Mortalis

Abbot Hingas desires audience, my liege," the castle guardsman reported to King Danube. Duke Kalas, sitting at the side of the room, snorted derisively. He had no love for Hingas, the interim abbot of St. Honce, whom he thought a complete fool. Kalas didn't care much for any member of the Abellican Church, of course, but in the case of Abbot Hingas, several others of King Danube's court, Constance among them, had to agree with him.

"He has come to complain about the broken windows again, no doubt," said Constance Pemblebury, who had her back to the others, sitting modestly and feeding Torrence, her second son, who was now six months old. Merwick moved excitedly about her chair, setting up little wooden blocks, then kicking them all over the room.

"Or to talk about the weight of a soul," Kalas remarked, "of how it is lighter than the very air about us and so it floats, floats, to heaven." His voice rose an octave as he spoke the words, sarcastic and derisive.

" Your Majesty? " the poor sentry asked.

King Danube rolled his eyes.

"No!" Kalas yelled at the sentry. "Out with him! Out! Send him back to St. Honce and tell him to suffer the rocks and the taunts. Tell them all to suffer, for the good of the world, and when they have finally appointed an abbot, a real abbot, let him come and beg audience with the King."

The fiery Duke's tirade didn't surprise the others, of course, but the intensity of it this time certainly made Danube and Constance look at each other with concern.

"Better off is Je'howith," Constance remarked dryly, and even diplomatic King Danube couldn't deny a chuckle at that.

"In the grave and at peace from Duke Kalas," Danube said.

"Did you wish to speak with the idiot? " Kalas asked, clutching his heart as if their words had wounded him. " Likely you did me a favor," King Danube replied, pulling himself from his chair and walking over to the window.

Below him lay Ursal, quiet, awaiting winter. Every family had at least one victim now, so it was reported; and many houses lay dark and still, full of death, with no one to go in and retrieve the bodies.

Such was King Danube's beloved capital that late autumn of God's Year 829. It should have been among the happiest times of Danube's life. The demon and its minions had been shattered; the Church, always a nagging rival to the Throne, had been pushed into disarray; and his dear Constance had given him two sons: sons whom he was beginning to think of as heirs to his throne-though, of course, he'd have to speak with his brother at length about that possibility.

Yet, here he was, buttoned up within the prison that Castle Ursal had become, a fortress against the misery of the plague, though that most insidious of enemies had found its way even into these fortified halls, forcing the expulsion of two servants and a guard.

So far, though, none of his closest friends had been afflicted; and for that, King Danube mumbled a little prayer of thanks as he stood solemnly at the high window, looking out over his wounded kingdom.

Not much of a blessing, perhaps, but in this dark day, any light at all seemed a good thing.

The snow held off in the northland until after the turn of winter, but when it did come to Dundalis, it did so in fury, with drifts covering the entire sides of houses and burying the fences of the corrals.

Soon after, and still before the turn of God's Year 830, the weather calmed enough for Pony to attempt venturing out. And truly, she needed the time alone, at the grove and Elbryan's cairn, her great retreat from the events of the world.

She saddled Greystone and walked out of Dundalis, up the north slope and along the rim of the vale filled with caribou moss and pines, for the edges of the dale were windblown and nearly clear, while the dell itself was deep in snow. She found the trails within the forest easier going than she had anticipated, though the snow was often halfway up Greystone's legs, and on several occasions, Pony had to dismount and lead the horse along.

She had left early in the morning, and a good thing it was, for it was nearing noon when she at last came to the sheltered grove. The rolling hills and sharp ravines nearby were too deep and too slick, so Pony had dismounted again and tethered the horse in a windblown clearing, walking in the last quarter mile.

Two sets of hoofprints, running the length of the last field and right into the grove, alerted her that she was not alone. At first, she thought that it might be Bradwarden and Symphony-for who else would be out here on such a day-but then she saw a third track, the boots of a rider, beside the line ofhoofprints.

Shadowing the forest line for cover, Pony did a complete circuit of the grove. She spied a lone rider in the distance, sitting quietly along the tree line, bundled under mounds of furs.

