For a moment, it seemed that Dyonas would ride out the storm, until a tremor passed through the earth under his feet, opening a wide crack. Unable to save himself, he dropped into the fracture, and was crushed to death when another tremor brought the walls clashing back together again. Only Camhóinhann continued to defy the fury unleashed by Sindérian’s death: he stood chanting spells, buffeted by wind, stones, tree limbs, even the flying body of one of the acolytes. Battered and bloody as he was, he still stood.
Then, as suddenly as it had risen, the wind fell again, and all was silent.
From their vantage point halfway up the hill, Kivik and Skerry had seen the devastation in the Pharaxion camp. They, too, would have climbed down had the wind not pushed them back. And when it was over they could only stand, stunned, as Winloki emerged from her tent and ran to Camhóinhann’s side. They watched her slip her hand into one of his, speaking urgently.
His other arm dangled at his side, and blood dripped from his forehead. But even injured he still retained sufficient power of will to call back one of the horses. The great grey gelding returned: agitated, dancing and sidestepping nervously, but obedient. It stood just long enough for Camhóinhann to mount, offer his good hand to Winloki, and pull her up into the saddle with him. Then he gave the gelding its head, and it leaped into motion, heading south.
Only then did Winloki’s kinsmen recover from the surprise and grief that had held them motionless.
Running and sliding as Ruan had done, they stumbled to the foot of the hill. And there they found him, along with Aell, kneeling beside Sindérian’s body.
He had moved her from the sharp rocks where she had first landed. Blood was spattered everywhere.
One sleeve of her dress was soaked with it; the hair on one side of her head was matted with it. There could be no doubt that bones had shattered in the fall, though her gown covered the worst of the damage.
As they approached, Ruan glanced up. He had been in the act of feeling for a pulse in her throat, but one glimpse of his face was enough to confirm what they already knew.
“So she is gone then,” said Kivik.
Ruan only nodded wordlessly before bending to imprint a kiss on her ice-white brow, her cold lips.
Then there was a sound overhead like an enormous heart beating. Looking up, they saw Faolein descending in a flurry of white wings. Instead of landing, the owl hovered in the air just above Sindérian’s face, with his wings beating and his yellow eyes glaring. As the men watched in pity and horror, Faolein gave a shriek like a dying man and rent his own feathery breast with his beak—
—and Sindérian, standing at the gate of death, between the immense pillars of light and shadow that mark the threshold between one world and the next, and wholly intent on the glory that lies beyond—the cities of burning gold, the rivers of molten silver, the immense figures with rainbow-colored wings who stand sentinel outside the city walls—felt the lightest of touches, as if it were hardly more than a breath, and heard somebody calling her name.
Turning, with great reluctance, from the light ahead of her to the shadows behind, she found herself face-to-face with Faolein: back in his own form, as she had known him for most of her life, the great wizard, the wise and gentle teacher.
“Father,” she said. “You have come to comfort me, even here on the threshold of death. But it wasn’t necessary to follow me. Do not think that I am afraid, or that I relinquish my life with any regrets.” She laughed softly, joyfully. “In truth, I have seen what waits for me on the other side, and I am longing to go there.”
“Nevertheless, you are overhasty in your departure,” said Faolein. “When Nimenoë died, she linked the threads of your life to those of Winloki’s. She meant it for her own child’s protection, knowing how strong you were, how strong you would become. But that is why the aniffath was ineffective against you.
It was the one thing Ouriána needed to take into account in weaving her spell—and did not know. This I learned when I stood where you stand now, many months ago. But even before that, I knew this hour would come. That is why I died at Saer, that is why I turned away from the gate when I might have passed freely. That is why I allowed myself to be sundered, one half existing in the world of the living, one half remaining here all of these months. It has been an uncomfortable existence, but it was necessary to give you this message: you may cross over the threshold if you choose, but that would be an act of cowardice.”
He held out a hand. “Do not turn fainthearted now, you who have always been so courageous. Let me show you the way back.”
Her elation began to fade. In its place came bewilderment and the beginning of fear. “But there will be pain there, heartache and loss. I don’t wish to return to any of that. And my body is broken. Perhaps it can never be repaired.”
“Perhaps not. I cannot tell what awaits you—that vision was not granted me. You may live only a day, or a week, or for many years. You may spend all that time crippled in mind and body—or worse.”
Her confusion only deepened. “And to that you urge me to return?”
“When I made my choice at Saer, I thought as a man and a father. My understanding is greater now. The Fates are compassionate; when they allow us to suffer it is only that we may learn and grow, that we may be purified and better suited for the world beyond.”
She gazed at him doubtfully. “Not all are purified.”
“Some do refuse the gift,” he said. “They die with many hard lessons still unlearned.”
“Am I, then, so weak and faulty?” she protested.
But she knew that she was. Her impatience, her tendency to act on impulse, these were the least of her faults. Instead of rejoicing in her strength of mind and body, her many rich gifts, she had struggled with despair all this last year. And despair had led her to misuse the rune, to choose the sacrifice—not out of necessity, not in the spirit of acceptance—but as an escape from her own fear and confusion. At the least, that had been presumptuous; at the worst, wicked and cowardly.
But Faolein was none of these things. “You will not be able to return with me,” she said.
“I can go with you only part of the way. My life is done. What yours will be I do not know.” He held out his hand again. “But short or long, joyous or agonizing, I ask you to choose life.”
The touch of his palm was like the resumption of pain after blessed respite. Yet with it came a dread sense of inevitability. With one last regretful glance back over her shoulder—at the glorious city, at the shining river and the glimmering plain—Sindérian took a reluctant step in his direction, reluctantly allowed him to lead her on.
And going back was worse than dying; it was like passing through white fire, it was like being crushed and compressed and molded to fit back into the broken shell of her body. She did not know how huge she had become until the confines of the flesh required her to become small again. Nor did she fully comprehend what she was giving up, until the darkness washed over her and blotted out the light.
31
Out of respect for Faolein’s grief, Ruan turned away. Feeling numb and drained as he had never felt before, he rose slowly to his feet. Beside him, Aell did the same. It was only when he caught sight of Kivik and Skerry’s stricken faces that a vague memory of what brought them here, what they had hoped to accomplish by their long journey, surfaced in his mind. “Winloki?”
“She was unharmed. But…she had a chance to escape and she chose not to.” Skerry, like Kivik, had a dazed and bewildered look. “Two of the Furiádhin died; the others—the others were either killed or injured. And in all the panic and confusion, no one would have stopped her. But she never—she never even tried.”