Chapter 27: Farewells — The Key of Oslov

Volume 10: The Trip to Harbour

Chapter 27 Farewells

Chapter Notes

This chapter’s on the short side, but I might post the final chapters a little faster if I can. I hope everybody’s enjoying summer (if it’s summer where you are), and thank you for reading! <3

Chapter Notes

This chapter’s on the short side, but I might post the final chapters a little faster if I can. I hope everybody’s enjoying summer (if it’s summer where you are), and thank you for reading! <3

The trip through the woods that had taken three days on foot took only a few hours in one of the Southern Hearth’s rugged all-terrain vehicles. Running even the electric motor got risky as they approached civilization, though, so about two kilometers from the town of Keene, everybody had to scramble out and walk the rest of the way.Tilrey had enjoyed the ride, bumpy as it was, and didn’t relish using his crutches again. His ankle was still tender from the replacement of the cast, but the logging road in front of them was carpeted with pine needles and reasonably easy to navigate.While Krisha went on ahead, acting as scout, Gavril and Gersha matched their pace to Tilrey’s. In the dappled, rusty light that filtered through the pines, Tilrey kept catching Gersha gazing dreamily at him. Each time their eyes met, the Councillor blushed and looked away.Tilrey felt a pleasant warmth on his own cheeks as he remembered Gersha saying Husband. He was sorry he’d crashed so completely last night, before they could have a second act, but there’d be other opportunities.Eventually the trees parted and the road forked, with the larger branch winding past green pastures full of sheep and mossy outbuildings. A pond sparkled in the sun where Krisha stood waiting for them.“Here’s where we part ways, Fira,” he said with a respectful bob of the head toward Gersha. “You two to the right, to Keene”—he pointed— “and us to the left, to Placid. The inn where we left the Duke’s men is just past that orchard.”Tilrey knew it had been hard for Gersha to leave the Southern Hearth, but for his part, he didn’t feel much affection for the place, and he’d been too busy for regrets. The whole way here, he’d been plotting the next few days in his head—specifically, what to tell Albertine about Gersha’s unsanctioned trip. His brain was worn out from all the scheming. Now, though, he had to face it—he might never see these friends again.Gavril took Tilrey by surprise, yanking him into a bone-rattling hug that nearly toppled him from his crutches. “Sorry I was a dick when we first met,” he said raspily in Tilrey’s ear. “I thought you were just a simpering suck-up.”“And I thought you were a knuckle-dragging boor.”Gavril clapped him on the shoulder and set him back upright. “First impressions, right? Anyway, thanks, Rishka.” His eyes flitted to Krisha, full of possessive tenderness. “For everything.”Tilrey returned the clap on the back. “I don’t think you’ll regret this, Gavril. Learn Harbourer, blend in, and stay far away from the Colonel’s troops. And if Malsha insists on finding you ‘amusing,’ try not to strangle him, okay? There could be consequences.”“No worries—he’ll stay safe.” Krisha wound his arm around Gavril’s waist, looking closer to radiant than Tilrey had ever seen him before. “We’re gonna practice Harbourer all the way home, right, Gavi?”Gavril guffawed. “If you’re okay with me just saying ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘good morning.’”“‘Yes’ will probably come in handy,” Tilrey said as Krisha released Gavril and came over to him.Tilrey didn’t feel comfortable with a hug and suspected Krisha felt the same. But as they clasped hands and made brief eye contact, something passed between them—a recognition tinged with apology on both sides.“I trust you to keep him from doing anything brave and stupid,” Tilrey said, cocking his head toward Gavril—who protested, “When have I ever done anything stupid?”Krisha didn’t crack a smile, but his bearing exuded confidence. “You can count on me.”“I’m glad I knew both of you. Maybe our paths will cross again.” Tilrey wasn’t prepared for the sudden stab of grief in his chest as he privately acknowledged that was unlikely. This chapter of his life was over, and they were on to a new one of their own.“I hope so. But if not—” Gavril held out a hand. “May your last moment be bright. Yours, too, Fir.”