Now she fell into her hematite, using its depths to release her spirit from her corporeal body. She went out to the rider first, and determined on her way that he had a companion, who was within the grove-her grove!-and the mere thought of that made her angry.

The rider was a man of about Pony's age, rugged but handsome, with a dark, two-week beard and sparkling, alert eyes. Something about him seemed familiar to Pony, but she could not place it.

Not wanting to linger for fear of being discovered, she turned her spirit and swept into the grove, passing insubstantially among the trees.

She found the other man standing before the twin cairns-grave markers that had been recently cleared of snow. He was a giant of a man, with long, somewhat thinning, flaxen hair, eyes the color of a clear northern sky, and a sword strapped diagonally across his back.

And what a sword-the largest Pony had ever seen! A sword that could cleave through any blocking shield, through any blocking tree, and cut the opponent in half!

The man started, glancing about, suddenly on the alert; and Pony realized that he had somehow sensed her presence. In the span of a single thought, she was back in her body, blinking her eyes, orienting herself to the physical world about her.

She paused, waiting a few moments, and when no call came from the grove and when the giant man didn't emerge, she picked a path that would keep her out of sight of the waiting rider, and slipped across the field, one hand on Defender, the other in her gemstone pouch, rolling both graphite and lodestone between her fingers.

She moved stealthily, perfectly quiet, from shadow to shadow, as Elbryan had taught her. Still, before she was within ten paces of the man, he called out, "You should not be sneaking up on me so, good woman. It makes me edgy."

He turned slowly, a wry smile showing on his bearded face. His hands remained at his side, making no movement toward that incredible sword.

"A bit far out of town in such a season as this, are you not?" the man asked.

"What do you know of it? "

"I know that Dundalis is the closest town, and a hard morning's march in this deep snow," the man answered. "And I know that Weedy Meadow is another twenty miles from that."

Pony cocked her head, staring at him curiously. How could he know so much, without her being aware of any such man in the area? And what of Bradwarden? The centaur knew, or claimed to know, of everything that moved in the forest. And yet, Pony had not heard from Bradwarden in many days, and even that had been no more than the piping song carried on a favorable evening breeze.

"What are you doing here?" Pony asked firmly, watching the man closely. If he went for that sword, she intended to lay him low with a lightning stroke.

The big man shrugged. "Paying my respects," he said.

"To whom?" Pony's words came out unintentionally sharp. Who was this man to presume that he could walk unannounced to Elbryan's grave?

"To fellow rangers," the Alpinadoran replied, and Pony's jaw dropped.

"To Nightbird, and to Mather before him," the ranger went on. "Word reached me of his demise, and so I owed him this visit, though the road was long and difficult."

"Who are you?"

"I was thinking of asking you the same thing."

"Who are you to stand uninvited and unannounced before my husband's grave? " Pony replied, clarifying much.

The big man nodded and smiled. "Jilseponie Wyndon, then," he said. "Pony to her friends. Companion of Nightbird to the end." He bowed respectfully. "I am Andacanavar of Alpinador, elven-trained, as was your husband. The full story of the tragedy in Palmaris came to me by the way of Brother Holan Dellman of the Abellican Church, who now serves at St. Belfour in Vanguard."

Pony was shaking her head, hardly able to believe the man, but the mention of Brother Dellman, her friend, put her at ease. Too much so, she realized a moment later, when she head a voice behind her.

"And I am Liam O'Blythe," it said, and Pony spun to see the man who'd been on horseback near her-near enough to have jumped her before she could use her gemstones or draw her sword, and how foolish that made her feel.

But this man, too, bowed politely, respectfully, and made no move against her.

"We did not know that you were again in this area," Andacanavar went on, "else we would have sought you out."

"Though we plan on making as little contact with the folk of this region, or any other region outside Vanguard, as possible," Liam said.

Pony looked at him curiously, and then at his huge companion. "You would find that the folk of the Timberlands are not so quick to judge based on heritage," she said.

"Not that," Andacanavar explained. "We have heard news of the rosy plague." "True words," Pony said.

