'Dusty, are you listening to me? Look at me.' He turns your face up to him, and you try to look away, but it's no good; even dying those hands have all their strength.
You look at him: dark curly hair like yours, big around the shoulders the way you got to be eventually; the droopy sleepy eyes, the smile that never comes off. Even dying, there's a ghost of it apparent, a slight curling-at-the-corners smile. He loves you. That's the worst part of it all, really.
'Don't do anything stupid,' he says. 'I expect you to stay right here and get things straight. You're going to be the heir now. You have a lot to learn. Don't run out on Da.'
And you nod, the pain becoming even worse as you realize that this is a lie. There is nothing that will keep you here after Herelaf dies, not pleas nor threats nor even Hearn's need. You have a worse one; punishment of the deathguilt, and getting it attended to as quickly as possible, before the deed starts to rot and smell up the Wood. You know you'll try to go after Herelaf, to achieve whatever justice is meted out on that last Shore to those who murder their brothers.
Lying to your brother on his deathbed. You are worthless.
He flicks a tired, tired glance at the bandage around his middle, and at the stain spreading on it. 'Wasn't your fault,' he says wearily. How that voice used to sing in the evenings; now it can barely speak. Herelaf looks up at something, Someone on the other side of the bed. He smiles faintly. 'Mother,' he says.
And then is still.
And you get up, and wander away.
Into the gray places where nothing matters.
Here's a window. That's as good as anything else.
Someone is stopping you. It's Freelorn.
Damn him anyway.
You pull yourself gradually out of his grip and wander off into the gray places again. Where nothing matters.
You emerge occasionally to try to make an end of yourself. They stop you. You wander off into the gray again.
Nothing matters.
Nothing.
It's all gray.
Thank Goddess that's over. How do I get out of this?
Gray mist, cold. There are voices, remote, speaking words in other languages; other wanderers lost in the gray country. You ignore them.
And someone singing. Freelorn? Yes. The voice is changing, and cracks ludicrously every other verse.
'"On the Lion's Day, When the Moon was high, then the queen went to the Fane for her loved to die;
' "On that Night of dread, opened up the deeps, And she knew the Shadow there, and in Rilthor forever she sleeps;
' "And her daughter wept, vengeance in her heart, and swore herself as vow to take her mother's part, bating love and breath till the Shadow's death.
'"And she laid Him dead, and herself she died, never dreaming all the while that in His death, He lied . . ."'
You shake your head sadly. Freelorn's song, to be sure, redolent as usual of last stands and heroism past the confines of time and expectation. But all Beorgan's heroism couldn't change the fact that Shadow was stronger than she, immortal, more permanent than death. What use is anything, anyhow — all hearts chill, and all loves die, and maybe the time has come for yours too — there in the mist, beckoning, waits the dark shape with the heart of iron and the eyes of ice, and all you have to do is despair; He'll do the rest—
(Oh, Mother. No.)
You summon your strength, and go away from there quickly, before the cold eyes see you and mark you for their own. Here, now, the mist is thick, and a little warmer. Faintly you can sense a body passing by, not far away—
''—to bring the lightning down, one a shadow, one a fire, one a son and one a sire; one who's dead—"'
—a quiet voice, unfamiliar, singing a fragment of something to itself. It passes through the gray and is gone again. Follow it, if you can: it might show you the way out—
Suddenly in the grayness a tall form appears before you, vague through the fog. You press closer to it to ask for directions. Even if it can't tell you the way out, company would be welcome.
It's company, all right.
It's you.
Now you know how Dritt felt this morning. This is the you that you have seen in clear pools and mirrors; but changed. He's about three inches taller than you are, more regal of carriage. He moves with easy unthinking grace, whereas you just kind of bump along. He doesn't have those ten extraneous pounds on the front of his belly, where you have them; his eyes are bluer; his muscles are lithe under the smooth skin. He doesn't have any of your moles, and his face is unlined where your frown has long since indented itself; he doesn't have the little scar just above the right eye where Herelaf hit you with the fireplace poker when you were three and he was five. His face is serene, wise, joyous. You look at him with awe, reach out to him — and your hand goes through him. He's a dream-Herewiss. You might have suspected as much. (I never looked that good,) you think.
He doesn't really see you; he is interacting with someone else who isn't there. Someone who is dreaming about you. Well, if you follow him, you may get back to the real world again.
He moves away through the mist, and you go along with him, feeling a little unnerved to be in the company of such perfection — even if he is you.
Eventually the fog begins to clear a little, and you find yourself back in the hold again. Your body is sitting over by the firepit. You glance at it and look away quickly. Two of you at once is a bit much, and three, especially when the third has all the imperfections, is almost more than you can bear. The dream- Herewiss is conversing with a dream-Freelorn over in the corner. Their eyes are warm as they look at one another, and their faces smile as they speak words of love. Freelorn is curled up in his usual ball again, snoring noisily. You might have known it was his dream of you — he never could see those little imperfections of yours, even when you pointed them out. Goddess love him.
You're tired, and sad, and you want to call it a night, so you ease yourself back over toward yourself and melt down into the body, pulling it up and around you like the familiar covers of your own bed—
He woke up with a terrible taste in his mouth, and a raging headache.
Freelorn was gone.
Freelorn's people were all in such a state of embarrassment that Herewiss found it difficult to be in the same room with them, and he went away into other parts of the hold, wandering around, until he heard their horses' hooves clatter out of the courtyard into the Waste. When he came downstairs, though, he found one of them still there. Segnbora was puttering around the hall, checking Herewiss's supplies to make sure he had enough of everything.
'He just left,' she said from the other side of the hall, not stopping what she was doing. 'Very early this morning, he got dressed, saddled Blackmane, and rode out. I don't think he even stopped to pee. His trail will be easy enough to follow.'
Herewiss nodded.
Segnbora stood up, hands on hips, surveying the supplies. 'That should do it. I should go after them, now; he'll miss me, and get mad—'
'I wouldn't want that to happen,' Herewiss said.
Segnbora looked at him with deep compassion. 'He'll get over it.' 'I hope so.'
She went out to the courtyard and spent a few silent minutes saddling Steelsheen. Herewiss followed her outside listlessly. When she was ready, she gave the saddle a final tug of adjustment, then went very quickly to Herewiss; she took his hands in hers, and squeezed them, and standing way up on tiptoe kissed him once lightly on the mouth. 'I'll give it to him for you,' she said. 'He'll be all right; we'll take care of him. Good luck, Herewiss. And your Power to you—'