A premonition of death touched Narvik the Sorcerer as he walked through the fair, the feather-light brush of a dark wing across his eyes. He turned and followed as the feeling drew him across the fairground; it was never wise to neglect the unsought omen.
He tossed long blond hair from his face as he walked, intent on the inner vision, blue eyes thoughtful and slitted against the sun, heedless of those who stepped warily aside from his passage.
The vision drew him to a fortune teller's booth; he stood surprised and a little at a loss. A woman dressed in gaudy rags hunched over her rune sticks like an arthritic crone, casting the carved wood and mumbling. Two boys crouched before her, listening avidly. Suddenly the chubby boy turned cherry pink and his friend stark white. She leaned towards them and they recoiled a little, like dogs before a snake.
A charlatan, he thought. And yet . . . Reluctantly, he dropped into a light trance and probed gently; with a shock of surprise he felt himself skillfully blocked.
The woman turned her head slowly, unerringly, towards him. Her customers fled as soon as her gaze released them.
Younger than I! he thought in surprise. But very homely. Her nose resembled a generous wedge of cheese, below was a mouth like a slit cut into raw dough, deep-set brown eyes burned beneath wiry brows under a high, narrow forehead. Her hair, under a brown hood, was a frizz of black curls, but clean. The dark eyes watched him coldly, above a smile sly with malice.
Surprise turned to an icy prickle of alarm. She's dangerous.
Suddenly she grinned; a row of big, yellow teeth split her sallow face. Some cold emptiness poured itself into a hidden well behind her eyes, leaving only curiosity and humor.
Yes, she could be dangerous, Narvik thought with relief. She has skill enough to sense my probe. But she'd also apparently decided not to be offended. No duel arcane in a marketplace!
"Hello," she called out as he approached, her voice low and mellow as a wood flute.
"I've no wish to pry, mistress, but I sensed . . . something amiss."
Some of the cold returned to her eyes. "Never fear," she said, "my wards are strong, I took no harm from your attack."
"I meant no offense," he insisted, offended himself, resisting the urge to defend his actions. "I came to offer aid if needed."
The shadow stroked down his spine, held him leaning on his staff when reason told him to leave.
"You meant to be kind," she murmured. "Perhaps kindness comes easier, when you've a roof of your own." She jerked a chin towards her rags. "I truly dread the winter; like a cat, I hate the cold."
"You've power," he said cautiously. "And skill as well . . . in more than telling fortunes."
"I'm a sorcerer," she admitted. "Yet, no town has invited me to stay." She lowered her eyes, her lips quivered with some emotion.
Disappointment? Anger? Narvik frowned behind a motionless face. It wouldn't take a sorcerer of his skill to see the strangeness in her; not an attribute endearing to town councilors.
"Where are my manners?" the sorceress said. "I'm Wythen, I apprenticed under Navila the Yellow."
"I'm Narvik, son of Phocon, apprenticed under Fahon of Kint."
"Ah," she said, looking down to scoop up the coins her young customers had thrown her. A pupil of the famed Fahon would never tell fortunes in rags. "Where's your town?"
"Parney's twenty miles south of here," he replied. "Just below the foothills of the Leton Mountains."
She shook her head, smiling up at him.
"I don't know it."
"A beautiful place. If ever your wanderings take you there you must be my guest," he offered politely.
He froze. The words left his mouth like syllables of burning ash; the deadly shadow of things that were not, things that might be, a fate settling into the groove his act had chosen. He probed the pathways of the future and met only swirling mist. No mage can read his own fate.
"Wythen," he asked gently, "is anything wrong? Are you in trouble of some sort? Or ill? I'd help if I could."
Her eyes shuttered and she hunched forward, face stiff with pride. "Wrong?" she said. "Others of no greater skill have homes, and I none." She turned her head away. "A safe journey to you, Master Sorcerer."
Narvik frowned down at her and bowed, lifting his staff formally. Too changeable by half, he thought. An illness of the mind . . . or spirit-ridden? Instinct warned against probing her wards to find out. I offered help, and hospitality. There is no more I may do.