“May your last moment be bright,” Tilrey repeated, his rendition overlapping with Gersha’s and Krisha’s.The two tall men set off down the road to the left, walking shoulder to shoulder. Tilrey stood motionless on his crutches and watched as they disappeared into a birch grove where the play of light and shadow soon made their dark clothes indistinguishable from the road. Beside him he felt Gersha waiting patiently, letting him live in this moment of leavetaking a little longer.When they were out of sight, Tilrey turned and said, “Let’s go home.”*It took the whole first half of the lake crossing for Tilrey to tell Gersha how he’d convinced Ranek to let them go. Gersha’s follow-up questions more than occupied the second half.They’d spent the previous night in a hayloft in Essex, sleeping in each other’s arms—or trying to, since haylofts, Gersha now knew, were exceedingly uncomfortable. Still, it was easier than sleeping in a cage hanging from a tree, and any bed with Tilrey was better than a bed without him.They hadn’t gotten up to anything last night, refraining from any sort of physical contact the guardsmen might notice. But now they sat close together, watching the schooner’s prow cleave the dark, roiling waves as sunrise painted the lake’s eastern reaches salmon and coral. Gulls wheeled above, the sun washing their wings orange.Gersha was having trouble swallowing Malsha’s strange tale of infiltrators from Resurgence who hid out in Oslov brothels. “If these people actually exist,” he said, “how much do they matter? The worst they could do is kill a handful of Councillors, and even killing the entire Council at one fell swoop wouldn’t bring down Oslov. We’d hold new elections and start over.”Tilrey nodded, the cool wind tugging his long side-bangs into his eyes. “What then, though? Think about it, Gersha. A brutal attack on the Council, from inside Oslov, would show us that we have an enemy—something we haven’t had, except in an abstract sense, for centuries. People would be terrified. Faced with a threat from the outside, the government would crack down even more—on Dissent, on migration, on every paltry freedom we have left. That crackdown could make a revolution impossible—or inevitable. It all depends on precisely how things fall out.”“So the True Hearth wants to know about this hypothetical attack before it happens—if it ever does happen. To stop it, I hope.”Tilrey’s eyes met Gersha’s, dark blue in the wet morning light. “Or to steer it.”“You mean . . . let it happen? Make it happen?” Gersha felt itchy all over. His eyes darted the length of the schooner, from the helmsman to the crewmen tacking the sail to the guardsmen telling jokes and spitting into the boat’s wake. He reminded himself none of them could understand Oslov. Probably none would even care that the two of them were discussing a strategic bloodbath in the faraway north. Councillors—my colleagues. My friends.“Ranek seems to think the end justifies the means,” he said. “I hope you don’t.”“You know I don’t.” They locked eyes again, and in that gaze was the recognition that they were free agents in a chosen alliance. They’d come here as a Councillor and his subordinate, but Tilrey’s political positions were no longer a function of Gersha’s; if anything, he was steering the course.“But it is valuable intel,” Tilrey went on, “and I had to tell Ranek something to make him accept the risk of letting us go.”“Why, though? I mean, once he knew everything, what made him comply?”“Well, we don’t know the actual identities of any sleeper agents—or, as you say, whether they even exist. My first step will be to talk to a certain Hearth ally who’s been working and living in the Sanctioned Brothel for years. Maybe he knows them. If he doesn’t, then my only recourse is to find Artur Threindal, Malsha’s former secretary. He trained some of these agents, according to Malsha, and now he’s hiding in the Wastes. It could easily be a wild goose chase. But Threindal’s far more likely to talk to me than to anyone else, and Ranek knows it. I used that to put us on our way home.”“Ranek wants you to go to the Wastes and find someone who may or may not be there?” Gersha was getting fidgety again. “So you’re taking missions from Int/Sec on the one hand and missions from the True Hearth on the other?”Tilrey gave his knee a discreet pat. “I think this was my first and last Int/Sec mission. The next trip will be more of a low-key fact-finding expedition. You know, if you like, we could go to the Wastes together. It might even be fun.”