"And thus we do not wish to bring it with us back to Vanguard or to Alpinador," Liam said. "But enough of my intrusion," he went on, and Pony realized that the ranger behind her had given him a signal to be gone. He left with another bow, moving gracefully, with a warrior's balanced gait, and Pony turned back to regard the ranger.

They talked easily, like old friends, for more than two hours. Pony did most of the talking, answering Andacanavar's many questions about Elbryan. The ranger wanted every detail of every story, wanted to hear Pony imitate her lover's laugh and describe his wry grin to the dimple. Andacanavar listened to her with obvious amusement, smiling and laughing often.

How quickly the afternoon passed, and Pony realized that she would have to be on her way if she hoped to make Dundalis before dark.

"The signs are telling me that tomorrow will be another fine day," the ranger said to her. "Will you come back to this place, then, and speak with me again? "

Pony looked at him, seeming unsure.

"I will tell you more about the elves, and more about that which helped to form your Nightbird into the man you loved," Andacanavar promised.

"Then I will return," Pony said with a smile.

That night, in her bed in the small room above Fellowship Way, Pony was visited by dreams of Elbryan more vivid than any she had known since his death. Unlike some of her previous dreams of her husbandreenactments of that final battle mostly, and horrible things-these were pleasant, warm memories that made Pony awaken with a smile.

She was up early, working quickly through her chores at the tavern, then promising Belster she would return by dark and rushing out. She found Andacanavar and his friend at the grove again; and again, the smaller man left them. Untrue to his promise, though, Andacanavar bade Pony again to do the talking, to tell him even more of Nightbird.

And she complied eagerly, pouring out her heart, telling about her separation from Elbryan and all those years apart, when he was with the elves, and she in Palmaris and later in the King's army. She told of their journey to the Barbacan to do battle with the demon dactyl-Andacanavar liked that part most of all!-and of their work against the minions of the demon upon their return south. She told of the journey to St.-MereAbelle to rescue Bradwarden, and then she told the Alpinadoran ranger, in solemn tones, tears streaking her cheeks, of the final battle against Markwart, when Elbryan gave his life to save her and to rid the world of Bestesbulzibar.

When the sun began its swift descent, Pony realized that she had to go.

"Tomorrow?" Andacanavar asked her. "That you can tell me again of the Touel'alfar? " Pony asked sarcastically, for the ranger had spent the entire day asking question after question.

"I will," the ranger promised. "I will tell you of the many tests a ranger in training must master. A marvelous race are the Touel'alfar. Adaptable and-"

Pony laughed aloud. "That is not a word I would use to describe them," she said.

"But they are!" Andacanavar protested. "Why, they had to concoct an entirely different fighting style for me, to accommodate my size and strength."

"Different than bi'nelle dasada?" Pony asked, and that set the big man back on his heels.

"What would you know of that? " he asked.

Pony glanced to the side, to see the ranger's companion returning to the grove. / \

"I know the sword dance," Pony whispered. "I know it well."

Andacanavar looked at her, his face showing both surprise and concern. "What would you know of it, then? " he asked.

"Nightbird-Elbryan-taught it to me," she explained. "The sword dance. All of it. We fought together in movements perfectly complementary."

That raised Andacanavar's bushy eyebrows, and he nodded and said, "hmm," repeatedly.

"Lady Dasslerond was not pleased," Pony admitted, then she laughed. "Not at all!"

"I say this not in jest, my friend, but I suspect that the lady considered quieting you in the most extreme manner possible," the ranger replied.

"I doubt you not at all," Pony replied in all seriousness. "I suspect that Belli'mar Juraviel intervened on my behalf, and that, because of him, the lady trusts that I will keep well the elven secret."

"No small faith!" said Andacanavar. "Are you the new ranger of the Timberlands?" he asked jokingly.

But Pony's face remained serious. "Belli'mar explained that such a thing would not be possible, that I was too old to be considered for the training," she said.

"But they let you live and keep well their secret, and that is no small thing!" Andacanavar said with a great laugh, and Pony joined him.