"A good journey to you, Master Sorceress," he said, and turned on his heel.
Wythen watched him go, then spat in the dust beyond her blanket.
Pah! How fine we are, how noble and good. Come visit to see what you've none of. And when you've filled your heart with longing for things you'll never get—such as my handsome self—then it's "off with you, you great ugly lump."
She turned and dug through the canvas sack that held her belongings, burrowing beneath leather-strapped books and bags of herbs.
Her hand found the hammer of polished stone and the long iron nail, moving without her will.
No! Wythen thought. Not that!
She placed the nail on the circle Narvik's heel had left in the dirt.
Don't do this.
Her mouth made words, shaping the stuff of the world. With a single hard blow she drove the nail into the footprint. Her hand started forward to pluck it out and undo the curse, then sank back quivering.
Death curse, she told herself. A low moan sounded as she pressed her hands to her aching forehead. Death.
Unless he could find his way to this one footprint among millions and pull the nail out himself.
Forget! snapped a voice that only Wythen could hear.
Memory faded into black mist and hungry yellow eyes.
Wythen looked up at the mountain peaks southward of Parney and shivered at the sight of the snow already creeping down their flanks, turning her hood up against the wind. It was a relief to come to Parney town, past the dark bare-branched vineyards and in among the houses, lights showing yellow and warm through the windows against the gathering night. She passed the houses of wealthy merchants and vintners on the outskirts, set back amid walled gardens, passed on to where brick and timber buildings leaned over narrow streets of worn cobblestone. A sign creaked over one, bearing a pictured mug and sheaf of wheat; beside it was an entrance to an enclosed courtyard rimmed with stables.
"Innkeeper?" she called, pushing through the doors.
Warmth greeted her, and tantalizing cooking smells from beyond the common room. There was a big brick hearth on one side, with a pot of mulled wine rich with cinnamon hanging over the coal fire. Booths and tables lined the other walls, save for a counter with barrels behind it.
"Innkeeper?" The man behind the counter looked up. "Could you tell me the way to the house of Narvik, son of Phocon, the sorcerer?"
He started. "Would you be a friend of his? A colleague, perhaps?" His eyes went to her staff and pouch, both carved with the markings of her trade.
"I'm a sorceress, if that's what you mean," she said with an uneasy smile.
"Please," he said, suddenly at her side. "Sit. You honor this house with your presence."
He urged her to a table, pushing a cup of the hot wine into her cold hands. A plate appeared as if by Art, heaped with slices of roast mutton and roots in cream sauce, with a fresh loaf and butter and a wedge of cheese. The innkeeper waved aside her protests.
"No, no payment—an honor, as I said."
Wythen closed her mouth, except for eating. Chances like this didn't come very often; the server refilled her plate, replacing it with a fruit pie and a cup of wine better than she could afford. As she ate a half-dozen men and women slipped into the room, standing and talking quietly among themselves. Prosperous-looking folk, in coats of fine dyed wool and shoes with upturned toes, holding their floppy hats in their hands, casting an occasional glance her way. When she pushed away her plate with a sigh, one came over to her with a courteous bow.
He was the smallest among them, an older gentleman with a neatly pointed beard.
"I'm Cafrym, good sorceress, Syndic of the Corporation of Parney. I wonder, would you be so good as to allow us to discuss a business proposal with you?"
Wythen gestured wordless invitation at the seats across from her. The others gathered, clearing their throats.
Business? she thought. How curious. What about Narvik?
"We've sent out numerous messengers," Cafrym said. "Are you here because of them?".
"No." News?
"Are you, uh, great friends with Narvik?"
Wythen shook her head again, this time frowning.
"No. We met at a fair last autumn. He invited me to visit if I was ever in the area."
"Ah. Well. I'm sorry . . . Narvik, son of Phocon, took ill and died in the early summer. Just . . ." Cafrym grimaced and spread his hands, " . . .faded away, unable to help himself."
A tearing gasp broke from her. Something cold ran through her body, like a wisp of icy mist. Tears filled her eyes. My fault! her mind accused.
