River of Souls (River of Souls 0.50)

They were all the same size—small thick volumes bound with dark brown leather, the pages sewn tightly to the spine. No titles etched onto the cover. Nothing to indicate what lay inside. He picked up the topmost one, skimmed the first few pages and went still. These were Tanja’s poems, written in her own hand. When had she found the time to record these?

Asa turned back to the first page and found a poem about the Empress Karin Emerita, one Tanja had composed after her arrival at court, nearly fifty years ago. The ink on the page was faded, and she’d crossed out several lines and rewritten them. Leafing through the book, he noted that she’d written and rewritten the poem several times over, with commentary in the margins for the intervening drafts. It was then he realized what kind of gift she had bequeathed him.

These are not copies. These are her original writings.

He set the book aside and took another from the pack. This one contained poems from several years later, after Tanja Duhr had established her place as the Empire’s reigning poet. Again, the pages were marked with lines struck out, corrections scribbled in the margins, and once, the notation, Rewrite. Cowardly poets do not thrive.

Asa read through the night, lighting candle after candle. He came to the years when Adele and the Empress’s poet had first met, the poems that inspired, and those from when they became lovers. Then came the ones from days and weeks after Adele left for the border.

…when you are gone, I feel more than absence. The moon dims. The summer warmth recedes. The air itself grows thin….

Asa paused and laid the volume on the table, shivering. I loved her too much. I never understood how much she loved me as well.

It took him many, many moments before he could go on. Then, the revelations continued. The years after Adele died, the poems took on a formal tone. Grief, said his heart. She could not stop writing, but she no longer dared to write everything. The cowardly poet does not thrive. She had survived, yes, but he could tell those were not her strongest poems.

By dawn, he came to newer works, ones she’d clearly written in the past few months. The handwriting was not as firm, but there were far fewer corrections. She wrote, he thought, as if the words poured like water from her heart and mind.

…and so I join the great dance, the step and tripping step of lights across the galaxy, from void to void, from life to life. I ask you not to grieve. You will. I ask you to rejoice. You cannot now, but again, I say, you will. You will. Believe me in this one thing, beloved….

Beloved. His heart paused, only to race forward, too fast for comfort. Perhaps later he could bear these words, as she claimed, but not yet. Not yet.

He took up the last book, telling himself he must read everything or he could not sleep that night. But this volume contained nothing except blank pages and a loose sheet of paper, folded and tucked underneath the cover. Asa took out the sheet and felt the prickle of magic as it unfolded.

You were once a guardian of the Empire. I ask you now, unfairly perhaps, to be the guardian of my words. One day we shall find each other again. —Tanja.

Underneath the letter was a rose petal, pressed and limp and nearly black, with a trace of its scent when he held it close.