"Then that weapon strapped at your hip is for more than show?" the ranger asked a moment later, a wry look crossing his face. "Liam fancies himself a bit of a swordsman," he said. "You think you might show me? "

Pony considered the challenge for a moment. She thought that she should refuse, remembering her promise to Belli'mar Juraviel to keep the sword dance private and secret. And yet, this was a ranger bidding her on, one who knew the dance, obviously.

"What is it?" Andacanavar's companion asked, seeing the questioning expressions as he walked up to the pair, dropping a wild turkey he had shot beside him.

"Right here?" Pony asked Andacanavar. "It is crowded with trees."

"Does not the dance take the entire battlefield into consideration?" the ranger asked.

"What battlefield? " asked the smaller man.

"Your battlefield," Andacanavar replied, standing up and brushing the snow from his doeskin breeches. "Yours and hers. Our new friend has told me some interesting things about her background, and I would like to test her here and now."

"Then the battlefield is your own," the other man protested.

Andacanavar gave a laugh. "My fighting style is too disparate from that which she claims for me to take any measure. Come then, Liam, draw your sword and dirk and let the woman have her way with you."

The man looked at Pony curiously, to see her brushing the snow off her breeches and then drawing a truly beautiful, slender sword.

He nodded. "Be gentle," he said to Pony.

"Never in all my life," she replied, and she turned sideways, on guard, her left foot back, her right leg before her. She rocked over her knee, finding her balance.

"And if I unintentionally hurt her, will you chop me down, Andacanavar? " the smaller man asked.

The ranger gave a chuckle-and he meant it, for just from Pony's stance, Andacanavar understood that his companion's fears were not likely to come to fruition.

"I will try not to cut you, and expect the same," the man said. "First blood, if it comes to that, first advantage if not."

Pony didn't bother to answer, just rocked back and forth, feeling her balance, remembering her many training sessions with Elbryan, working the dance naked in the morning light, remembering the many fights she had won beside her lover, their movements too harmonious, too synchronous, for any enemy to stand against them.

She felt bi'nelle dasada flowing through her again, for the first time since that awful day, but instead of bringing back all the bad memories and fears and sense of loss, it felt to Pony as if she were with her lover again. It felt wonderful!

"Are you ready? " she heard her opponent ask. From his tone, she realized that he must have already asked that question several times.

She smiled and nodded, and Liam came on suddenly, a side slash with the sword, followed by a sudden short dagger thrust.

Pony easily had Defender in line to parry the slash, then angled her sword the other way, abbreviating the dagger move.

The man smiled, obviously impressed. Pony came on suddenly, a lunge and thrust that became a sideways slap that sent his sword wide, followed by another quick step forward, Defender's tip coming ahead briefly, then angling down, parrying his dagger parry before it could begin.

The man was quick, though, and he brought his sword back in, recovering from his surprise, and went on the sudden forward attack.

But the sword dance was flowing mightily through Pony, filling her with a joy she had feared she would never know again. On came Liam's sword thrust and dagger thrust, but Pony skittered back, her legs working fast, her upper body hardly moving at all, in perfect balance.

Liam came on even farther, seeing that she was running out of room, with a clump of birch trees close behind.

Pony backed right up to them, and as her opponent closed, she came forward with a thrust-a measured thrust, for she ended it abruptly, her left hand catching hold of the birch behind her, all her momentum shifting suddenly, so that she spun around the bending tree.

"Well done," her opponent congratulated her. But before he even finished his salute, sword to forehead, he had to launch his weapon out in a desperate parry, for Pony leaped through the birch tangle and came on once again-thrust, thrust, thrust.

He parried each stroke in succession, barely, and now found himself backing fast, and with far less balance than Pony had shown.

She pressed her advantage, rushing forward, sword stabbing for his belly, for his chest, for his face, and then his belly again, and with his using both his weapons frantically to fend off her blows.

Now her momentum had seemingly played out, and she should have retreated into a defensive stance again, but she did not, instead coming forward even more aggressively.

It appeared as if she had erred, and her opponent, obviously no novice to battle, took the initiative and the offensive, easily parrying one unbalanced thrust and reversing his footing, coming forward fast, sword leading, dagger following in two commanding thrusts that hit. . .

