She could hardly think. Her cheek tingled where he'd touched her. "What?"
"Well, talkers burn through life awful quick. 'S different for everybody — years for most, months for a few — but eventually there's nothin' left but tired. When we get like that, it's hard to go on." He turned from her and went over to the village–stone, gazing into its swirled–marble surface. "Isn't it?"
It took a moment for Delgado to realize he was speaking to the stone. But before she could question him, Turner touched the stone. For an instant eagerness filled his face; anticipation for a new experience, for a well–earned rest. Then he crumpled to the ground. Horrified, Delgado crouched beside him, but it was too late. He smiled at her, closed his eyes, and died.
The townsfolk came and raised a great cry when they saw Turner's body. Yet their horror was tinged with relief, for everyone could see by the stone's brightness that he had bought them many more years of safety. He had given the stone all the life he had left.
He had given other things to Delgado, it seemed. In the hours after Turner's death she found herself thinking more and more about duty and selfishness, freedom and its price, and whether she really would give anything to finally have a life worth living.
So when they passed Turner's body through the veil, where it would decompose rapidly in the devouring air, Delgado went with it. She carried around her neck the pendant, and she carried in her mind duty, and she carried in her heart a love of life. By these things the world knew she would one day be a great stonetalker. One of the best.