brightly, coruscating in the dim light of the bedchamber. He had never seen the stone do that before, and the intensity of it was painful.
Mikhail turned his eyes away, unable to look any longer. He glanced back toward the bed, his eyes aching. In the hangings behind the headboard something flickered, a play of light and shadow. For a moment he thought he saw two women, one fair, one dark, in the folds of the textile. They seemed to be transparent, and he might have thought it was some trick of the light. But the fair face was one he had seen before, long ago, in another place and time. He drew a sharp breath of startlement and the vision vanished. His heart pounded and blood rushed through his veins, making him dizzy. Evanda, Goddess of Spring, was the fair one, and the other must be Avarra, the Dark Goddess. Even as grief began to seize him, Mikhail felt another emotion, one of otherworldly calm, arise within him.
Beside him, Marguerida wept silently, the tears coursing down her pale cheeks. Mikhail put his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his chest gently, allowing himself to feel everything all at once, only for an instant. He could not really believe it was over. Somehow, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had expected some miracle would occur, and all he could feel now was a vast sense of emptiness and failure that it had not. What a fool he was.
Danilo Syrtis-Ardais moved from his place in the shadow of the bedcurtains. The paxman set aside his mug and bent over the body in the bed. He put his hand around the wrist of his lifelong friend and held it in his grasp, his lean face alert and resigned at the same time. After a minute, he took Dani’s hand off of his father’s, and folded Regis’ arms carefully across his chest. Danilo stared down into the still face of the man who had been his best friend and companion for more than four decades. He touched the brow softly, stroking the white hair, his face filled with infinite tenderness. Then he bent down and kissed the pale cheek of his lifelong friend, and turned away, his shoulders shaking with grief.
Dani Hastur gazed at his father for a long time, a look of yearning on his face. He continued to sit on the side of the bed, dumbstruck, and then finally he lifted the sheet tenderly and drew it over Regis Hastur’s peaceful face. He stood shakily, then mastered himself. He took Lady Linnea into his arms again, and she seemed to collapse into his grasp, as if, at last, her legs would no longer support her. She leaned against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and wept uncontrollably.
The vivid details remained before Mikhail’s eyes for several seconds, and then began to blur, as if rain were falling. He realized that the tears he had held back while he struggled for the life of his uncle would not be denied any longer. The overwhelming power of his feelings was too much, and, abruptly, he turned and walked out.
Mikhail sat in his uncle’s shabby study, behind the large desk where Regis often worked, stared into the fireplace and wept. The carpet was rather threadbare, but Regis had refused to have it replaced, or to have anything done to the room. Servants were only permitted to come in to sweep and dust. It gave him an odd feeling to remember the rather pleasant arguments between his uncle and Lady Linnea about the state of the room—it had been such a cheerful and caring dispute.
He had come there hours before, unable to sleep or think or function, fleeing duty, fleeing life. There was no fire in the hearth, so the room was cold and the air was chill and stale. He had a bottle of firewine on the desk, and a glass beside it. The level of the wine was much diminished since he had arrived, but it had not lessened his paralyzing, aching grief at all. He was not even drunk. Such was the power of Varzil’s matrix that he could not dull his senses, no matter how he tried.
Distantly, Mikhail could sense Comyn Castle bustling around
Mikhail turned his eyes away, unable to look any longer. He glanced back toward the bed, his eyes aching. In the hangings behind the headboard something flickered, a play of light and shadow. For a moment he thought he saw two women, one fair, one dark, in the folds of the textile. They seemed to be transparent, and he might have thought it was some trick of the light. But the fair face was one he had seen before, long ago, in another place and time. He drew a sharp breath of startlement and the vision vanished. His heart pounded and blood rushed through his veins, making him dizzy. Evanda, Goddess of Spring, was the fair one, and the other must be Avarra, the Dark Goddess. Even as grief began to seize him, Mikhail felt another emotion, one of otherworldly calm, arise within him.
Beside him, Marguerida wept silently, the tears coursing down her pale cheeks. Mikhail put his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his chest gently, allowing himself to feel everything all at once, only for an instant. He could not really believe it was over. Somehow, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had expected some miracle would occur, and all he could feel now was a vast sense of emptiness and failure that it had not. What a fool he was.
Danilo Syrtis-Ardais moved from his place in the shadow of the bedcurtains. The paxman set aside his mug and bent over the body in the bed. He put his hand around the wrist of his lifelong friend and held it in his grasp, his lean face alert and resigned at the same time. After a minute, he took Dani’s hand off of his father’s, and folded Regis’ arms carefully across his chest. Danilo stared down into the still face of the man who had been his best friend and companion for more than four decades. He touched the brow softly, stroking the white hair, his face filled with infinite tenderness. Then he bent down and kissed the pale cheek of his lifelong friend, and turned away, his shoulders shaking with grief.
Dani Hastur gazed at his father for a long time, a look of yearning on his face. He continued to sit on the side of the bed, dumbstruck, and then finally he lifted the sheet tenderly and drew it over Regis Hastur’s peaceful face. He stood shakily, then mastered himself. He took Lady Linnea into his arms again, and she seemed to collapse into his grasp, as if, at last, her legs would no longer support her. She leaned against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and wept uncontrollably.
The vivid details remained before Mikhail’s eyes for several seconds, and then began to blur, as if rain were falling. He realized that the tears he had held back while he struggled for the life of his uncle would not be denied any longer. The overwhelming power of his feelings was too much, and, abruptly, he turned and walked out.
Mikhail sat in his uncle’s shabby study, behind the large desk where Regis often worked, stared into the fireplace and wept. The carpet was rather threadbare, but Regis had refused to have it replaced, or to have anything done to the room. Servants were only permitted to come in to sweep and dust. It gave him an odd feeling to remember the rather pleasant arguments between his uncle and Lady Linnea about the state of the room—it had been such a cheerful and caring dispute.
He had come there hours before, unable to sleep or think or function, fleeing duty, fleeing life. There was no fire in the hearth, so the room was cold and the air was chill and stale. He had a bottle of firewine on the desk, and a glass beside it. The level of the wine was much diminished since he had arrived, but it had not lessened his paralyzing, aching grief at all. He was not even drunk. Such was the power of Varzil’s matrix that he could not dull his senses, no matter how he tried.
Distantly, Mikhail could sense Comyn Castle bustling around
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