"Get up," he said. "You've got to get back to work."
"I don't understand," said Silverdun. "What happened to me, you old bastard?"
Jedron was already at the door. "Oh, that. You died. Come on."
Silverdun followed Jedron down the stairs of the castle. Nothing had changed since his first visit there months earlier.
"Jedron?" Silverdun shouted. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Just shut up and follow me. I have something to show you."
Silverdun sighed and followed. His weeks at Whitemount were jogged back fully into memory by his presence here. He'd forgotten just how much he disliked this man.
"Wait," said Silverdun. A flash of images came to him, and the memory of pain, and fear. "I remember. The Bel Zheret stabbed me. I felt him pierce my heart!"
"I know," said Jedron. "I heard all about it."
They left the castle, and the sunlight hurt Silverdun's eyes. The sea around them was a deep blue, and as he looked to the east, he could just make out the spires of the City Emerald.
"You can gather wool later," said Jedron, glaring. "I have things to do." He went to the steps leading to the pit and started down them. Silverdun followed, muttering a string of obscenities under his breath.
"I can hear you," Jedron said, not turning around.
"I know," said Silverdun.
They stood together at the pit, looking down into it. It was dull gray in the sunlight, dank and deeply unpleasant. The temperature here seemed easily ten degrees colder.
Jedron said nothing at first, then sighed.
"Here's the truth," he said. "Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun, is dead."
"I know that," said Silverdun. "I felt the knife go in."
"That's not what I mean. Silverdun died here, in this pit. On the last night of your training. Ironfoot and I hurled him in here, and what was inside the pit ate him. He is no more." Jedron reached inside his robe and withdrew a small white object.
"Here's all that's left of him. A tooth. Maybe a molar."
Silverdun took the tooth and looked at it, remembering the bone he'd found in the pit after watching Ironfoot go into it.
"The problem with your theory," said Silverdun, "is that I'm standing right next to you."
"Yes, you are. But you're not Silverdun."
"No? Then who am I?"
"A shadow. A shadow of him. You're a thing that's taken his form, taken his mind and memories. A sylph, to be precise."
"A sylph."
"Never heard of them?" said Jedron. "I'm not surprised. They're very rare, and we don't advertise their existence.
"Elusive little creatures. We get them from an island across the sea. The way they hunt is to eat animals-deer mainly-and assume their shape. Then they join the herd and kill the animal's friends and relatives at their leisure. Nasty things."
"I don't feel like eating my friends or my relatives," said Silverdun.
"Well, we alter the sylphs a bit first," said Jedron. "It's a complicated and expensive process, I can assure you. And an extremely classified one. That's why we never told you. The less any of our people knows, the better."
"In case I was captured."
"Yes."
"So I'm not who I think I am," said Silverdun.
"Who is?" Jedron shrugged. "People make such a fuss of identity and the concept of self. But it's only because they're mortal and afraid to die.
"Listen, you have all of Silverdun's memories, all of his feelings, all of his emotional detritus. You have all of his Gifts. You're him, more or less. More, really, since you're stronger, faster, more powerful, and you can be brought back from the dead. I'd like to see the old you try that."
"But ... what about the soul?" said Silverdun.
"How the hell should I know? Have I ever given you any indication that I might be a philosopher?"
"So," said Silverdun, understanding everything Jedron had told him, but not accepting it. "Ironfoot?"
"The same."
"And Paet?"
"Yes. And I as well. And scores of others down through the centuries. I'll admit, I found it a bit troubling at first, but once I realized it didn't make a rat's shit worth of difference, I got over it. So will you."
"What about Sela?" asked Silverdun. "She was never brought here."
"No."
"Why not?"
Jedron thought about it. "We were afraid to," he said. "The man who made her what she is did a far better job than I ever could. To do to her what we did to you could have been ... disastrous."
"What do you mean by that?"
"None of your damn business."
Jedron spat into the pit and turned away. "Let's go," he said.
"How long have you been here, Jedron?" Silverdun asked.
"Four hundred years or thereabouts. I stopped counting a long time ago. But I think I might retire soon. Get a little cottage somewhere, with some trees. I miss the trees." He stopped and stared into the distance. "Honestly, the caliber of trainee they've been sending me the past few decades has made me fear for the future of Faerie."
"Shocking."
"Who knows?" said Jedron. "Maybe I'll teach you all my secrets one day, and you can take my place." He stroked his beard. "On second thought, I'd probably pick Ironfoot over you. He's a bit brighter."
"Wait," said Silverdun. "What happened to Paet? If we're so indestructible, why isn't he still active? Why does he have a limp?"
"Bel Zheret got to him five years ago. Ripped out most of his spine, ate part of his brain. You can regenerate most things, as I believe you've noticed, but you're not invincible. So don't go thinking you are. If you die out there and aren't brought back, well ... Paet didn't bring you here because I missed you. And don't even ask what I had to do in order to bring you back. To say it's a Black Art doesn't even begin to describe it."
He clapped Silverdun on the shoulder, the only mildly friendly thing Silverdun had ever seen him do. "Now let's get going. Paet's waiting down at the dock."
Silverdun looked down into the pit, thinking. "You'll never have that cottage, will you? You can't ever leave Whitemount, not with the things you know."
Jedron looked at him, serious. "No," he said. "When I get too sick of it to stand it another day, I imagine I'll walk into the ocean and drown myself. And if Paet tries to revive me, I'll slit his throat."
"Thank you, Jedron," said Silverdun.
Jedron punched him in the face.
Silverdun is having an excellent time at the cafe until he looks up and spies his mother. She is moving toward him very slowly, glaring at him the way she once did when she caught him doing things he oughtn't. He rises from the table and staggers toward her, nearly falling. He's had quite a bit to drink.
He meets her at an empty table halfway, and they sit together.
"Who's your new lady?" comes the drunkenly stupid voice of one of his friends. He waves it away.
"Mother, what in the name of Auberon's pale ass are you doing here?"
"Language, Perrin," she says primly.
Silverdun sighs. "What in the name of Auberon's pale hindquarters are you doing here, then?"
"I can see that I should have sent a sprite ahead of me."
"That might have been wise."
Mother places her hands gently on the table before her. "There wasn't any time. I had to see you right away."
"Oh, but you never come to the city, and it's so lovely this time of year, Mother," says Silverdun, his mind wandering. "Tomorrow night there's a mestina you simply must see, and-"
"I'm dying, Perrin. I came to say good-bye."
Silverdun stops, words colliding on his tongue.
"Whatever does that mean?"
"It means that I am dying, and I intend to do so not at our family home, but at a convent in the South."
"You. What?" Silverdun can't compose a proper question. "You aren't dying," he says stupidly.
"I can assure you that I am. Several well-paid physicians have confirmed it."