She'd forgotten. She always forgot when she did something truly evil. Only to remember when, as now, someone told her the results of her wickedness. Despair crashed down upon her like an avalanche. She wanted to destroy herself.
No use. She'd tried before. Once she'd placed a noose round her neck and tightened it, and once she had a flagon of poison actually at her lips. Both times Wythen suddenly found herself trudging the road, footsore and far from where she'd been, all her possessions on her back, with a headache like a spike driven into her brow.
Why? Her heart was beating so fast she feared it would burst. Why would I hurt him? He was kind to me.
Cafrym reached out as though to take her hand and one of the councilwomen offered brandy. Wythen took it and gulped, gasping again as the fire burned its way down her throat.
"I'm sorry," Cafrym said. "He was a friend to us all."
Wythen nodded, struggling to regain her composure.
"I'm sure . . ." Cafrym paused.
"That he'd want us to welcome you," the councilwoman supplied quickly. "I'm Radola. Narvik was a great friend to my family. I know he would have wished you to find—"
"A place with us," snapped Cafrym, reestablishing control. "Ah, assuming you don't already have a place of your own. You've the look of a, um, wandering scholar."
Wythen stroked her brow with trembling fingers.
"You need a replacement," she said. "Of course. I've . . . several testimonials you could look at."
She took a deep breath. They're quick to replace the man who was their friend, she thought, with a feeling of distaste.
Cafrym seemed to sense her doubt: "Winter's almost on us, sorceress. There's deep snow in the pass already; in two weeks the roads will be closed."
He leaned forward earnestly. "We're in danger here. There are ice demons in the winter and . . . other things. Who'll set the wards for us and keep them out of our houses and away from our stock? And we need a healer. Winters are hard here."
"Narvik warned us in the spring to seek a replacement," Radola said. "We've searched, but found no one. Surely your coming was fated; for without knowing our need, here you are. Please stay. There'll be deaths here this winter if you don't."
Radola's face matched her words, but not the eyes. Wythen stared until the older woman looked aside.
"You shall have the sorcerer's cottage," said a tall, thin fellow.
"And his books and instruments," added a woman. "And thirty silver groala as well," put in a thickset, bushy-bearded fellow. The whole crowd of councilors shifted in displeasure, but the fellow winked at Wythen. "And a winter indoors, into the bargain. If you hate us you can always leave in the spring," he added.
She grinned at him.
"And if you hate me, you can always ask me to leave," she said, smiling.
Wythen shook Cafrym's hand to seal the bargain.
The cottage was lovely, modest in size and cozy, with comfortable furnishings and a good-sized herb garden, now dying in the cold. Radola had ordered her servants to see to its upkeep, so it was clean and aired as well.
Best of all were the books. Wythen had never seen so many. Fourteen of them, huge leather-bound volumes with brass clasps or silver locks. Her hand shook as she reached out to touch them reverently.
"Oh, Narvik," she whispered, "I will take care of Parney! I swear it. I'll never hurt your people." Her heart was in the promise, but she didn't know if she could keep it. The evil she did came out of nowhere and vanished into the mist, only to be caught out by chance. But she would try, with all of her heart and mind and skill.
At first, it was difficult to settle in, the mood in the cottage was hostile, as though the very hearth rejected her. And her sleep was restless—with half-formed dreams laden with anger.
Narvik's anger.
Wythen dreamed.
She walked by a stream, through a meadow, searching for a bracelet lost by Radola's daughter. The meadow was bright with sun, water chuckled over polished brown rock . . . but the grass grew, clutching at her feet. She ran, falling as it snagged her ankles. The sun turned to Narvik's face, blazing down out of the sky in fiery wrath, and the stream heaved itself up in a wave to crush her, the rocks churning like a quern . . . .
Wythen sat bolt upright, her mouth wide as she gasped. She fumbled on the bedside table for her candle and willed it alight, looking around for the man whose presence she could feel.
"Oh, Narvik," she whispered, in a small tear-filled voice, "forgive me. I didn't know, I swear I meant—"
She stopped. I meant you no harm. It seemed obscene even to shape the thought.
