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He pours himself more grog and pretends not to have heard me. “When the sun dies tonight, I go to read the firebones. It is custom for the drakeslayers to bear the bones. I expect you will observe this custom at least?”

* * *

—

That night, in the small city that has grown about the remains of the dragon, the Children of the Spires, last of Ragnar’s people, throw one hell of a party for the dying sun.

They light a great bonfire of dragon fat and mountain pine. In the flames, great hunks of flesh are roasted on long skewers and served with wild tubers, mountain berries, oysters, and great horns of grog passed out by a stout Obsidian man with no nose.

Freihild and I are given fresh necklaces of dragon’s teeth to mark us as the drakeslayers. Mine is given with a degree of comedy, and grumbling from Valdir’s conservative cohort, but not Valdir himself.

As the Obsidians feast and laugh, Ozgard leads a troupe of braves wearing masks made from the bones of sacred tribal creatures. They pretend they are ice sprites, dropping little diamonds in cups or tucking thin bars of gold behind ears. The warriors wheel about, trying to catch the sprites, only to snag empty air and roar with laughter. If they are caught, the sprites must drink until their captor is satisfied. I catch three, including poor Gudkind, and send them reeling from grog to pass out by the fire. Sprawled on furs, Electra listens to Obsidian veterans tell stories about their days with the Goblin. Pax bickers back and forth in Nagal with one of Sefi’s warchiefs about the strategic necessity of his father using the Storm Gods on Mercury. I sit in comfort, warmed by the fire, light-headed from the grog, and satiated by the meat from the hunt. I’ve not felt this tranquil in years.

There is a joy here. A sense of eternal family, with no worry of the world that seeks to destroy them. They are home and free.

Is this what it is like to be them?

Mars is not what I expected—neither Olympia nor the Ice. It is simpler here, sure. But my mind is quieter without the peripheral madness of Hyperion. There the current demands you do something to define your own essence, to rise above the human rivers in the street, or be drowned under them.

Here you can simply be.

I wish I could give this to Volga. Poor girl has always feared her own people, what they would think of her birth, but maybe she would find this to be the home she was always looking for.

Hell, part of me wishes Lyria could feel this again, what with her family all gone. I’m in such damn good spirits that I wish even Xenophon could share in the feast. The poor creature is always standing to the side, never included unless Sefi needs information or a task fulfilled. Not that Xenophon seems to mind.

This warm peace is an illusion, I know. My time in it is fleeting. It will not last, not the night, not the celebration, not the hunt, not my friendship with the Obsidians, nor Cimmeria’s acceptance of Obsidian rule. They give them jobs, a percentage of the mine profits, chase the Red Hand north, but more and more Obsidians flock to Mars by the day. How long till the Reds resent them? Or Agea feels the power balance shift?

In the morning, the Echo of Ragnar will absorb us and lift off. Then back to Olympia we go. Sefi to her government. Valdir to his hunt of the Red Hand. The children to their lessons and grim future.

Me to being me.

Part of me wonders if I can’t stay in this moment. Find a place in Olympia with these people who have welcomed me. They have a dark spirit in their nature, sure. We all do. At least here seems a people, seems a leader, intent on finding their better virtues. I play with the dragon’s teeth and watch Sefi across the fire for some sign of ailment. There are none except the long glove she always wears. She pulls it up as she watches Freihild hold court from behind her chalice of wine. Sefi’s eyes wander to her mate. Valdir is drunk, and worse than ever at hiding his lust for Freihild. It’s so obvious why the big man watches her. While Sefi is by nature reserved and seems aged prematurely from the weight of her crown, Freihild brims from life. She fends off long-haired suitors with a stick, swatting them toward the fire before twirling around to lead the braves in song. Sefi is the past, the present, but more and more it seems Freihild is the future.

Dizzy from ale, I use Pax’s head to help me stand and excuse myself to take a piss. I wander away from the fires to where their warm light licks at the darkness beyond. It’s so cold I pull up my hood and watch through the thermal vision as my piss carves runes in the snow.

I hear the jingle of metal behind me, and pull off my hood. Valdir unbuckles the huge ruby clasp of his belt. I step back in surprise. “Do not fear,” the big man rumbles, “I am not here to rape you.”

“That is a very odd thing to say.”

He drops his pants.

“Oh.”

His huge thighs are moon-pale in the gloom, as thick as tree trunks. As he squats to shit, long muscles ripple beneath tattooed skin notched and striated from old wounds. Drunk, he drinks more from a huge horn

and nods to my hood. “Does thermal vision make it look bigger?”

“It’s not the bark that counts, oldboy. It’s the bite. I’ll leave you to your defecation.”

“What is ‘Horn’ for?”

“Surname of the seed donor.”

“Your father?”

The earthy scent of his shit wafts over to me. “More or less.”

“Was he a great man?”