Coda (Part III)

Startled by the vastness of the choices before them, Kirktá, Keléno, and their companions found themselves overwhelmed by questions. Sinustragán answered as best he could, his tone patient but edged with the fatigue of one who must translate Eternity into the language of mortals. Many of their inquiries simply had no answer that would make sense to minds bounded by the narrow corridors of Time. At last, with a faint smile that might have been amusement or pity, he said, “Before you lie many possibilities, though not all equally probable. Since I wish to return you to a place and a moment suited to your natures, it would help me greatly if you first chose who you wish to see seated upon the Petal Throne in that branch of the Tree of Time.”

The company fell into uneasy debate. Each of the imperial heirs had their champions and each had flaws that weighed against them. Yet, as the talk wound on, a quiet consensus began to form. Rereshqála, they agreed, was the wisest choice. He lacked the burning ambition of his brothers and sister, but in that very restraint lay his strength. Calm, judicious, and burdened with no illusions of grandeur, he seemed best suited to guide the Empire through the long twilight ahead.

He could not halt the decline of Tsolyánu – no one could, now that the One Other was free – but he might ensure that its fall was not ruin, only transformation. Under his rule, the Empire’s fragments might endure and, in some distant age, rise again to greatness.

Sinustragán inclined his head in acknowledgment of their choice. “Very well,” he said. “Now that you have decided which cluster of branches within the Tree of Time you wish to return to, we must narrow it further. What of yourselves? What do you wish for your own skeins of destiny? There are almost as many fates for each of you as there are for the scions of the Petal Throne. Which threads will you choose?”

The question hung in the air like incense smoke, curling and reforming as each of them turned it over in their minds. Once again, the hall filled with talk, earnest, uncertain, sometimes wistful, as the members of the House of Worms and their companions debated what they truly wanted. Sinustragán waited in silence, patient as the slow pulse of eternity, until at last they came to him one by one.

Grujúng spoke first. His voice was steady, almost relieved. He asked to be returned to Sokátis, where the Ranánga River wound through familiar reeds and mist. There, he wished only to fish once more, to sit among the children and grandchildren of his clan-brothers and sisters. “No more adventures,” he said. “Only peace.”

Nebússa and his wife, Srüna, wished to remain at the College and learn its secrets. Sinustragán’s eyes softened, though he shook his head. “Not yet,” he told them gently. “If this truly is your desire, you must continue your studies. Grow in wisdom and mastery. When the time is right, the College will find you again.”

Chiyé laughed and declared his intent to take the longer road to the same goal. He would become undead, he said, and persist until the End of Time itself. Sinustragán’s laughter joined his in a quiet, knowing sound. “Then I wish you patience,” he said, “for that is a very long road indeed.”

Kirktá and Nye’étha chose to travel with Nebússa and Srüna, to study beside them and strive toward that same distant calling. “Perhaps,” Kirktá said, “we may all be found worthy one day.”

Qurén wished to return to Jakálla, the City Half as Old as the World. His eyes gleamed at the thought of long-delayed work resumed, exploring the ancient Mihálli ruins as he had once been hired to do. With Rereshqála now upon the Petal Throne, perhaps the expedition would be even grander than before.

Finally, Keléno spoke. He wished to return to Sokátis with his wife, Mírsha, to restore the old gazebo in the gardens of the clanhouse. There, at sunset, he would recline with a cup of wine and a book, welcoming any friend who wished to sit beside him and talk. It was a simple dream, but in the hush that followed his words, it seemed to all of them a noble one.

Keléno made one final request. He wished to see Toneshkéthu, Sinustragán’s quiet, sharp-eyed protégée who had aided them so many times since that first, fateful meeting in the Dry Bay of Ssu’úm. How distant that day seemed now, separated from the present by so many trials, so many losses and revelations. It felt less like a memory than a dream belonging to another life. Yet the thought of her lingered and Keléno wanted to speak with her once more before their paths finally diverged.

When she entered, she was just as he remembered, composed and with a calm that seemed older than her years. Before she could greet him, Keléno reached into his travel-worn bag and drew out a small, circular device of the Ancients, the very one she had given him long ago, a tool for communication between distant minds. He turned it over once in his hand, as if feeling the weight of all that had passed since it came into his keeping, then offered it to her.

“This belongs to you,” he said.

Toneshkéthu regarded him for a moment, then smiled a small, knowing smile that held both warmth and mystery. She pushed the device gently back into his hand.

“I’d hold on to that, if I were you,” she said. “Something tells me you may need it again one day.”

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