She'd murdered him.
"I'll take care of your people," she said at last, "to the best of my ability. And I will try to do no harm here. And . . . if another comes to take your place I'll leave at once, whatever the season." She lay back in the bed and closed her eyes, leaving the candle burning. "Please, give me a chance."
Oh, easily said, Narvik thought. How can I stop you, after all?
His anger rose again—he wished he could throttle the figure in the bed. But he couldn't. His fiercest blow would feel like a caress to Wythen.
The darkness and the sleep had ended when she crossed his threshold. He heard the sound of her footsteps as she came in from fetching water from the well. When she opened the door he cried out: "You!"
She'd lifted her head, looking about herself mildly, not frightened, sensing something only because of what she was. He'd railed at her for hours, wasting strength. Nothing, not even another glance of curiosity. That was when he'd decided to stalk her dreams. Tonight was the first time she'd seen him.
Murder made a strong ghost, twice over when it was a sorcerer's. The mage-born were tenacious of life, and death did not take them in the same manner as other folk.
And it won't be the last dream, you murderess!
His people were in danger as long as she remained. The Syndics of Parney had let a madwoman into their midst; a madwoman with a sorcerer's powers. And he couldn't warn them. They couldn't even sense his presence as more than a vague unease.
He'd have to drive her away.
Wythen threw another scoop of coal on the fire and sat back, the book in her lap. Its pages glowed with a cool blue light; a small working, and well worth it for saving strain on the eyes. Outside the wind rattled at the shutters, but the cottage was warm and snug. There seemed to be a snicker of wicked laughter in the gale; she drew her robe tighter and frowned at the parchment page.
"Birthings, lung fever, ice demons. I can handle those. But rock imps . . ."
She'd never seen one, though she'd heard their maniacal cackling and seen the destruction they wreaked. One farmer in particular they loved to plague, tossing stones down his chimney and chasing three of his sheep to death in two weeks. The poor man and Wythen herself were at wit's end.
She looked at the bed, over beyond the hearth, and the oven built into the wall beside it. It was warm and soft, the bed she'd dreamed of when she lay huddled in cold haystacks or under hedges, but she felt a little catch of fear as she turned back the coverlet and laid herself down. Sleep meant Narvik . . .
Wythen closed her eyes and willed sleep to come. The dead sorcerer came with it, a being of anger and terror.
"I need your help."
His blue eyes widened. The nimbus died around his dream shape.
"Saymon, son of Daura, has rock imps on his farm! Nothing I've tried works!" she shouted in exasperation. "What should I do?"
Narvik glowered at her, then was gone. Real sleep claimed Wythen; for the first time since autumn she rested.
Narvik ground his . . . well, they were something like teeth. Seeing her eat off my plates, sleep in my bed, use my books . . .
It was more than he could bear; and there was nothing else to do, either. I don't want to be dead! He supposed few did, but a sorcerer's ghost had more ability to express it.
She will do my people some injury. Months so far and she'd been a model sorceress. Skilled, not grasping, generous with her time. The people of Parney liked her, and she'd earned that.
But there was an evil about her, and sooner or later it would break free. And he helpless to prevent it!
She was mage-born, and so he could walk in her dreams, stand always at her shoulder. Yet her wards protected her . . . .
Something dark clung to her, twisting around the roots of her soul like swamp fog, a flavor of pure evil. But whenever he approached for a better look it disappeared. The last time, he'd seen it grinning out of Wythen's dark eyes.
She's possessed! he thought grimly. Nothing else made sense; one who was evil of her own soul would have shown it in a thousand petty ways. Couldn't help but show it. No, she was possessed by another.
Even dead he was in danger from it. The spirit had only to take over her body, perform a rite of exorcism and he'd be back in his grave. Or worse. It probably had a vile sense of humor.
Narvik sighed, then frowned. When he wasn't angry he was sighing. This wouldn't do. He was used to taking action when something troubled him. There must be some way to help her, he thought. Something niggled at his memory, but he couldn't catch it.