Nothing.

And Liam stopped, stunned, for in his flurry he had blocked his own vision and now he couldn't even locate his opponent!

Then he felt the tip of a sword against the back of his neck, just under his head, and he froze in place.

"I would call that an advantage!" Andacanavar roared. Liam dropped sword and dagger and shrugged.

"No blood, I pray," he said to Pony as she walked by, staring intently into her deep blue eyes.

"It will heal," she promised, and she sheathed Defender and moved beside the ranger.

He nodded approvingly.

"Nightbird gave you a great gift," he remarked.

Pony nodded her agreement, for right then, feeling that tingling power ol the sword dance coursing through her, she gained an even greater appreciation of the gift.

"Was that all he taught you? " Andacanavar asked.

Pony looked at him, not understanding. How could she begin to list all the things that she and Elbryan had taught each other, or had learned together?

"Your hesitance alone answers my question," the ranger said. "He did not teach you, and so I shall. Tomorrow."

Pony looked at him skeptically.

"Trust me on this, woman," the ranger bade her. "You will find more than you expect, I promise." He paused and held Pony's stare for a long time, while her expression went through skepticism and trepidation and then into some measure of hopefulness.

"Tomorrow?" he asked again.

"Early," Pony promised, and she gathered her things and took up Greystone's reins and walked away.

"A remarkable woman," Andacanavar's companion, who was not Liam O'Blythe, remarked as Pony and Greystone disappeared into the forest.

"Skilled and determined, and a feast for a man's eyes," the ranger replied, looking down at his friend. "I told you last night that she would beat you, and easily."

"Brother Dellman described her as beautiful," the ranger's companion remarked, "and I do not think that our friend Dellman makes that observation often of women."

"His words could not begin to tell the whole truth other," Andacanavar replied, and he gave his companion a sly look. "Beauty enough to make any man swoon."

"And are you not a man? " came the next question.

"Too old for her, but I'm thinking that she is about your own age."

The man, so easily defeated in the sword fight, only shrugged and smiled.

"Was that good enough for you?" Andacanavar called out to their newest companion, as Bradwarden trotted into the grove, though he stayed the proper distance from the humans, as centaur law demanded in times of the plague.

"She left with a smile," the centaur admitted, "one I've not seen on that beautiful face o' hers in a long while."

"Rangers have a way of doing that to beautiful women," Andacanavar said with a wink.

"Her pain's deep," the centaur remarked seriously.

"And tomorrow it might be deep again," Andacanavar replied, "for she will be meeting her lover again. It will hurt, no doubt, but it is a pain she is needing."

"I wouldn't've asked for yer help if I didn't think ye'd be helpin'," Bradwarden said. "And glad we are that you did," said the ranger's companion. The tone of his voice, wistful, even enchanted, made Bradwarden and Andacanavar look at each other and wink knowingly.

"I see it all the time," the centaur mumbled to Andacanavar.

Once again, Pony found her dreams filled with pleasant memories of her lover, of sword dancing and making love, of long walks in the forest or just sitting and talking on a bare hillock, hearing Bradwarden's song.

She awoke in a fine mood and once again rushed through her chores and out of Dundalis, riding Greystone as hard as the trails would permit back to the sheltered grove.

She found Andacanavar there alone, waiting for her, but she found that Bradwarden was not far away, for his piping filled the crisp winter air with warming notes.

"When I hear the centaur's song, it feels like Elbryan is still with me," Pony said wistfully. "He and I used to listen to that song when we were children, living in Dundalis."

"He is still with you!" Andacanavar roared. "Of course he is!" He looked all about, as if expecting a ghost to materialize nearby, and then a curious expression appeared on his face. "Did he not teach you anything of the other gift? " he asked. "The more important gift of the Touel'alfar? "

Pony looked at him curiously.

"Oracle," Andacanavar explained.

Pony nodded; she should have known. "He once tried," she explained, "that I might better contact the spirit of another friend lost to us. But I did not need it, for Avelyn was with me at that time. I could feel it."

