The Last Light (The Wandering Inn, #5)

by Pirateaba

He was dead. It was Pawn’s fault. And there was nothing left of him to remember. Nothing. Just a memory. For all Pawn had done— Pawn stood up. No. The Soldier couldn’t be forgotten. He stumbled past the Soldiers as they parted for him. He ran over to one wall of the barracks, to the spot that had been cleared. Pawn knelt by the cans of paint he’d bought, pawing through them frantically. Which color was it? This one? No. This one. The Worker stood with a jar of paint in his hand. The other Soldiers stared. It was bright green paint, the same color the dead Soldier had used. Pawn slowly dipped his finger into the jar, and turned. The walls of the barracks the Soldiers lived in were dirt. Not loose dirt, but hard-packed, as good as stone and unbreakable in most circumstances. Pawn found a spot along the wall. It didn’t stand out from any other spot. He dipped a finger into the bright green paint. And then he pressed it against the wall. Pawn slowly drew on the wall of the barracks. The other Soldiers watched as Pawn traced on the hard-packed dirt with green paint. He drew a star. The star that had been on the Soldier’s chest. It was small. It was green. It was a tiny thing in the vast barracks. But it was there. Painted on the wall, marked. A memory. So long as no one damaged the paint, no one destroyed the wall, it would remain. And if they did? If an earthquake happened, or Klbkch told him to get rid of it? Pawn would repaint the star elsewhere. Because he remembered. He re...