Ah, well, about those rock imps.
When she opened her eyes to the pale gray light of a winter's morning, Wythen leapt out of bed heedless of the cold flagstone floor. A book lay on the kitchen table, a key in its silver lock. In the place marked with a clean straw she found what she was looking for."
Of course!" The red granite in the walls of Saymon's farmhouse. That must have come from the imp's home boulder; if she exorcised it . . .
"Oh, Narvik! Thank you." Tears filled her eyes. "Thank you so much."
Tension drained suddenly from the air of the cottage, like a pain endured so long one was only conscious of it when it left. Yet the air didn't feel empty or solitary; it was as if someone listened, smiling.
"She's better," Councilwoman Radola said with relief.
Wythen nodded and sighed, feeling the child's forehead. The girl stirred in her sleep, but the simple rest-spell held. The room was warm, slightly damp and fragrant with the herbs boiling over a brazier in one corner. A stuffed dragon peeped out from the coverlets.
"Lung fever's dangerous at her age," Wythen said. "But the crisis is past. Once spring sets in fair, we ought to be over the worst."
Narvik relaxed his hold and his consciousness snapped back to its psychic anchorage in the cottage. Water dripped from melting icicles around the eaves. He turned to the flower boxes beneath the windows, where the translucent silver sheen of ice lilies showed, peeking through crusty, melting snow. He extended his hands—they felt like hands—and strained. It was harder than the straws, heavier, not spell-sensitized to his command like the books and instruments.
A ghost could not gasp, but he felt himself thin as he pulled, as if the effort were draining the strength that let him remain near the land of the living. At last the flower parted and came free in his hand. He laid it on her plate before her chair.
A few seconds later Wythen bustled in; laden with a full basket from the councilwoman's house, her face flushed with the raw chill of early spring. She unwound the scarf from her head, fumbling with the bone clasps of her long sheepskin coat. The basket of food almost went down on the lily, but she snatched the wickerwork aside and stood staring for a long moment.
When she raised her head there were tears running down the frost-reddened cheeks. Wythen would never be anything but homely, but Narvik forgot that as he watched
"Nobody . . . nobody ever gave me a flower before," she whispered. "Thank you."
She slid the frail stem into a small vase and set it in the center of the table, blushing and smiling.
Wythen woke in blue, predawn light and crawled reluctantly out of bed, shivering as she drew her robe around her shoulders and stooped to stoke the banked fire. She lit a splinter of wood at the cheerful flames, using it to light the oil lantern on the mantlepiece—and froze, as she saw a book on the table.
"What is it, Narvik?" she whispered. "Is trouble coming?"
As before, a clean straw marked a place and she opened the book to the page indicated. Leaning close she read: "To Lay a Troubled Spirit."
Wythen closed her eyes and bit her lip, as grief shot through her. Rest, she thought. He wants to rest. Her fingers curled to slam the book shut in denial. No. I killed him. I cannot wrong him again.
"I'm sorry," she said, and began to read.
"I-I've never done anything so complex," she stammered. This time it was fear that made her fingers itch to close the book. The diagrams alone . . . and the danger, if only one thing went wrong.
A feeling passed by her eyes as she sat; warmth, comfort, the touch of a hand on her shoulder. "Every time I think of you, my heart breaks," she said. Then she sat a little straighter. "But if this is what you want, I will try."
Slowly and deliberately, the page before her turned . . . in still, cold air that didn't even ruffle the wisp of hair at the back of her neck. That rose on its own. To find the results of Narvik's actions was one thing; to see them in the waking day, another.
She read, "To Bring the Mage-Born Back to Life When Untimely Slain." Her heart gave a kick. This is what he wants! It was what she wanted too. Of course she'd have to leave then, but still . . .
She read the spell and frowned. But for one word, they were identical.
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. He was so fair, she thought, to show me both. Leaving the decision up to her.
I must give up Parney, she thought bleakly. Friends. Respect. Home. The road again, the loneliness and the cold rain.
Or . . . he might turn her over to the Syndic for trial. He'd seemed to forgive her, but . . . trust no one, her teacher Navila had warned, cackling, not even me.
