Paul Kemp: The Godborn

“You did what you had to, what you thought was right. There’s no room for regret in that.”

“There’s room for regret in everything,” Cale said. “How did she die?” Vasen cleared his throat. “She sacrificed herself for me. She died loved, though. And not alone.”

“I’m glad.”

“I didn’t know her,” Vasen said. “No one knew anything about her, and she died before she could tell anyone much. She spoke of you, though.” “How do you know that?”

“My fath-Derreg told me.”

Cale nodded. Tears pooled in his eyes, fell down his face. He thought of the first time he’d met Varra, in a dark tavern in Skullport.

“I’ll tell you about her sometime,” Cale said. “Just. . not right now.” “Of course,” Vasen said, shifting on his feet.

Cale looked at the headstone beside Varra’s, also adorned with a decayed orchid. The name etched in the stone read “Derreg, son of Regg.” “Derreg raised you?” Cale asked.

“He did,” Vasen said, and Cale heard the pride in his voice. “I knew Regg,” Cale said.

“I know.”

“If I could thank Derreg, I would.”

Cale heard a smile in Vasen’s tone. “He was not the kind of man who needed thanks for doing the right thing.”

Cale smiled in turn. “He was indeed Regg’s son, then.”

Cale ran his fingers over Varra’s headstone a final time and stood. “We should go.”

“Go where? What’s next?”

Cale looked his son in the eye and smiled.