“Fun” and “the Wastes” were two concepts Gersha had rarely linked together, but something else was demanding his attention. “Verdant hells, Tilrey, speaking of missions—besides going essentially AWOL, I’ve neglected my diplomatic mission. I was supposed to persuade the Duke to host an Oslov garrison in Bettevy.”Tilrey smiled in a knowing way that reminded Gersha of their plotting sessions at home. “You haven’t been neglecting it at all; you’ve simply been doing due diligence. Now you know something very interesting about the Duke—that he communicates with the Southern Hearth. That should give you the edge in your negotiations.”Gersha groaned. Though they were both still wearing their new Harbourer disguises of soft buckskin, he felt his old responsibilities weigh heavier on his shoulders with each meter they sailed toward the green shore of Bettevy. “You’re forgetting that Duke Dalziel knows plenty about you and me, too—too much. He could ruin us.”“He won’t, Gersha. But we’ll certainly need to have a good, long talk with him.” Gersha must have looked doleful, because Tilrey gave him a playful nudge in the ribs. “Don’t worry so much. I’ve been thinking about why the Duke doesn’t want this Oslov garrison. He claims he’s fearful of the Colonel, but think about it. Who’s he most afraid of?”Gersha didn’t have to think hard about that. “Us. If Oslov chose, it could wipe out Resurgence in less than a ten-day. The only reason Oslov doesn’t do that is our policy of isolation.”“And if, instead of being an island, Oslov decided to become part of the mainland? To take over the mainland? I mean, think of all we could gain.”A ten-day ago, Gersha wouldn’t have understood what Tilrey meant—who on earth would choose this dirty chaos over clean, lovely Oslov? But now it was crystal clear. “The climate. The growing season, the resources . . . the beauty. The more time Oslovs spend in Harbour, the less likely they are to want to go back home. That’s the real reason the Duke doesn’t want us to expand beyond the Embassy. He doesn’t want us to start settling here.”Tilrey turned and propped his elbows on the gunwale, facing Bettevy. “Malsha used to tell me it was the fate of Oslov to colonize Harbour, sooner or later. The Islanders can insist on self-sufficiency all they want, but going after the good life is human nature, he’d say.”Gersha saw tiny houses coming into focus on the fast-approaching shore. “Malsha was a psychopath. But the Southern Hearth . . . that’s already ‘colonization,’ isn’t it? Why do you think the Duke is helping them, if he’s worried about Oslovs pouring into his own land?”“Maybe he wants to play different factions of Oslovs against each other. But that’s what we’ll need to find out, right? We should have a heart-to-heart with him soon—as soon as you’ve visited the Embassy and explained yourself to Albertine Linnett.”Gersha groaned again; he’d been trying to forget that was his next order of business. “It’s going to be humiliating.”Tilrey twisted back to face him. “I wouldn’t worry—Albertine’s reasonable. And I could be wrong, but I think she understands being in the throes of passion. I’ve heard gossip about an affair she had long ago while she was serving in Harbour. The Linnetts have a family tradition of losing their heads when they’re young and regaining them when they’re older.”“And here I am, forty-three and still headless.” Gersha chuckled weakly, trying to make it into a joke. “But that’s not what really bothers me, Rishka. You know the instant we get back to the palace, you’ll start calling me Fir again, and I’ll have to order you around. At the Embassy, it’ll be even worse. And in Oslov . . .” He stared down at the schooner’s weather-bleached deck, unable to hold Tilrey’s gaze. “I can’t go back to that. I want us to be what we were to each other in that pathetic little dorm room with the sunlight on the wall. I want that always. That’s why I wanted to stay.”After a moment, Tilrey’s hand gave his a furtive squeeze. “So maybe we’ll need to carry that room with us. Inside us.”“It won’t be easy.” Still Gersha couldn’t look at him. He knew far too well how weak he could be, how susceptible to shaming and peer pressure. In Oslov, before Tilrey came along, he’d accepted abuses of power because everyone else did. After that, he’d clung to hierarchy because everyone else considered it vital to a healthy society, and besides, it benefited him. Who was to say his sudden enthusiasm for equality hadn’t been just another way of blending in?He was to say. He was different now. He clasped Tilrey’s hand, vowing never to backslide, and grasped the pendant around his neck with the other. He said under his breath, “My husband.”“Husband,” Tilrey echoed him.