She sighed. Either spell must be worked on Lammas Night, two months away. She'd plenty of time to think about it.
Carefully, she closed the book. "I will," she promised. "Narvik, I will."
In a place that had neither dark, nor any hint of light, Navila the Yellow chuckled. I shall live! she sang.
No more clinging to her former apprentice, feeding from her energy like a bloated tick. No more having to store up that energy until she was strong enough to claim the use of Wythen's body. Nor of being forced out when that power was gone.
I know her, Navila thought. Little fool! Wythen would choose to bring the handsome sorcerer back to life. All she need do was wait for the precise moment, seize Wythen's voice and say Navila instead of Narvik. Then I shall live!
Whether the fool noticed or not, the spell must be completed or the magician would die. And Wythen was tenacious of life, as she had cause to know. Then Navila would make her a slave again. The chains forged when Wythen was a child were still there, requiring little effort to take them in hand again.
And then we'll have some fun with the good people of Parney, eh? Beginning with Narvik. There were most entertaining things one could do to a ghost.
Narvik's tomb stood in Radola's family vault; plain limestone among the marble and porphyry. The lock turned with a snapping click, and the door shrieked as Wythen pushed it to. It was both chilly and a little damp, half an hour short of midnight.
She stepped to the center of the floor and extended her staff, chanting. And chanting she turned, the bronze ferule tracing a circle on the stone precisely as a geometer could have graven with a compass. Blue-green light sprang up behind it.
"Aleph," she said, when the circle was complete, and grounded the staff with a thump in the center of the ring.
It stood rigid when she removed her hand, as if sunken half its length in the living rock.
Wythen began to trace the outer edge of the circle, trickling a precise handful of sea salt.
"Arlin's bigghes have mickle might
Strong to daunt and strong to bind;
None may dare the sun-strong line,
None may cross the salt-drawn cord—"
When the last glyph was drawn she forced a word through lips already numb with fatigue: "Gimel." They shone around her, silver and green and blood-red, living shapes of power.
Navila watched Wythen work, with critical attention. Taught her better than I knew, she thought, surprised, feeling the tension in the young woman's body.
She stretched her senses, seeking Narvik, finding no sign of the ghost. Odd. Suspicious. It worried her until the circle was completed. Now the ghost was locked out and couldn't interfere with her plans.
Fool! she thought cheerfully. So stupid he deserves to suffer. And he would, oh, yes, he would. Forever, to begin with.
Navila wondered if she'd come back young. Oh, glorious, to have my beauty back, she thought longingly. To be free of this horse-faced slut. Men had noticed the young Navila. When Wythen came in sight they turned away, or laughed outright.
Ah. The moment was upon her. Navila slid into Wythen's body with practiced ease, so smoothly that the girl's speech was not interrupted.
" . . .and call forth the one known as Navila that they . . ."
Navila slipped free. Bonds stronger than mortal steel tugged at her, she screamed in joyful pain as they wrenched free—the hooks of soul and spirit that linked her to her apprentice. Now! Now!
Wythen chanted on; there was no stopping, except for death. I blacked out! An instant with no sight, no sound. Panic dragged at her concentration. Tension gathered in the tomb, the air itself felt stretched with the power drawing down into the focus, like water spiralling into a hole that reached through creation.
"Wythen," a voice whispered softly in her ear. "Do you trust me?"
Narvik? How could she answer him? She could speak no word, make no gesture that was not part of the ritual.
She could feel something sinking into her. Her skin went numb Her heart beat so that she could hear the pounding of the red drum in her ears, and still voice and hands made their ancient, precise additions to the structure of energies towering above her like a frozen avalanche.
Think your answers, Narvik said. I'll hear them.
What are you doing? she demanded frantically. Why are you in my mind? Sweat ran into her eyes, trickled coldly down her spine. Her knees trembled and her mouth was dry as crumbling parchment.
Do you trust me?
Yes. No. I . . . don't know. Her thoughts scattered like beads from a broken necklace. What was he doing? He didn't trust her.
