Free In the Shadow of Swords by Val Gunn Page A

heart.
    She straightened and drew another long breath.
    It was done.
    As was the custom in most of Mir’aj, her period of mourning was at its end. Hiril had been born in a small village not far from this shrine, and Marin was carrying out his wishes that, should he fall, this should be his final resting place.
    She tipped the urn, pouring the contents into the running water. Each particle of ash seemed to represent a moment they had spent together. All too soon the urn was empty—just as their time together had run out. With tears streaming down her cheeks and splashing into the channel, she watched as the water swirled his ashes away toward the far wall and into the waterfall that rushed up to heaven.
    Even as a silver urn full of ashes, Hiril had been a presence in her life.
    Now she was alone.
    13
    “SPEAK TO ME.”
    Marin pleaded beside the waterfall within the polished walls of the shrine, in the scent of wet rock, as if Hiril’s voice could come to her just once more. Please… could he not whisper just a word?
    She had carried out his final request, and according to custom, life would return to normal a year after his death—or at least move forward with some new purpose. Marin wanted to believe that here, in this place, at this precise moment, her pain could perhaps be transformed into something else.
    But there was nothing here for her. Only the empty silver urn at her side. Only the watery silence of her solitude. Only her grief.
    “Maybe Ala’i is not the one,” Marin said aloud to the shrine. “There are other gods in this world that I can seek.”
    Though holding vast sway, Illam was not the only divinity in Mir’aj; there was also Jovah, Njambe, Himnnaríki, or Vijayu. Their practices might seem strange to her, but she had seen much on her travels; and she knew there were many ways in which people could worship and find solace. But in truth she knew this was an empty challenge to Ala’i—that professions of strong or waveringfaith were nothing more than words intended to appease her loneliness, to justify the emptiness that Hiril’s loss had left in her heart.
    “There is no life for me,” Marin said to the shrine. “Not anymore.”
    The water merely continued to rush by her. It could not react to her sorrow; it moved on without any care for her loneliness or despair.
    Marin remained for another hour, thinking about everything—and nothing. The chamber darkened as the afternoon suns waned and shadows crept over the hills. She had spent enough time here. She would return to Messinor and wait there for her orders. Everyone knew where she had gone, and sooner or later someone would find a task for her. That would be her life from now on.
    Then a chill came over her—and it had nothing to do with the cool breeze blowing past the waterfall as the heat of day diminished. It was something else.
    Her hunter’s instinct told her another presence lurked nearby.
    Marin turned slowly, surveying the entrance behind her. She’d left her weapons in the city, along with everything else, and she felt trapped when she saw a man’s shadow on the waterfall at the cave’s mouth. Someone was standing outside, waiting for her to leave the shrine.
    Let him come , she thought. Today I welcome death with open arms .
    The shadow moved away.
    A silhouette passed on her side of the bright waterfall, and a gray-clad figure came toward her. He was tall and thin, and he carried something in his hands that was clearly not a weapon. His movements suggested cautious respect, not battle readiness.
    Their eyes met. His were as gray as his cloak, and his dark hair and thin mustache were shot with gray as well. Marin saw sharp intelligence in his face, but also the weakness of one who happily issues commands and lets others do the work.
    “My condolences,” he said in the formal tones of a bureaucrat. “May peace be with you.”
    As he moved closer, Marin could see that he held something in his arms.
    Four books.
    14
    “WHO