"But now you need it."

Again Pony fixed him with a skeptical and curious expression.

"You do not believe that Nightbird, your Elbryan, is still with you," Andacanavar explained. "You are not even certain that he has found the next level of existence, or even if such a level truly exists. Oh, yes, Avelyn was with you, you say, but was it really his spirit, or was it just your own hopes and memories of him? "

Pony stared at him hard, feeling uncomfortable suddenly, feeling as if his words were a bit too intimate.

"That is your fear, I say," the ranger declared. "And because of it, you cannot get past your mourning."

"You assume much."

"I read well," Andacanavar corrected. "And the message is clear upon your face whenever you speak of Elbryan." He dusted the snow off his pant legs and stood up, bending and holding out his hand to Pony. "Come," he said. "Let me show you the other gift of the Touel'alfar, the one that will free you."

"LadyDasslerond-" "Is not here, now is she?" Andacanavar replied. "And if she allows you to live with the secret of bi'nelle dasada, then know that she has already passed judgment upon you, and that it is a favorable one. Come on, then. The weather will not hold another day and I've a long road before me."

Skeptical still, Pony accepted the large man's hand, and he pulled her up to her feet with hardly the slightest effort.

He had already prepared the cave, a hollow at the base of a great elm, for he had used the place extensively to contact the spirits of both Elbryan and Avelyn. He explained the process to Pony, carefully, then helped her into the hole.

She found that Andacanavar had set a log at one end, for her to sit on, and had propped a mirror against the opposite wall, facing it. He barely let her orient herself to the surroundings before he dropped the blanket over the opening, darkening the cave so that Pony could hardly make out the shapes.

But that was the way of Oracle. As Andacanavar had instructed, she took her seat upon the log and stared hard into the mirror, thinking of Elbryan, remembering their times together, and then her thoughts drifted deeper, deeper, until she was far into meditation, not unlike that which she used to enter the sword dance, not unlike that which she used to fall within the magic of a gemstone.

And then she saw him, her love, a shadow moving about the mirror.

"Elbryan," she whispered, and the tears came freely. "Can you hear me?"

She didn't get any audible response, nor did the dark shadow move, but Pony sensed a warmth suddenly and knew that her lover was with her.

But not close enough for her liking, and she shifted forward, even coming off the log seat, but her movement broke her level of concentration and the image faded-or maybe it had never really been there. Maybe it was a trick her heart had played upon her imagination.

No, that wasn't it, Pony realized. He had been there, in spirit. Truly.

She settled back on the log, thinking to fall again into the trance, but only then did she realize how much time had passed. And she had to be out of the grove long before dark.

She went to the cave opening and pushed aside the blanket, blinking repeatedly at the relatively bright afternoon light.

"Did you find him, then?" asked the ranger, seated comfortably nearby, his black-haired companion beside him.

Pony nodded. "I think.. ."

"Do not think too much, lass," said Andacanavar. "Feel."

He came over then and pulled her out of the hole.

"Your road is back to Dundalis," the ranger remarked, "and fast, for a storm will come up tonight, I am sure."

"And your own road? "

"Back to the east," the ranger replied. "And the storm?"

"Not much of one for one from Alpinador," the ranger replied with a laugh. "We'll find a difficult road, no doubt, but one that we can manage."

Pony stood and stared at the huge man for a long time, realizing then that, though they had known each other for only a few days, she was going to miss him very much. "You said that you would teach me," she argued.

"And so I have," the ranger replied. "You said that you think you saw your lost lover, and that is better success than one can ever expect for their first tries at Oracle. You'll get more tries, for I'll leave the mirror in place. It will become easier-you will begin to teach yourself-and then you will know, my friend. You will know that you are not alone, and that there is a place of peace awaiting us after this life. And when you know that, truly, and not just hope it, then you will be free."

Pony stared at him curiously, not really knowing what to make of him and his promise.

The cynical part of her remained doubtful that even Oracle could take her to such enlightenment, but another part of her, a very private and very big part, prayed that he was right.