Tilrey had enjoyed the ride, bumpy as it was, and didn’t relish using his crutches again. His ankle was still tender from the replacement of the cast, but the logging road in front of them was carpeted with pine needles and reasonably easy to navigate.

While Krisha went on ahead, acting as scout, Gavril and Gersha matched their pace to Tilrey’s. In the dappled, rusty light that filtered through the pines, Tilrey kept catching Gersha gazing dreamily at him. Each time their eyes met, the Councillor blushed and looked away.

Tilrey felt a pleasant warmth on his own cheeks as he remembered Gersha saying Husband. He was sorry he’d crashed so completely last night, before they could have a second act, but there’d be other opportunities.

Eventually the trees parted and the road forked, with the larger branch winding past green pastures full of sheep and mossy outbuildings. A pond sparkled in the sun where Krisha stood waiting for them.

“Here’s where we part ways, Fira,” he said with a respectful bob of the head toward Gersha. “You two to the right, to Keene”—he pointed— “and us to the left, to Placid. The inn where we left the Duke’s men is just past that orchard.”

Tilrey knew it had been hard for Gersha to leave the Southern Hearth, but for his part, he didn’t feel much affection for the place, and he’d been too busy for regrets. The whole way here, he’d been plotting the next few days in his head—specifically, what to tell Albertine about Gersha’s unsanctioned trip. His brain was worn out from all the scheming. Now, though, he had to face it—he might never see these friends again.

Gavril took Tilrey by surprise, yanking him into a bone-rattling hug that nearly toppled him from his crutches. “Sorry I was a dick when we first met,” he said raspily in Tilrey’s ear. “I thought you were just a simpering suck-up.”

“And I thought you were a knuckle-dragging boor.”

Gavril clapped him on the shoulder and set him back upright. “First impressions, right? Anyway, thanks, Rishka.” His eyes flitted to Krisha, full of possessive tenderness. “For everything.”

Tilrey returned the clap on the back. “I don’t think you’ll regret this, Gavril. Learn Harbourer, blend in, and stay far away from the Colonel’s troops. And if Malsha insists on finding you ‘amusing,’ try not to strangle him, okay? There could be consequences.”

“No worries—he’ll stay safe.” Krisha wound his arm around Gavril’s waist, looking closer to radiant than Tilrey had ever seen him before. “We’re gonna practice Harbourer all the way home, right, Gavi?”

Gavril guffawed. “If you’re okay with me just saying ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘good morning.’”

“‘Yes’ will probably come in handy,” Tilrey said as Krisha released Gavril and came over to him.

Tilrey didn’t feel comfortable with a hug and suspected Krisha felt the same. But as they clasped hands and made brief eye contact, something passed between them—a recognition tinged with apology on both sides.

“I trust you to keep him from doing anything brave and stupid,” Tilrey said, cocking his head toward Gavril—who protested, “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

Krisha didn’t crack a smile, but his bearing exuded confidence. “You can count on me.”

“I’m glad I knew both of you. Maybe our paths will cross again.” Tilrey wasn’t prepared for the sudden stab of grief in his chest as he privately acknowledged that was unlikely. This chapter of his life was over, and they were on to a new one of their own.

“I hope so. But if not—” Gavril held out a hand. “May your last moment be bright. Yours, too, Fir.”

“May your last moment be bright,” Tilrey repeated, his rendition overlapping with Gersha’s and Krisha’s.

The two tall men set off down the road to the left, walking shoulder to shoulder. Tilrey stood motionless on his crutches and watched as they disappeared into a birch grove where the play of light and shadow soon made their dark clothes indistinguishable from the road. Beside him he felt Gersha waiting patiently, letting him live in this moment of leavetaking a little longer.

