In the House of Five Dragons — Epilogue
44. All Roads
“All stories must have an end, but that is only literary artifice. In truth, the worlds turn ever onward, unto a new dawn and a new chapter in the endless tale.”
— From After Njorn Pass, by Alexander Ferro
Ssssh.
Ssssh.
Ssssh.
The long summer turned the grass into blades of gold. The warm breeze tickled Gaius’ cheek. He trailed his fingers through the tall yellow grass as he walked. It was soft against his hand.
Gaius grinned. How long since he had used his fingers to feel? Even after thirty years, Stumble still didn’t understand, but the little curiosity never tired of asking.
Ssssh.
Ssssh.
Clank.
The road. Gaius took a moment to remember how to use his neck — strange half-stiff, half-wobbly thing that it was — and inspected the road. It was in good repair, the interlocking stones varied in color and texture by frequent replacement. Gaius trailed his fingers over them, so very different from the soft-saw sense of the grass.
Amazing! Did I truly not notice such things before?
Terrans were a marvel. Gaius was so engrossed with his investigation of the road and his own reclaimed senses that he failed to notice the cart until its driver had pulled to a stop a few yards away. A sun-browned Carcaen man turned on the plank seat and waved.
“Hae there, sir knight!” the driver called out. “What blood-business brings you so far from the city?”
“Just wrapping up some family affairs,” Gaius answered. “Can you drive me into Dormaen?”
“Hop on in,” the man said, patting the seat beside him. As Gaius climbed in, he held up the switch he had been using on the wagon’s donkey. “You’re probably in a rush, hae? Always worlds of work for you in VEIL.”
“No hurry,” Gaius chuckled. “Drive slow and tell me about the last thirty years.”
The leaves of the tree-tower rippled in a breeze that smelled of poetry. No two were alike. They shone in every Terran color and still bore the names of childhood. Every texture: velvety and varied, hard and soft, bottle and bloom. They shifted through every shape, some natural but many more found only in dreams. The auroral walls of Mask rose high once more, rivaling even the great white spire of the Uprising. The long war had left its scars all across Alterra, but even those were fading as the Terrans dreamed of their new world.
A green-striped malachite nightingale sang beside the drowsy, drooping shape of the great black serpent.
He’s home now, Stumble glowed contentedly. Is he pleased with the world?
Flickerdim sunned himself on the broad, flat branch. His blind white eyes shone like crescent moons in the swirling black night of his scales. He tasted the air with a long tongue. It’s not the one he knew. I think he will love this one better.
This is the world he will rule, Rikard thought. Even through the veil, his love shone like starfire all through the Uprising. My son has come home!
Home.
