‘Go,’ said Inurian in his ear. ‘He is close. Go, Orisian. I will not forget you.’
‘I will see you again,’ said Orisian, and he let Rothe pull him gently to his feet and lead him away.
The forest breathed its soft, even breath. Twigs stirred in the faintest of breezes. An owl roosting high against the trunk of an oak blinked and peered down as fleet-footed shapes sped beneath. On a rocky knoll, a black bear nosing for insects in mulch-packed crannies raised its head and turned this way and that, teasing a scent out of the air. Snuffling in irritation, it scrambled down from the rocks and padded away. Bounding forms swept past the knoll, emerging from and disappearing into the forest in the space of a few moments. Mice cowered amidst the springy turf as silent foot-falls shook their domain. A single dead leaf, one of the last vestiges of autumn, spiralled down and was tumbled in the wake of a rushing figure before it resumed its descent.
Inurian stood by the river. The dyn bane was at his back. The sound of the falls filled his ears. The winter sun had broken through and was lighting the highest parts of the cliffs. The bitter edge was gone from the air. It was very beautiful, he thought. This had always been his favourite time of year.
A face drifted before his inner eye, that of Ess’yr. It bore with it more pain than he could countenance. He set it aside and looked to the still forest downstream. He waited; for how long, he could not say.
How strange it is, he thought, to come to such an ending. I am not done with life. Can it really all be so easily ended? Of course it can, he told himself. It had been a path woven of a thousand small chances, the intersection of countless other lives: one wandering na’kyrim happening upon a good man in a castle in the sea; another eaten away by anger and bitterness; a fevered woman long ago sowing the seed of a cult, her garbled words reaching out over all the years to set Thane against Thane; an arrow in the darkness. Just one arrow.
He saw shapes moving amongst the trees. There was no sound to mark their coming. He knew them for what they were. They emerged at first one by one, then a score. A wide arc of Kyrinin stood facing him. And still there was no sound save the rushing water.
Inurian swayed a little. It had been a terrible struggle to rise to his feet. Although the pain had all but gone now, he thought the effort had sundered something deep inside him. He had the sense of his thoughts trying to lift away and drift upwards. He had to fight to hold them to him. He glanced up. The sky was a field of pure blue. The light seemed to have such clarity that he could have seen to the end of the world had the rock walls not pressed in so close about this place. For a moment he was rising, floating towards that blue expanse. He caught himself and drew his gaze back to the clearing.
Aeglyss was there now, sitting astride a brown horse. He had passed through the line of Kyrinin and was watching Inurian. The horse was breathing hard and jinking around, breaking up the soft, wet earth.
Aeglyss passed his reins to one of the Kyrinin and swung out of the saddle. He patted the horse’s neck as he stepped forwards. He came up to Inurian.
‘You look weary,’ he said, tilting his head a little to one side.
‘I am tired,’ agreed Inurian. In his mind the words were clear, yet they sounded heavy and slurred in the wintry air.
Aeglyss was removing his riding gloves now, folding them over his belt and flexing his fingers. The horse behind him was still shifting about, shaking its head.
‘Are you dying?’ he asked.
Inurian closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I am,’ he said.
‘Come back with me. The White Owls have good healers. Perhaps we can keep you alive.’
Inurian shook his head with care, fearful of dizziness. ‘No,’ he said.
‘But this is foolish,’ said Aeglyss. ‘Why die such a wasteful death? Come back with me. Teach me what you know. Stand with me.’
Inurian was silent. Something was rising from the pit of his stomach, drifting up through his chest. His legs, which had felt so heavy not long before, were now weightless. He could hear the feeble beating of his heart.
‘Do not leave me. I need you,’ said Aeglyss softly. ‘Please.’ He was imploring, grief-stricken almost. Inurian pitied the other man in that moment.
‘I cannot stay,’ Inurian said. He struggled to focus on the face before him. A fine network of thin red lines was strung across Aeglyss’ eyes. He had the skin of a corpse. An angry wound marred his lower lip. There were other, deeper marks that only Inurian could have sensed.
‘You’ve over-reached yourself, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Attempted something that was almost beyond you.’
Aeglyss flicked a hand dismissively, though Inurian felt the irritation in the gesture as well.
‘Some woman, spying, eavesdropping. I chased her off.’ He looked over Inurian’s shoulder. ‘Clever, to put the dyn bane across the trail. Whose idea was that? The White Owls’re hungry for Fox blood, but this will turn them aside. For now. It doesn’t matter, of course. You’re the one I came for.’
‘I may be dying,’ Inurian said, ‘but your sickness is the greater, Aeglyss. It will destroy you. You must know that.’ He coughed, and felt salty fluid in the back of his mouth. His throat was burning.
‘Please,’ whispered Aeglyss again, and this time his voice was a caress. Inurian felt the other’s will laying its dark fingers upon his thoughts. He hungered to do as Aeglyss asked: to free himself of his suffering, to cling to precious life. This is how it happens, he thought. He shook his head.
‘You’ve not the strength to bind me to your will. Not the skill, certainly.’
For long moments Aeglyss stood there, as immobile as his Kyrinin followers, staring. Inurian blinked. There was a cloudiness spreading across his vision, bleeding in from the edges like a fog, and he could see little but Aeglyss’ face. He thought he saw many things there: the old anger and hunger, but also something in the eyes and the set of the brow that spoke of puzzlement and pain, like a child who did not understand why he was being punished.
‘Last chance,’ Aeglyss said. ‘I will forgive you all your insults, if you come back with me. Teach me.’
‘No.’
Aeglyss turned on his heel and walked away. Inurian felt a strange surge of release.
‘Aeglyss, wait,’ he said.
Aeglyss glanced back.
‘They will kill you sooner or later,’ Inurian said. ‘The White Owls, or the Black Road, or the Haig Bloods. You think you can play their games, be a part of it all. But you can’t, Aeglyss. They’ll not love you for seeking to be one of them.’
Aeglyss seized a spear from the hand of the nearest White Owl. His teeth were bared in a grimace of fury. He strode up to Inurian and drove the spear through his midriff, impaling him upon its shaft.
‘No games, little man,’ hissed Aeglyss.
Inurian slumped. Aeglyss held him up.
‘You once called me a dog that thought it was a wolf. Tell me now, Inurian. Which am I now? Dog or wolf?’
‘You have a dog’s heart.’
‘Very well. But it beats more strongly than yours.’
‘I’ve made my choice,’ murmured Inurian and felt his last strength passing out between his lips and into the sharp air. It was easier than he had expected to let go.
Aeglyss spat upon his cheek and released the spear. Inurian fell on to his side. Aeglyss stepped back.
‘I’m sorry,’ Inurian murmured.
‘Finish him,’ Aeglyss said in the White Owl tongue. The Shared sang in the words, put a core of command and insistence into them that could not be denied. The Kyrinin poured forwards. They crowded around Inurian and he disappeared beneath a frenzy of stabbing spears and stamping feet. Aeglyss stood and watched for a while, then went back to his horse. He gave one sharp cry, of some kind of pain or anger, as he swept up into the saddle.