With a deafening crash, Grimbough smashed to the ground. At once, everything stopped: the raging storm, the quaking of the ground, the hateful muttering of the leaves. Stillness settled over the grove.
Weakly, Caramon began to laugh.
Then another burst of pain tore through him, and he let it all fall away. His friends were waiting for him.
Dezra stared in horror as her father's florid skin turned gray. The lines of pain on his face smoothed, leaving an expression of terrible, sickening peace.
She slapped him, hard, across the face. "No!" she shouted, hitting him again and again. "No! No! No!"
Then Trephas was behind her, grabbing her arms and lifting her away from Caramon. She fought and kicked, but he held her fast. She slumped in his grasp, sobbing.
As the centaur gathered her close, Borlos came over. Stricken, the bard bent down and pressed his fingers against Caramon's throat, feeling for the lifebeat. He closed his eyes, blowing out a long, shuddering breath.
"Help him, damn you!" Dezra snarled. "Do something!"
Borlos looked at her, his face like an open wound. "I'm no healer," he said. "And even if I were, I don't think I could do anything for him, Dez."
They stood over Caramon for a long while, none daring to move. Then, as the stormclouds above the vale dissolved on the cool night wind, something stirred behind them. Hooves whispered on the damp, blighted earth. Dezra didn't move, but Borlos and Trephas turned at the sound, and stared in astonishment and awe at the Forestmaster.
The marks of her ordeal remained. Her flesh was tight against her bones; blood crusted her coat. But her eyes were clear, and despite her frailty there was grace in her movements as she strode toward them. Her horn caught the starlight, shimmering.
Trephas and Borlos stepped back as she approached, but Dezra stayed where she was, beside her father's unmoving form. The Forestmaster stopped behind her.
Dezra turned and glared at the unicorn, angry words on her tongue. She stopped, though, when she met the Forestmaster's liquid eyes. Paling, she stepped away from Caramon's body. The Forestmaster's gaze lingered on her a moment, then she stepped lightly to Caramon's side and lowered her head. Her horn, sparkling with light, touched his breastplate. Then she stepped back, her eyes shining.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Caramon's mouth fell open, and he drew a loud, snorting breath.
Dezra stared at the Forestmaster, incredulous. The unicorn dipped her head to her, then turned and walked out of the sward, into the night.
When she was gone, Dezra turned back to her father, kneeling down beside him as Borlos and Trephas crowded behind. She took his hand in hers.
Caramon's eyes opened, and he looked up at her. "What in the Abyss?" he asked, his brow furrowing with confusion. His voice was still frighteningly feeble. "Dez?"
Smiling through her tears, she reached out and touched his cold, clammy cheek. "It's all right, Father," she told him. "I'm here."
Epilogue
Winter was coming.
It was weeks away still-autumn was only halfway done, and the first snows were still a month or more away-but Caramon could feel its approach in his bones. Another marvel of growing old, he thought. It was worse this year than last, but that was no surprise. He'd ended last summer by brewing harvest beer; this summer he'd nearly died.
He sighed, staring out across Darken Wood. He stood on a vantage just outside Lysandon, listening to birdsong and feeling the chill mountain wind on his face. Below, the forest stretched out to the horizon. It had changed in the past few weeks, while he remained with the centaurs. The dark stain that had spread across the wood was fading. Many trees that had been blighted at the start of the autumn grew healthy once more; from what Arhedion and the horsefolk's other scouts said, most of the forest would recover with time. Even so, there were patches of woodland that would never regain their former glory. In some places-especially around Sangelior, where the few surviving Skorenoi still dwelt-the decay had gone too far. Darken Wood would heal, but it would never quite be the same.
I know how it feels, he thought with a wry chuckle.
He could only remember flashes of what had happened after Dezra felled Grimbough. He recalled the soothing touch of the Forestmaster's horn, the sound of his daughter's voice, the gentleness with which the others had lifted him onto Trephas's back. The ride back to Lysandon was a blur; between leaving Grimbough's vale and meeting Arhedion's scouts in the highlands, he only knew flashes of trees and the music of Borlos's lyre.
He'd stayed in Lysandon since his return. The unicorn's magic had saved him from death, nothing more. Recovering his strength took time. He'd longed to go home, worrying that Tika and Laura would think he was dead, but he'd quickly learned not to push himself too hard. Barely a week after returning, he'd collapsed after stubbornly trying to rise and walk out of his hut. That had put enough of a scare into him to make him stay put until the horsefolk's chirurgeons told him otherwise.
There had been celebrations, of course, when the companions returned. Every night, for more than a week, the mountains surrounding the town had echoed with song and laughter. There'd been games, a ritual hunt, feasting and dancing. Caramon had missed most of the merrymaking, but Borlos had played for him, and Dezra had snuck him a bit of venison from the stag she'd brought down in the hunt. That had helped.
Fanuin, Ellianthe, and the rest of the sprites had left soon after the festivities ended, flitting off into the forest to return to their hidden realm. Caramon had been certain his daughter would follow. Borlos clearly enjoyed staying with the centaurs, but Dezra, he was sure, would take her money and go. To his surprise, however, she'd remained, and had even checked in on him several times a day. She didn't fuss over him, but she was there.
At first, he'd thought she stayed because of Trephas. He was convinced the two had trysted together the night Soulsplitter was stolen, and that it was continuing now. But he'd learned he was wrong. Since their return, Trephas had spent much of his time with Lanorica, the chief of the Ebon Lance tribe. Finally, a month ago, he'd promised himself to her in marriage, placing a wreath of willow withes upon her head as was the horsefolk's custom.
Dezra didn't seem to mind. "Centaurs and humans don't make good matches anyway," she'd told Caramon the morning after the betrothal. Then she'd winked. "And besides, there's plenty of men in the world."
The rest of Caramon's time in Lysandon had passed with little event. Three weeks ago, the healers had let him rise from his bed, but he was still weak and couldn't walk far. Since then, he'd fought to build his strength. Now, at last, he could move about without tiring, though he still had to use a walking stick and would need to for some time. Still, he was capable of travel. And so, at last, it was time to go.
He heard a scuff behind him: boots on stone. He didn't turn, his eyes on the forest. "What is it, girl?" he asked.
Dezra stopped several paces behind him. "What do you think?" she asked, irritated. "I've been looking all over for you. Everyone's waiting at the Yard."
Caramon nodded. He took a deep breath, then turned to face her. "Well, then," he said. "I guess we'd better get going."
He hobbled to her, leaning on his stick. She didn't offer him her arm, and he didn't ask. They walked back toward Lysandon side by side.
The Circle of Four stood in the midst of the Yard of Gathering when Caramon and Dezra arrived. There were others with them, too: Trephas and Arhedion, and Borlos as well. Caramon and Dezra paused at the meadow's edge to partake of the grass, then walked across the field.