Roan was looking their way, waving for Gifford to come over.
He stood up, thrilled at how easy it was to get to his feet. He took a step, then stopped. “Come with me,” he said to Tressa.
“You don’t have to be nice to me, Gifford. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. And yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
Tressa laughed. “I took the Second Chair from Persephone, remember? And Konniger and I were useless even though we were supposed to be in charge. And I tried to marry Moya to the Stump. You didn’t forget that, did you?”
Gifford scowled. “You work at making it hard to like you, Tressa.”
“So, don’t.”
“But I—”
“Don’t.” Tressa stood up. “I know you think I deserve what I got. You all do. Everyone does. Some folks—like you—are just a little more polite about it, I guess. But I don’t want pity. I’d rather be hated.” She stormed off.
The interior of Brin’s mother’s home was eerily similar to the one where Brin had grown up. Her murals—the ones she had painted on the walls—and the handprints of the child she had once been were all there. The details were remarkable, and if they were the result of memory, Brin finally understood where she had gotten her Keeper’s talent from.
The moment Brin entered, she was rushed by a small mob. Five children nearly tackled her. They were dressed in wool, woven in the pattern of Dahl Rhen. Each focused on her with excitement.
“Everyone, this is your baby sister, Brin,” Sarah said, then she pointed at each of the children in turn as she introduced them. “This is Will, that’s Dell, over there is Wren, Dale, and this little one here is Meadow. They died before you were born. Wren lived the longest.”
“I got sick,” the little girl said. “You beat my record by fourteen years.”
The family features were there; each child looked a little like Brin, same eyes, same mouth, and yet they were unique—original paintings born of a common artist. Brin knew she’d had brothers and sisters, but details had been cast into the gloom of childhood myth. Now, they were talking to her.
“I—” Was all Brin got out before Meadow hugged her. She was the youngest, her face all eyes and cheeks.
“Was it . . . was it awful?” Dell asked. “Your death, I mean. Was it violent?”
“Dell!” Sarah reprimanded. “What kind of question is that?”
Brin recalled stories about Dell, Sarah’s firstborn. He was named after their father, and everyone called him Little Dell, a moniker the boy was said to have hated.
“Sorry. I was just curious.”
Brin didn’t know what to say. She knew she couldn’t provide details because eventually the key would be brought up, and she thought it was best to not say anything about that, even to her own family.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to explain, because Sarah changed the subject. “This is your grandmother Brinhilda,” Sarah said as she introduced a woman who failed to meet any expectations. Brin had always imagined her grandmother as an evil crone, the Tetlin Witch’s uglier sister. This woman was pretty and younger than Sarah.
“I would have come to the gate,” Brinhilda said, “but you wouldn’t have recognized me even though I was the one who provided you with your name. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, dear.” Another hug was delivered.
“Your uncles and their families will be stopping by later, I expect,” Sarah said. “Everyone will want news about what’s happening in the world, so you can expect to be hounded. It’ll give you something to do, for a while, at least. Too many days are just like the ones that came before. It’s quite boring with so little to do.”
“Why is that?” Brin looked around.
“This is a place of waiting.” Her father spoke loudly, and as if to prove the point, he sat down in a chair by the well-stocked fire pit. “A place without want.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, you don’t have to toil, right? There’s no need to cut wood or farm. You both worked so hard in life, you deserve some rest. All your problems and fears are gone.”
“And we have nothing to do,” Sarah said. “I used to look forward to a time when you kids would be grown, and your father and I would finally be able to relax. At some point, I realized it would never happen. There would always be something needing attention. That’s what life is, dealing with one problem and then the next. It’s striving and suffering to obtain a goal, only to find another one waiting beyond it. I thought life was misery because of the unending succession of trials and tribulations. But now, I see that challenges are what life is all about. Take them away and . . . there’s no point. It’s like life is a game, but now the competition is over. We’re still here, waiting and hearing about others who can still play. It’s not terrible, but neither is it enjoyable.”
“It’s better in some ways,” Delwin said. “We’ve sort of forgotten about it, but you’re right. The fear and worry are gone. You have a lot of time to rest, to talk, and to think.”
Brin got the impression her father was doing his best to sell a bad idea.
“And maybe that’s all Rel is for, a time to pause and reflect, to think about our lives, what we did wrong and what we could have done better.”
Sarah wiped clean hands on a spotless towel. “Our existence and the world wasn’t supposed to be like this. It’s broken, and we’ll continue this way until it’s fixed. At least that’s what people say. Everyone was supposed to live forever—up there.” She pointed at the ceiling.
“Brin?” Moya called from outside. “We need to go.”
For a moment, Brin almost thought it was years ago, and Moya was coming to invite her on an adventure, a hike down the river or a firefly-illuminated trip along the forest’s eaves—neither of which she had written about in her book, but perhaps she should have.
My book! I haven’t told them!
“I’m writing down all the events of our world!” she blurted out, then shook her head at her own stupidity. They couldn’t possibly understand. “I’m making marks on—”
“Brin!” Moya shouted in a tone that wasn’t the orphaned daughter staying with Brin’s family; this was the voice of the Shield of the Keenig calling.
“What’s wrong?” Brin cleared the doorway, surprised to discover most of the group outside.
“We need to get moving.” Moya gave a cautious look around before adding in a quieter voice, “We’re in trouble.” She tilted her head toward Rain. “There’s a rumor among the dwarfs that the ruler of this realm is looking for the ones who opened the gate he had ordered sealed.”
“Rel has a ruler?”
Moya nodded. “And apparently he’s not happy.”
“Where’s Tressa?” Brin asked.
“I was hoping she was with you.”
Brin shook her head. “You don’t suppose she was . . . I mean, do you think . . .”
“I don’t know, but we have to find her . . . and fast.”