When they were out of sight, Tilrey turned and said, “Let’s go home.”

It took the whole first half of the lake crossing for Tilrey to tell Gersha how he’d convinced Ranek to let them go. Gersha’s follow-up questions more than occupied the second half.

They’d spent the previous night in a hayloft in Essex, sleeping in each other’s arms—or trying to, since haylofts, Gersha now knew, were exceedingly uncomfortable. Still, it was easier than sleeping in a cage hanging from a tree, and any bed with Tilrey was better than a bed without him.

They hadn’t gotten up to anything last night, refraining from any sort of physical contact the guardsmen might notice. But now they sat close together, watching the schooner’s prow cleave the dark, roiling waves as sunrise painted the lake’s eastern reaches salmon and coral. Gulls wheeled above, the sun washing their wings orange.

Gersha was having trouble swallowing Malsha’s strange tale of infiltrators from Resurgence who hid out in Oslov brothels. “If these people actually exist,” he said, “how much do they matter? The worst they could do is kill a handful of Councillors, and even killing the entire Council at one fell swoop wouldn’t bring down Oslov. We’d hold new elections and start over.”

Tilrey nodded, the cool wind tugging his long side-bangs into his eyes. “What then, though? Think about it, Gersha. A brutal attack on the Council, from inside Oslov, would show us that we have an enemy—something we haven’t had, except in an abstract sense, for centuries. People would be terrified. Faced with a threat from the outside, the government would crack down even more—on Dissent, on migration, on every paltry freedom we have left. That crackdown could make a revolution impossible—or inevitable. It all depends on precisely how things fall out.”

“So the True Hearth wants to know about this hypothetical attack before it happens—if it ever does happen. To stop it, I hope.”

Tilrey’s eyes met Gersha’s, dark blue in the wet morning light. “Or to steer it.”

“You mean . . . let it happen? Make it happen?” Gersha felt itchy all over. His eyes darted the length of the schooner, from the helmsman to the crewmen tacking the sail to the guardsmen telling jokes and spitting into the boat’s wake. He reminded himself none of them could understand Oslov. Probably none would even care that the two of them were discussing a strategic bloodbath in the faraway north. Councillors—my colleagues. My friends.

“Ranek seems to think the end justifies the means,” he said. “I hope you don’t.”

“You know I don’t.” They locked eyes again, and in that gaze was the recognition that they were free agents in a chosen alliance. They’d come here as a Councillor and his subordinate, but Tilrey’s political positions were no longer a function of Gersha’s; if anything, he was steering the course.

“But it is valuable intel,” Tilrey went on, “and I had to tell Ranek something to make him accept the risk of letting us go.”

“Why, though? I mean, once he knew everything, what made him comply?”

“Well, we don’t know the actual identities of any sleeper agents—or, as you say, whether they even exist. My first step will be to talk to a certain Hearth ally who’s been working and living in the Sanctioned Brothel for years. Maybe he knows them. If he doesn’t, then my only recourse is to find Artur Threindal, Malsha’s former secretary. He trained some of these agents, according to Malsha, and now he’s hiding in the Wastes. It could easily be a wild goose chase. But Threindal’s far more likely to talk to me than to anyone else, and Ranek knows it. I used that to put us on our way home.”

“Ranek wants you to go to the Wastes and find someone who may or may not be there?” Gersha was getting fidgety again. “So you’re taking missions from Int/Sec on the one hand and missions from the True Hearth on the other?”

Tilrey gave his knee a discreet pat. “I think this was my first and last Int/Sec mission. The next trip will be more of a low-key fact-finding expedition. You know, if you like, we could go to the Wastes together. It might even be fun.”

“Fun” and “the Wastes” were two concepts Gersha had rarely linked together, but something else was demanding his attention. “Verdant hells, Tilrey, speaking of missions—besides going essentially AWOL, I’ve neglected my diplomatic mission. I was supposed to persuade the Duke to host an Oslov garrison in Bettevy.”

