“That must be a very lonely task.”
“A man called Dain keeps the lights. He lives on Shyd all alone, waiting for the bride promised him by the Empress as a reward for his seven years’ service. But the Empress will not send her. Dain will wait ten years, and his bride will not come. He will grow weary in his loneliness and anger, and he will douse the lamps. A ship will break on the rocks and there will be war. Dain will die alone and forgotten on the sea.”
Talia held tighter to Wen. “I don’t like that at all.”
“And yet it is so.”
“But if he doesn’t douse the light,” said Talia, “what then? If I were to go to Shyd and say to him, ‘Keep the light always burning,’ and tell him what will happen if he does not, would all be well?”
“It is not for mankind to know what lies in their future.”
Talia looked at Wen, thinking of the visions in the mirrors, the unshakeable grip of her fate. “If I die here, if I die in Rahn’s Hall—I never had a choice. It was always going to happen.”
“You had many choices, Talia Endain, and your choices led you here. Dain has the choice to douse the lamps, or not.”
“But you know which he will choose.”
“But it is still his choice.”
Talia stamped down her frustration, ice stinging her cheeks. “Do you know what lies in my future?”
“I do.”
“Can you tell me?”
“If I could,” said the Whale, “would you want me to?”
She looked back at the lighthouse as they drew away from it, strong and shining through the rain. She thought of the last vision she’d seen in the mirror: herself standing in a field of bones, the Star shining bright on her finger. If that was her future, she’d like to keep thinking she had the power to change it. “No,” she answered.
Wen unfolded one of his wings and wrapped it around her.
“That is as it should be,” said the Whale.
She woke to the damp breath of wind on her face, and the absence of Wen’s warm wing. Waves slapped hard against the Whale, seawater splashing like ice on her skin. For the first time since the Whale had rescued her, she felt truly cold. She fumbled around for her knapsack and slipped her hands inside. But not even the Star-light could warm her.
Mist hung heavy in the air, and she couldn’t tell the time of day. Peering through it, she saw Wen perched near the Whale’s head, listening intently. She felt the rumble of the Whale’s voice, but could not distinguish his words. She realized they were not meant for her.
The Whale spoke a long while and Talia stayed shivering by his tail, wondering what he was saying to Wen.
At last the great seabird bowed his head, and the rumbling of the Whale’s voice ceased. It started raining, driving the mist back into the sea, and Wen leapt suddenly into the air with a rush of white wings. Talia quickly lost sight of him.
The minutes stretched on and Wen didn’t come back. Worry gnawed her, and she crawled up the Whale’s rippling back as he swam, waves breaking over her. She settled near the great creature’s head, so that if she looked down she could see his black eyes and his enormous mouth.
“What did you say to Wen?” she asked.
“I told him what lies ahead of him.”
“And what is that?”
Lightning showed jagged against the horizon, and the black waves were crested with white. The Whale rose with them, adopting the rhythm of the sea.
“That is not for you to know, Talia Endain.”
“I know you can’t tell me my own future, but why can’t you tell me Wen’s?”
The Whale sighed, and she felt the shiver of it pass beneath her. “It would grieve you to hear.”
She hugged her knees to her chest, waves splashing up over the Whale’s head and soaking her to the skin. “Tell me. Please. I have to know.”
“Talia Endain, he will die for the love of you.”
“Is that what you told him?” she demanded. “Is that why he’s flying up there in the storm? Why don’t you send him home and save his life? I don’t want him to die. He can’t die. Why won’t you send him away?”
“Hush,” said the Whale gently, “I have told you what will be.”
She pounded her fists into the Whale’s skin and screamed at the sky.
“Talia,” said the Whale, a note of command in his voice.
Tears coursed freely down her cheeks, mingling with the rain. She bit her lip and tasted blood.
“There is still time left, you know.”
“Time for what?” she choked out.
“To tell him that you love him.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
SHE DIDN’T KNOW HOW LONG SHE HAD been riding on the Whale. A week, perhaps, a year, half a century—it didn’t matter. Every day she sensed they drew nearer to the Tree, and every day she tried to prepare herself for what awaited her in the Hall of the Dead. Her hand slipped often into the leather knapsack, folding around the pulsing Star-light. She didn’t dare touch the casket containing the Tree, or try out the Words the Whale had taught her. Not yet.
Wen rarely came to perch beside her anymore, choosing to fly above, sunlight drenching his white wings. She missed his steady presence, and the Whale’s words were never far from her mind.
But she didn’t know how to save him.
One bright afternoon, a speck of green appeared in the sea ahead of them. As the Whale drew nearer, Talia saw it was an island, no larger than the bottom floor of the Ruen-Dahr. It was covered with trees and the distant glimmer of water, and on the shore stood seven goats.
They appeared to be very old, with long beards and yellowed horns and ragged coats of white and gray. Around each of their necks hung a gold medallion on a scarlet cord, the metal flashing bright in the sun. The goats looked past Talia, just as the boy on the ship had.
“The Isle of Rahn,” said the Whale. “It has drifted some ways from where she set it at first. She did not bother to bind it in place.”
“Then we’re close,” said Talia, suddenly afraid. She glanced up at Wen, who kept pace above them. “Who are the goats?”
“The Watchers, the Wonderers, the Fearful. They were once great lords of mankind, and they sought the Tree and the power at its base. But they were too afraid to go further than the Isle of Rahn. So they sit, waiting an eternity for the courage to continue or the cowardice to turn back. Rahn found them a few centuries ago and turned them into goats, to mock them.”
The island slid past, and was soon lost in the distance. “Do you fear Rahn?”
“Fear her?” Laughter rippled through the Whale’s skin. “No. I do not fear her. Rahn is a spirit, and she has grown very strong. But she has forgotten that she has not always been strong, and that her strength cannot last forever. All things must fall, in the end, and return to dust. I do not fear her. I pity her.”
“She’s stronger than I am,” said Talia quietly.
“You knew that from the beginning, and yet you are here. But you do not come empty-handed.”