When the site was cleansed, they stacked a funeral pyre on the ledges below the basin, then stood aside as Seregil and Thero placed Nysander on the bed of oil-soaked kindling and sweet herbs.
Standing here now, watching unflinchingly as the flames blackened Nysander's skin and clothing, Seregil forced himself to recall the old wizard kneeling calmly among his paints and symbols, speaking words of encouragement.
But still the tears would not come.
Stars appeared overhead in the darkening sky and with them the comet, robbed now of its dread significance. The pyre began to settle in on itself and Nysander's corpse sank out of sight in a whirling cloud of sparks. Several of Rhal's men came forward and added more wood and oil, stoking the blaze until the heat of it pressed the onlookers back into the surrounding shadows.
With the solemnity of the funeral circle broken, people began to drift away. The fire would burn long into the night, reducing skin, bone, and wood alike to a fine ash for the tide and winds to scatter.
Turning, Seregil limped slowly up to the white stone and sat there waiting for some release.
None came; the emptiness he'd been plunged into from the moment he'd accepted Nysander's final charge still enveloped him, leaving him isolated, deadened inside. He could see Alec and the others gathered around Micum, a knot of shared comfort against the oncoming night.
He should be with them, he knew, but somehow he couldn't move. Sinking his head into his hands, he remained where he was, alone in the shadows where Nysander had stood awaiting his moment just hours before.
Some time later, he heard the sound of someone climbing up the rocks toward him. Looking up, he was surprised to see that it was Thero.
Worn and battered, dressed in borrowed clothes, he bore little resemblance to the prim young wizard Seregil had sparred with for so many years. Thero stared down at the pyre below for a moment before speaking.
"I wasted too many years being jealous of you," he said at last, still not looking at Seregil. "It hurt him, and I'd take it back if I could."
Seregil nodded slowly, sensing that there was more to be said between them but not knowing how to begin. Instead, he asked, "Will Micum be all right?"
"I think I've stopped most of the poison," Thero replied, sounding relieved to speak of practical things. "Still, even if he doesn't lose the leg, I doubt it will ever be much use to him."
"He's lucky to be alive at all. And the dyrmagnos?"
"She's finished. Alec saw to that."
"Good."
Another uncomfortable pause raveled out and Thero turned to leave.
"Thank you," Seregil managed, his voice thin and strained. "For helping Alec and all."
With a curt nod, Thero moved off through the shadows along the road.
Micum saw Thero leave.
"You go up to him," he croaked, looking up at Alec with fever bright eyes.
"He's right," Beka said, raising a cup of drugged wine to her father's lips. "It's not proper, him being alone now."
"I know. I've been thinking that all afternoon," Alec whispered miserably. "But I don't know what to do for him, what to say. We all loved Nysander, but not like he did. And then he had to be the one to—"
Reaching out, Micum closed a hot, dry hand over Alec's. "His heart is broken, Alec. Follow your own."
Alec let out a heavy sigh and nodded. Climbing the rocks, he walked over to where Seregil still sat on the rock, face lost in shadow.
"It's turning cold. I thought you might need this," Alec said, taking off his cloak and draping it over his friend's shoulders. Seregil mumbled a thank you, but didn't move.
Feeling desperately awkward, Alec rested a hand on Seregil's shoulder, then slid an arm around him. He'd half expected Seregil to shrug it off, or finally weep, but not the black waves of emptiness he felt, leaning there beside him. Something intrinsic in Seregil had fled or died; it was like touching a statue, a scarecrow.
A fresh trickle of tears inched down Alec's cheeks, but he didn't move, just stayed there, hoping
Seregil would draw some comfort from his nearness. His tongue felt like a dead thing in his mouth. Words were dead leaves lodged in his throat. What was there to say?
A breeze stirred, sighing through the forest at their backs, mingling its sound with the rhythmic surge of the waves. An owl sailed by close enough for Alec to hear its wings cutting the air. Its hooting call drifted back to them through the darkness.
They remained like this for some time before Seregil finally spoke, his voice barely audible. "I'm sorry, Alec. Sorry for everything."
"Nobody blames you. You did what you had to, just like the rest of us."
Seregil's short, angry laugh was startling after such silence. "What choice did I have?"
They sailed the following morning, heading north along the coast. Still running with stolen canvas, the Green Lady again raced unchallenged through enemy waters, though she caused something of a stir at Nanta until Rhal showed his commissioning papers.
They lay in port for two days while Rhal refitted the sails and took on fresh stores.
Beka found a drysian to tend Micum's wounds and Seregil's, then set about making her own preparations for departure. She and her riders were duty-bound to find their regiment. By the second day Braknil and Rhylin had rounded up sufficient horses and supplies, as well as word that their regiment was stationed a few days ride to the north.
Rhal had given over his cabin to the survivors of Nysander's Four and Micum lay on the narrow bunk, his leg swathed in linen bandages. Sitting down beside him, Beka pushed her long braid back over her shoulder.
"Word around the city is that the Plenimarans have been pushed behind their own borders for the moment," she told him. "We'll ride northeast until we find Skalan troops, then start asking directions from there."
Micum clasped her hand. "You take care of yourself, my girl. This war is far from over."
Beka nodded, her throat tight. "By the Flame, Father. I don't like to leave you, but I have to get back. I sent some of my people on ahead before we met up with you and I've got to see if they made it."
Micum waved aside her concern with a smile.
"I've been talking with your Sergeant Braknil and some of the others. From what they say, you're a good officer and a brave fighter. I'm proud of you."
Beka hugged him tight, feeling the familiar roughness of her father's cheek against her own. "I had the best teachers, didn't I? I just wish—"
"What?"
Beka sat back and wiped a hand across her eyes.
"I always thought, once I had some experience on my own, that maybe Nysander would, you know, find use for me the way he did with you and Seregil."
"Don't you worry about that. There'll always be enough trouble in the world to keep our kind busy. None of that dies with Nysander. I'll tell you, though, it's Seregil I'm worried about."
Beka nodded. "And Alec, too. You can see what it's doing to him, having Seregil so silent and sad. What's happened with them?"
Micum lay back against the bolsters with a sigh. "Poor Alec. He cares so much for Seregil he doesn't know what to do about it, and now this. And Seregil's hurting so deep I don't know if any of us can help him."
"Perhaps he has to help himself." Beka rose reluctantly. "You get Valerius to see to that leg when you get back. I still don't like the look of it. And take my love to Mother and the girls. Send word of my new brother when he's born."
"You keep yourself in one piece, you hear?"
Beka kissed him a last time, then hurried above.
Seregil was standing alone by the rail.
As they clasped hands, he turned her palms up to look at the faded traces of the symbols there.
"You've got your father's heart as well as his hair," he said with a ghost of the old smile. "Trust either one of you to show up when you're least expected and most needed. Luck in the shadows, Beka Cavish, and in the light."