I do trust you, Wythen. And I need for you to trust me. I want you to recite the spell that lays a spirit to rest.
No! she thought wildly.
Please. I don't ask this lightly, Wythen. It's what I truly, desperately want.
Narvik sensed her sad acceptance. The moment approached and he could feel Wythen's resolve wavering. Please! he said. And with a sense of utter desolation, Wythen complied.
The thing danced around him. It had the form of an old woman, but the eyes could never have been human; they were like windows into nothingness, an oblivion that pulled into a bottomless hunger.
Navila stopped her capering and stood before Wythen, her arms reaching for her.
Give it to me, she demanded. Give me life!
But wait. The girl was weak-willed, never knowing her own mind from day to day. She might decide to lay Narvik to rest. That wouldn't do at all, now would it? Navila decided to make sure. She reached for Wythen. And was blocked!
What's this? She probed the solid barrier that stopped her. You!
Narvik! In her servant's body.
How dare you? she screamed. .
Navila reached out and to Narvik's utter shock yanked him from Wythen's body as easily as pulling the skin off a boiled root, flinging him hard against the edge of the circle.
Narvik cringed back from it, burnt with an icy draining.
Wythen staggered as she felt his pain. Her mouth shocked open in an O of agony, but her hands went up in the last gesture and she breathed the words that would lay her love to rest.
Navila felt herself fading, drawn beyond the living world. She knew what waited for her; knew very well, and how it would greet her after the long, long wait past the appointed hour. With a shriek of hatred she turned and launched herself at Wythen. Reaching out with the last of her strength, she caught hold of Wythen's heart.
Narvik heard the last word of the spell. Blood burst from Wythen's eyes and mouth and fingernails. Her heart beat once, and stopped.
Wythen opened her eyes on darkness; the pain was gone, and she felt so calm that her wonder at it was mild. In the distance was a light; a swelling star casting flickering curls of gold around it. She started walking towards it, faster and faster; her calmness blossomed into joy, joy that was also deep contentment.
"Wait!" a voice called.
She ignored it. There were others calling to her from ahead now.
"Come back."
"I don't want to come back," she said. Reluctantly, she slowed, turning to look over her shoulder.
"There's so much you have left to do. So much life has to offer you."
"No," she said, frowning. "I've done terrible things I don't want to hurt people anymore. It's best I don't go back. Leave me alone."
"You've never hurt anyone, Wythen. It was the old woman. You don't deserve to die for her crimes. Please, come back."
"But it was I who killed you, my hands, I saw them . . ."
My hands, but not my will within the hands.
"Thank you," she whispered, stepping forward, moving quickly again.
"Don't leave me!" Narvik begged. "You can't leave me like this."
Wythen stopped. He was right.
There seemed to be no space between decision and action here, no hesitation—as if to recognize the right was to do it. The light receded from her, growing smaller and smaller.
Darkness fell.
When she opened her eyes, Narvik was seated beside her, transparent as a reflection on still water. He smiled and took his hand from her brow; a touch so faint she was only conscious of it when it was removed, like a whisper of wind on a calm day.
Wythen licked dry lips and tried to rise. She came to one elbow with an effort that made her moan in pain. One look around and she let herself collapse again.
"The lines are ruined," she said in despair. Darkened, blurred.
Narvik laughed.
"Wythen," he said, leaning over her. "You couldn't feed a kitten milk now, much less raise the dead." He smiled with amusement and tenderness. "Go home. Sleep."
"Oh. But you'll have to wait for . . ."
"Next year?" He shrugged. "What's a year, to a ghost?"
"I'll take good care of Parney," she promised weakly. "And when the time comes I'll leave without a fuss."
"When the time comes," he said leaning over her, "I shall bind you to me with the strongest bonds I can weave." He kissed her on the lips.
I felt that! she thought. Then realized what he'd said, and stared.
He laughed.
"You shall have a place, and friends all around you and a warm hearth in winter"
"And . . . you?" she asked.
Narvik stroked the curls back from her high forehead.
"And me most of all," he promised.