Darma had wandered away from the others' camp. The fire burned low, while the stars illuminated the sparse vegetation that was slowly reclaiming the land. These mountains will be draped in white come winter, he thought. They had avoided towns and villages alike, living like a pack of wolves in the wild. There was a certain beauty in the freedom of belonging nowhere. This fellowship was not so different from a ship's crew.
Maynar's vial hung from a chain around Darma's neck. Melisa had crafted it when Kalden secretly visited her shortly after they left the manor to say his farewell. It was one small exception the others had allowed. The young woman had smiled sadly, reluctant to see him leave, and the knight had felt the same. He promised to write to her and swore that, when the time was right, he would return for her. The love of the Lothenians was so different, the islanders had thought. Restrained, conservative, lacking the salty passion of secret beaches, yet like a hardy flower it would slowly bloom in fertile soil despite every hardship.
Darma remembered seeing Maynar writing in a journal each night. Yet all of his belongings had turned to ash together with his body. It was a pity. Still, the Gargoyle was certain that Maynar would have recorded everything exactly as he had witnessed it. He loved truth and history.
The poet had been brave, Darma concluded. Without hesitation he had faced monsters and mages alike and had journeyed through foreign lands. Had he lived, he might have become a friend—someone under Darma's protection. Gargoyles possessed an innate instinct to protect weaker creatures. Darma had buried that instinct for many years. But he would not do so anymore.
Looking toward his new companions, he resolved to do everything within his power to protect them. The darkness within him was beginning to recede.
Night gave way to dawn as warm colors awakened in the east—gold, crimson, violet. The trees before him shimmered in the morning light, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze.
He liked that he was no longer alone.
He liked that he was alive, flesh and bone instead of stone hidden on the ocean floor.
He liked that they hunted evil, however terrifying it might be.
For the first time in his life, he felt a true sense of purpose.
His only regret was that the poet was no longer among them. That his body had never been laid upon a funeral raft, sent westward with coins upon his eyes.
"Bard," he said sadly to Arsik, who was just waking from his light sleep, "play a song for Maynar."
Confusion flickered across Arsik's face, but he did not hesitate. He took out the violin and began to play a melody that called to mind mountains, green meadows, and untamed waters. Though it began as a mournful, heavy lament, it gradually gave way to a quiet breath of hope.
THE END