The illusion of safety. I might now become a father in my turn, and I cannot give such perfect safety. It was always an illusion. Will my own children forgive me, when they find out?
Rapid footsteps scrunching through the snow and heavy breathing heralded the return of Ijada with the divine, making their way up the steep steps to this high point. Lewko paused at the top, gazing past Ingrey at the smoky revenant. “Ingrey, is it…?
“I…” Ingrey started to say, I think so, but changed it to, “Yes. I am sure of it. Learned, what should I do? I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but it has no mouth. I don't think it can speak. I don't even know if it can hear me.”
“I believe you're right. The time for questions and answers seems past. You can only cleanse it, and release it. That is what a shaman does, it seems.”
“And when he's cleansed and released, will the Father of Winter take him up? Or is he sundered beyond recall? Are there no rites you can offer to help him?”
“He had his funeral rites long ago, Ingrey. You can do what you can do, which is cleanse him; I can pray. But if it has been too long, there will not be enough of him left to assent to the god, and then not even the god can do more. It may be that all you can do is release him from this thrall.” “To nothingness.”
“Like Horseriver.” Horseriver's hatred of irrevocable time made more sense to Ingrey now.
“Somewhat.”
“What is the use of me, if I can send four thousand stranger-souls to their proper gods, but not the four-thousand-first that matters most to me?”
“I do not know.”
“And that is the sum of Temple wisdom?”
“It is the sum of my wisdom, and all the truth I know.”
Was Temple wisdom like a father's safety, then, an illusion? And it always had been? Would you rather Lewko told you comforting lies? Ingrey could not walk back through that veil of time and experience to a child's sight again, and wasn't sure he would if he could. Ijada stepped forward and laid a hand upon his shoulder, lending the comfort of her presence, if not the comfort of some more desirable answer. He let himself absorb the warmth of her body against his for a moment, then touched her hand for release and stepped forward.
From a pouch on his belt he fumbled out a fine new penknife, purchased in Easthome for this moment. The thin blade reflected the face of the moon in a brief blink. Ijada gritted her teeth along with Ingrey as he took it in his left hand and pressed the edge into his right index finger. He squeezed his fist and raised his hand to the top of the fog-shape.
The drops fell through onto the trampled snow in a spatter of small black circles.
Ingrey's breath drew in, and he clutched the knife harder. Lewko barely caught his arm as he made to stab his hand more deeply.
“No, Ingrey,” Lewko whispered. “If a drop will not bless it, neither will a bucketful.” Ingrey exhaled slowly as Lewko let go again, and tucked the knife back in the pouch. Whatever of his hallow kingship lingered in his blood, it seemed it had no power over this. I had to try.
“Whatever you thought you were about, the thing you began here is finished, and done well. Your sacrifice was not in vain.” He thought of adding I forgive you, then thought better of it. Fatuous, foolish, hardly to the point now. After a moment he merely said, “I love you, Father.” And, after another, “Come.”
The dark wolf-smoke spun out from the pale fog and through his fingers, and away.
More slowly, the frost-fog dissipated as well, with a last faint blue sparkle.
“The god did not take him up,” Ingrey whispered.
“He would if He could have,” Lewko murmured back. “The Father of Winter, too, weeps at this loss.”
Ingrey was not weeping, yet, although little trembles ran through his body. He could feel the second sight fading from his eyes, the gift returned. Ijada came to him again and tied a strip of clean linen around his finger. They wound their arms around each other.
“Well…” Learned Lewko signed them both. “It is finished.” His voice grew more gentle. “Will you not come in out of the cold, my lord and lady?”
“Soon,” sighed Ingrey. “Moonset over the Birchbeck is worth a shiver or two.”
“If you say so.” Lewko smiled and, with a nod of farewell, clutched his coat about himself and made his way down the steps, careful now on the ice.
Ingrey stepped behind Ijada and rested his chin on her shoulder, the both of them staring out over the valley.
“No, it wasn't. But it was better than nothing, and vastly better than never knowing. At least all is concluded, here. I can go and not look back.”
“This was your childhood home.”
“It was. But I am not a child anymore.” He hugged her a little fiercely, squeezing a breath of a laugh from her belly. “My home has a new name, and she is called Ijada. There will I abide.”
Her warm laugh now was voiced, enough to make moon-mist before her lips.
“Besides,” he said, “I expect Badgerbridge is warmer in the winter than Birchgrove, am I not right?”
“In the valleys, yes. There is snow enough on the upper slopes, should you miss it.”
“Very good.”
After a dozen slowing breaths, he added, “He did not seem to be in any great pain or torment. So. I have seen my fate. I will not fear it.”
Ijada said thoughtfully, “Mine and Fara's, too, if you do not outlive us to cleanse our souls in turn.”
“I scarcely know which order dismays me more.” He turned her to face him, and stared in worry into her eyes, wide and dark with a faint amber rim in the blue shadows. “I must pray I may go last, mourning and unmourned. I don't know how I'll bear it.”
“Ingrey.” She placed her chilled hands on either side of his face, and brought it directly before her intent gaze. “A year ago, could you even have imagined, let alone predicted, standing here being what you now are?”
“No.” “Neither could I have imagined me. So perhaps we should not be so sure of our future fate, either. What we don't know of it is vastly larger than what we do, and will surely not stop surprising us.”
“Then let their vote rule your mind in this, as well.”
“Ah.” The bleak midnight mood was losing its hold upon him, in favor of her wool-wrapped warmth.
She added, “It is premature to call yourself the last shaman, too, I think. You yourself could make more great beasts and spirit mages.”
“I would not send any other into this state unless I knew they could find a way out again.”
“Indeed. And do you think the Temple must always oppose the old forest magics? If they came in some fresh version, reformed to our new days?”
“That would take much thought. Five gods know we've seen the troubles the old ways can cause.”
“Yet the Temple manages its sorcerers, and not perfectly. Look at poor Cumril, for one. But they manage well enough to go on with. And we both know divines who are capable of much thought, now.”
“Huh.” His eyes narrowed in a hint of hope.
“You are very arrogant, wolf-lord.” Her hands gave his head a tiny, reproving shake.
“Ah? What now, sweet cat?”
“How can you say that multitudes yet unborn shall not mourn you greatly? It is not yours to dictate their hearts.”
“Do you prophesy, lady?” he inquired lightly, but even as he spoke a shiver ran through his belly, as though he had heard a weirding voice.
Her lips were warm, like rising sunlight chasing an icy moon. She rubbed her face against his, sighing contentedly. But then added, “Your nose is cold, wolfling. You are not so hairy that I take this as a sign of health in you. If we are ever to be ancestors and not just descendants, perhaps we should return to that feather bed your cousin promised us.”