The gardener fought for a deep breath, and Bistel could feel the sudden tension in the hand he cradled. Magdan hissed sharply, his back arching, his whole body going stiff.
“Don’t talk.”
“One last.” Magdan’s mouth gaped like a fish brought out of the water. “Take care of Verdayne.”
“You know I will.” He rubbed his hands over Magdan’s rough ones. War had toughened his hands, but centuries of farming and gardening had knobbed this old man’s hands like a cobbled pathway. Magdan clung to Bistel.
He drummed one heel in protest as his form began to disintegrate, skin from flesh, flesh from bone, his soul burning like a fire from the inside out, escaping.
Returning.
The stable and farm boys around him cried out, and Ninuon fell limply to the ground, caught by the wash of agony emanating from Magdan. The healer curled in empathic agony. Bistel braced himself. Magdan’s face contorted. His skull yawned in horror and his throat uttered one last word. “M’lord,” he gasped.
Then his form shredded to nothingness as his soul flared through it, a starburst of colors Bistel would never be able to describe or forget. The gardener’s substance in his hand flared, and then, with a sudden whoosh, the apparition disappeared, leaving him holding nothing. Bistel staggered against the side of the cart. The bloodstains splashed about the boards began to smoke and then burn, and Verdayne dragged him away just before the entire cart exploded into flames taller than all of them, bright red orange against the day, and burned until nothing was left but ash.
Bistel coughed and rubbed his eyes against the smarting of the smoke. He had never before seen a pyre like this although it seemed a blessing. Usually the flesh remained, rended savagely by the struggle. He placed a hand on Verdayne’s shoulder and gripped him tightly. Magdan had fostered Verdayne for decades and the lad would miss him almost as sorely as Bistel and Bistane would. “An uncommon death,” Bistel said quietly. “Magdan did not wish to be uprooted and fought it, just like one of the grand old aryn.”
Verdayne breathed then. “Aye,” he answered as though he understood, a little. He brushed his face with the back of his hand.
Some Vaelinar did not just die. Some Returned, their souls grabbed back by the place where all Vaelinar had once originated, and the phenomenon was not kind or beautiful to watch. Bistel had seen it before, rarely, and he hoped to never see it again. He rubbed his hands against his riding leathers, an uneasiness settling deep within him that his own death would be just as difficult.
He turned his head as two of the lads helped reed-thin Ninuon to her feet.
“Quendius,” he said flatly. “No one here forget that Magdan named his murderer. If I should die before he does, tell it to Bistane.”
Chapter Seven
SUNLIGHT DAPPLED THE treetops fitfully and the morning breeze had stilled when Sevryn caught sight of a landmark which he knew, a broken spike of a granite peak behind the trees. The structure of black and gravelly gray poked out of tree branches as though someone thrust out a hand. Raptors liked to sit upon it, and so it had garnered the simple name of The Perch. There was no mistaking it. He turned his horse’s head toward it, for it stood sentinel at the edge of a small Way known as Hunter’s Cut, a pass through an otherwise impassable and implacable ridge of stone. Hunter’s Cut stayed open through wind, rain, sleet, snow, and ice, although it was only the width of a horse and man walking abreast. Traders couldn’t use it unless they led beasts of burden on foot through it, and some traders were canny enough to make that sacrifice. Mostly, it guided hunters and trappers home through the harshest of winters, and that alone was enough to ask of it. It would provide a Way home that cut days off the journey through the worst of weather. It would get him where he needed to be.
A hawk sat on the farthest tip of
“Don’t talk.”
“One last.” Magdan’s mouth gaped like a fish brought out of the water. “Take care of Verdayne.”
“You know I will.” He rubbed his hands over Magdan’s rough ones. War had toughened his hands, but centuries of farming and gardening had knobbed this old man’s hands like a cobbled pathway. Magdan clung to Bistel.
He drummed one heel in protest as his form began to disintegrate, skin from flesh, flesh from bone, his soul burning like a fire from the inside out, escaping.
Returning.
The stable and farm boys around him cried out, and Ninuon fell limply to the ground, caught by the wash of agony emanating from Magdan. The healer curled in empathic agony. Bistel braced himself. Magdan’s face contorted. His skull yawned in horror and his throat uttered one last word. “M’lord,” he gasped.
Then his form shredded to nothingness as his soul flared through it, a starburst of colors Bistel would never be able to describe or forget. The gardener’s substance in his hand flared, and then, with a sudden whoosh, the apparition disappeared, leaving him holding nothing. Bistel staggered against the side of the cart. The bloodstains splashed about the boards began to smoke and then burn, and Verdayne dragged him away just before the entire cart exploded into flames taller than all of them, bright red orange against the day, and burned until nothing was left but ash.
Bistel coughed and rubbed his eyes against the smarting of the smoke. He had never before seen a pyre like this although it seemed a blessing. Usually the flesh remained, rended savagely by the struggle. He placed a hand on Verdayne’s shoulder and gripped him tightly. Magdan had fostered Verdayne for decades and the lad would miss him almost as sorely as Bistel and Bistane would. “An uncommon death,” Bistel said quietly. “Magdan did not wish to be uprooted and fought it, just like one of the grand old aryn.”
Verdayne breathed then. “Aye,” he answered as though he understood, a little. He brushed his face with the back of his hand.
Some Vaelinar did not just die. Some Returned, their souls grabbed back by the place where all Vaelinar had once originated, and the phenomenon was not kind or beautiful to watch. Bistel had seen it before, rarely, and he hoped to never see it again. He rubbed his hands against his riding leathers, an uneasiness settling deep within him that his own death would be just as difficult.
He turned his head as two of the lads helped reed-thin Ninuon to her feet.
“Quendius,” he said flatly. “No one here forget that Magdan named his murderer. If I should die before he does, tell it to Bistane.”
Chapter Seven
SUNLIGHT DAPPLED THE treetops fitfully and the morning breeze had stilled when Sevryn caught sight of a landmark which he knew, a broken spike of a granite peak behind the trees. The structure of black and gravelly gray poked out of tree branches as though someone thrust out a hand. Raptors liked to sit upon it, and so it had garnered the simple name of The Perch. There was no mistaking it. He turned his horse’s head toward it, for it stood sentinel at the edge of a small Way known as Hunter’s Cut, a pass through an otherwise impassable and implacable ridge of stone. Hunter’s Cut stayed open through wind, rain, sleet, snow, and ice, although it was only the width of a horse and man walking abreast. Traders couldn’t use it unless they led beasts of burden on foot through it, and some traders were canny enough to make that sacrifice. Mostly, it guided hunters and trappers home through the harshest of winters, and that alone was enough to ask of it. It would provide a Way home that cut days off the journey through the worst of weather. It would get him where he needed to be.
A hawk sat on the farthest tip of
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