘Don’t blink.’
He tried to hold the image of two similar bundles, rolling over each other at his feet, barking and nipping, wagging and whining, their voices fresh in his frills as they boasted, proclaimed, roared, growled, snarled and snored.
‘Don’t—’
When he opened his eyes again, Grahta was gone. The earth was not depressed where he had been, the sunlight continued to pour despite his absence. The sound of his sleeping was lost on the wind.
‘No,’ he whimpered, pawing at the ground. ‘No, no, no, no, NO!’ His roar killed the sounds in the air as he threw back his head. ‘Hit something,’ he told himself, sweeping his gaze about the glade. ‘Hit! Kill! Make it bleed! Make it die! Kill something! KILL!’
The only thing that shared the glade, that could possibly satiate the urge, was the impassive elder stone looming over him. Snarling, he levelled an accusatory finger.
‘YOU!’
He struck the stone, felt his hand crack, and fell to the earth with a cry. There was nothing to hit. Nothing to kill. No anger, no hatred. He was left alone with hope. Quietly, he laid his head against the rock, his body trembling as tears slid down his snout to trickle across the rim of his nostrils and fall to the unmoved earth.
Grahta was gone. The Rhega were gone. Gariath was alone.
With the scent of nothing but salt and wind as the world continued around him.
Thirty-Five
NOTHING REMAINS
There was very little in the supply crate to suggest that Argaol ever really expected them to return alive, Denaos thought as he rummaged blindly through the various sundries and goods within. The moon was not much help in illuminating his search.
‘Blankets . . . fishing line . . . but no hooks,’ the rogue muttered, rolling his eyes. ‘Rope . . . who needs rope on an island? Waterskins, empty . . . bacon . . . dried meat . . . salted meat . . . dried salted meat.’
His hands clenched something long and firm. Eyes widening, he pulled something stout and rounded free. Scrutinising it in the darkness, he frowned.
‘A . . . lute.’ He blinked at the stringed instrument. ‘What ... did he just throw whatever he could spare into this thing?’ Quietly, he noted the inscription on the wooden neck. ‘Not a bad year, though.’
‘Could you possibly hurry it up?’ someone called from behind. ‘I’m sort of . . . you know, trying to keep someone’s leg from becoming gangrenous and falling off.’
‘If the Gods had mercy, such a fate should befall my ears,’ the rogue muttered.
Sighing, he sifted through everything else the captain had deemed worthy for chasing demons. His persistence, however, eventually rewarded him with the knowledge that the old Silfish prayer had yet to be proven false.
‘Gods are fickle, men are cruel,’ he recited as he wrapped his hand around something smooth and cold. He pulled the bottle from the crate and watched his own triumphant smile reflected back to him in its sloshing amber liquor. ‘Trust only in yourself and what lies in your cup.’
That smile persisted as he walked back to the fire, back to his doubtlessly grateful companions. Who else would have had the foresight to smuggle out a bit of liquid love, after all? Granted, he reasoned, it’s stolen love. But what is love if it doesn’t leave someone else unhappy?
He couldn’t honestly say the thought of Argaol’s furious face, screwed up so tight his jaws would fold inwards and begin to devour his