Tilrey smiled in a knowing way that reminded Gersha of their plotting sessions at home. “You haven’t been neglecting it at all; you’ve simply been doing due diligence. Now you know something very interesting about the Duke—that he communicates with the Southern Hearth. That should give you the edge in your negotiations.”

Gersha groaned. Though they were both still wearing their new Harbourer disguises of soft buckskin, he felt his old responsibilities weigh heavier on his shoulders with each meter they sailed toward the green shore of Bettevy. “You’re forgetting that Duke Dalziel knows plenty about you and me, too—too much. He could ruin us.”

“He won’t, Gersha. But we’ll certainly need to have a good, long talk with him.” Gersha must have looked doleful, because Tilrey gave him a playful nudge in the ribs. “Don’t worry so much. I’ve been thinking about why the Duke doesn’t want this Oslov garrison. He claims he’s fearful of the Colonel, but think about it. Who’s he most afraid of?”

Gersha didn’t have to think hard about that. “Us. If Oslov chose, it could wipe out Resurgence in less than a ten-day. The only reason Oslov doesn’t do that is our policy of isolation.”

“And if, instead of being an island, Oslov decided to become part of the mainland? To take over the mainland? I mean, think of all we could gain.”

A ten-day ago, Gersha wouldn’t have understood what Tilrey meant—who on earth would choose this dirty chaos over clean, lovely Oslov? But now it was crystal clear. “The climate. The growing season, the resources . . . the beauty. The more time Oslovs spend in Harbour, the less likely they are to want to go back home. That’s the real reason the Duke doesn’t want us to expand beyond the Embassy. He doesn’t want us to start settling here.”

Tilrey turned and propped his elbows on the gunwale, facing Bettevy. “Malsha used to tell me it was the fate of Oslov to colonize Harbour, sooner or later. The Islanders can insist on self-sufficiency all they want, but going after the good life is human nature, he’d say.”

Gersha saw tiny houses coming into focus on the fast-approaching shore. “Malsha was a psychopath. But the Southern Hearth . . . that’s already ‘colonization,’ isn’t it? Why do you think the Duke is helping them, if he’s worried about Oslovs pouring into his own land?”

“Maybe he wants to play different factions of Oslovs against each other. But that’s what we’ll need to find out, right? We should have a heart-to-heart with him soon—as soon as you’ve visited the Embassy and explained yourself to Albertine Linnett.”

Gersha groaned again; he’d been trying to forget that was his next order of business. “It’s going to be humiliating.”

Tilrey twisted back to face him. “I wouldn’t worry—Albertine’s reasonable. And I could be wrong, but I think she understands being in the throes of passion. I’ve heard gossip about an affair she had long ago while she was serving in Harbour. The Linnetts have a family tradition of losing their heads when they’re young and regaining them when they’re older.”

“And here I am, forty-three and still headless.” Gersha chuckled weakly, trying to make it into a joke. “But that’s not what really bothers me, Rishka. You know the instant we get back to the palace, you’ll start calling me Fir again, and I’ll have to order you around. At the Embassy, it’ll be even worse. And in Oslov . . .” He stared down at the schooner’s weather-bleached deck, unable to hold Tilrey’s gaze. “I can’t go back to that. I want us to be what we were to each other in that pathetic little dorm room with the sunlight on the wall. I want that always. That’s why I wanted to stay.”

After a moment, Tilrey’s hand gave his a furtive squeeze. “So maybe we’ll need to carry that room with us. Inside us.”

“It won’t be easy.” Still Gersha couldn’t look at him. He knew far too well how weak he could be, how susceptible to shaming and peer pressure. In Oslov, before Tilrey came along, he’d accepted abuses of power because everyone else did. After that, he’d clung to hierarchy because everyone else considered it vital to a healthy society, and besides, it benefited him. Who was to say his sudden enthusiasm for equality hadn’t been just another way of blending in?

He was to say. He was different now. He clasped Tilrey’s hand, vowing never to backslide, and grasped the pendant around his neck with the other. He said under his breath, “My husband.”

“Husband,” Tilrey echoed him.