"Ah, Shikrar, now I believe you!" she laughed. Trizhe, lying nearest us, raised a mild complaint about the noise.
Idai lowered her voice. "Besides, Teacher-Shikrar, I spoke easily just now of making our peace with the Gedri, but that may not be a swift or a simple thing. There are those among us"—she glanced at me sideways—"who despise the Gedri and will always do so, no matter what you may say or do."
I acknowledged her point, for until the year just past I was among those who felt that way. However, like the others I had merely been repeating the words and thoughts of my elders. When I finally met one of the Gedri—the Lady Lanen, now so dear to me—I was forced to reconsider the foolish opinions I had held for so very, very long. I was proud of myself for being able to admit to my own ignorance and to change, though with all that Lanen had done for me and mine I would have been the world's worst fool not to have done so. Still, Idai was undoubtedly right.
"What then should we do?" I asked mildly. "We cannot force the Gedri from their lands. Would those who refuse to share the land with them consent to take to the high mountains, or the deep forests? Surely in all that great land there are places where me Gedri do not live?"
"Surely," echoed Idai. "It is a very large place, and we are few." She sighed. "We are very few, Shikrar. Think you we will have any kind of a future in mat place?" She dropped her voice to the merest whisper. "Or any kind of future at all?"
I turned to her, surprised. "You are unusually bleak-hearted, my friend. Of course there will be a life for us. The Kantri and the Gedri have lived in peace for many long years. We forget, we children of a latter day, that it is the exile and the separation that are unusual. We are going home, Idai," I said quietly. "Kolmar is home to us, heart and soul and bone and blood, and the Gedri are our cousins. What other race can speak and reason, aside from our life-enemies the Rakshasa? Do not fear this change, Idai. All will be well. I know it."
She sighed and let her head drop heavily onto my flank. "Your words to the Winds, Hadreshikrar, may they prove true. And I am soaked through. Shift over and lift up those stiff old wings, O wise one, it's your turn to keep the rain off."
Lanen slept now, a deep sleep granted by the Healers to help her recover her strength. Rella and I had cleaned her and changed her garment, and I held her in my arms while Rella helped the innkeeper bring in a new mattress and clean sheets and bedding. I laid Lanen gently down and Rella drew the quilts softly over her.
"I'm off to keep watch, Varien," said Rella when I tried to thank her. "Jamie and I will keep wakeful. You get some sleep."
"Lady Rella—"
She smiled. "I know, son, but save it for morning. You're shattered."
I put my hands about her waist, lifted her up and kissed her soundly. "Dear youngling," I said as I put her down. She was sputtering a bit, but it was good for her. "In the span of my life you were born yesterday, and Lanen this morning. I thank you for your kindness—daughter."
She laughed at that. "Wretched bloody dragon! Right enough, I do forget sometimes."
"Watch well. I will take the duty tomorrow night."
"Done. Goodnight then, grandfather!"
I closed the door behind her. I still wore my circlet, still felt like my old self, and as long as I was not using true-speech it brought me no pain. I began to wonder if it might not be wise to have it remade to be smaller and lighter, that I might wear it always. Shikrar had fashioned it in a stolen hour when first I was made human, that my people might know me. It was deeply kind of him, and I thought of him every time I wore it, but our talons are made for fighting and rending, not for such fine work as this. It could be half the size and still hold my soulgem securely.
As I sat there, my gaze on Lanen, my thoughts wide-scattered in my weariness, a great stillness arose in my soul. I welcomed it and let it sink deep, let it soothe the ragged edges of pain, let my wandering thoughts return and fall like leaves gently down inside it.
I rose and opened the shutters at the window to let in the night, breathing deeply of the cool air and taking pleasure in the starlight and the sharp scent of pine. In the darkness and the silence I was more alone than I had ever yet been as a Gedri. Lanen, in her healing sleep so close by, merely made the loneliness stronger. In sleep our loved ones are utterly beyond us, separate, locked in their own thoughts and untouchable. The Kantri call sleep invorishaan, the little death, and so it is; a kind of preparation for us all, to make true death easier when it comes.
Death had nearly come for Lanen.
I rejoiced that she was healed, but my heart was almost as heavy as if she had not been. The anger that had taken me in Elimar had astounded me with its vehemence. I had not known it was there. My anger was not truly aimed at Lanen; it was a mask for the fear that chilled me. The dread of losing her I loved most in all the world went bone-deep. I had watched Shikrar mourn his beloved for eight hundred years, and I knew in my soul that I was every bit as devoted as he. I had been furious at Lanen for defying the Healer, for putting safety aside in pursuit of true healing—but I knew that I would have done the same. Who would have the courage to sit and wait for death, relying on help that might not come, knowing that death would soon find you in any case if you did nothing? I did not have that kind of courage, but I had asked it of Lanen,
I also admitted to myself, in the soft silence of the moonlight, that I was beset by fears for the future. What manner of strange creatures did Lanen bear now? What was to become of them, and of her? Her blood was now mingled truly with the blood of the Kantri. I shuddered as Rishkaan's words echoed in my heart. With a great effort of will I rejected them and clung to the truth of my own Weh dream, a bright vision of standing with Lanen and our children in the beauty of a new day. I let out a sigh and a prayer to the Winds that I might be proven right.
In this strange sadness I lifted the heavy circlet from my head that I might gaze upon it. My soulgem. How far beyond understanding, to be able to hold it in my hand while still I lived! In the normal way of things our soulgems are severed from us only after we die. Once the fire within is unleashed at death, it consumes the body; the soulgem remains as the sole physical remnant of our existence. It is our link with our past, with our loved ones, it is—
Akhor, my heart said to me starkly. It is your soulgem. It is no longer part of you. That means only one thing. You are dead, Akhor. You are dead, and all your life before is dead with you.
The knowledge beat upon my brow, beat in my heart against the cadence of life. No! No! I live! I cried silently, gripping my soulgem with all my strength, feeling the facets dig into my flesh, sharp against my palm. I live!
Yes, I live. And Akhor is dead.
I knew in that moment mat both were true, and die knowledge was agony. I would rather have been struck through the heart by the sword of an enemy, for surely it would not have hurt as badly. Was I to lose all that I had been? Was I become human to be no more than human? A young man's body with a thousand years of life and memory trapped within, with the knowledge of half a lifetime full of things that none would ever care about. I knew where the best fish shoaled off the coast of an island that was dead or dying. I knew how to catch the early thermals, where they lingered latest on a winter's night, a hundred tricks of flying that Shikrar had taught me and a hundred more I had learned myself. I knew the joy of dancing on the wind at midsummer, of singing with all my people in a great chorus to shake the heavens with a voice that I no longer possessed. To fly with all my strength up to the High Air on a summer's day, to find that broad wave and ride it, to dive swift as a falling stone and sweep back up into clear air at the very last moment, the fierce and soaring joy of it—never again with my own wings.