"The covering should be over that window, brother," Master Fio Bouraiy said when he came upon Francis in his room, staring out the window at the western fields.

Francis turned about to face the master, his face a mask of pain. "To keep out the cold? " he asked. "Or the sounds of the misery? "

"Both," Bou-raiy answered, his expression grim. He softened it, though, and gave a sigh. "Will you not join us in the mass of celebration for the new year? " he asked.

"For what will we pray?" Francis asked sincerely. "That the plague stays outside our walls? "

"I've not the heart nor the time for your unending sarcasm, brother," Bou-raiy replied. "Father Abbot Agronguerre asked me to come and tell you that we are soon to begin. Will you join us? "

Francis turned and looked back out the window. In the field beyond, he saw the fires-meager fires, for they had little to burn. He saw the dark, huddled silhouettes of the miserable victims moving about the encampment, the many makeshift tents set up in the mud and snow.

"No," he answered.

"This is a required mass," Master Bou-raiy reminded him. "I ask once more, will you not join us? "

"No," Francis answered without hesitation, not bothering to turn to face the man.

"Then you will answer to Father Abbot Agronguerre in the morning," Bou-raiy said, and he left the room.

"No," Francis said again. He considered the night, the last of God's Year 829. He knew that the turn of the year was mostly a symbolic thing, the imposition of a human calendar on God's universal clock. But he understood, too, the need for such symbols, the inspiration that a man might draw from them. The strength and resolve that a man might draw from them.

Brother Francis Dellacourt, an Abellican master, walked out ofSt.-MereAbelle that night, while the rest of the monastery sang in the mass in celebration of the New Year. He pulled a donkey behind him, the beast laden with mounds of blankets.

Across the frozen and long-dead tussie-mussie bed he went, into the muddy field, into the cold wind blowing back off All Saints Bay.

Many curious gazes settled upon him, and then a woman came out of the darkness to stand before him. Her face was half torn away, a mask of scars, and she tilted her head, regarding him with her one remaining eye.

"Do ye reek o' the plague then? " Merry Cowsenfed asked.

Brother Francis came forward a step and fell to his knees before the woman, taking her hand in his own and pressing it to his lips.

He had found his church.

She talked and chatted with him easily, bouncing her ideas off him, and her fears; and though he never answered, Pony knew beyond doubt that he was truly with her again, that there was a sentient, conscious spirit of Elbryan out there, ready to help her sort out her feelings and her fears.

This was no trick of magic, she believed, no trick of imagination, and no imparting of false hopes. This was Elbryan, her Elbryan, within the mirror, looking at her, knowing her, and she him.

She found her strength there, though the world about her continued to darken, because there, in that hollow beneath the elm, in that mirror, Jilseponie Wyndon had found her church. How easy it is for a person to overwhelm herself merely by considering too big a picture. I have spent many, many months despairing over my inability to find a balance between community and self, fearing selfishness while becoming paralyzed by a world I know to be too far beyond my, or anyone's, control.

What point was fighting the battle if the war could not, could never, be won?

And in that confusion, compounded by the purest grief, I became lost, a wandering, aimless person, searching for nothing more than peace. That peace I found in Fellowship Way, with Bolster beside me, and with Bradwarden's tunes and the ultimate serenity of the starry sky to calm my nights.

But those are frozen moments, I have come to know, little pieces of serenity in a storm of chaos. The world does not stop for the stars; the errors of mankind continue, and the dangers of nature are ever present. There is no end of turmoil, but far from a terrible thing, I have come to see that turmoil-change-is what adds meaning.

My lament was that perfection of society was not attainable, and I still hold by my words: There is no paradise in this existence for creatures as complex as human beings. There is no perfect human world bereft of strife and battle of one sort or another. I have not come to see a different truth than that. I have not found some magical remedy, some honest hope for paradise within the swirl of chaos.

Or perhaps 1 have.

In considering only the desired destination, I blinded myself to the road; and there lies the truth, there lies the hope, there lies the meaning. Since the end seemed unattainable, I believed the journey futile, and there was my error-and one I will forgive myself because of my fog of grief.

No one can make the world perfect. Not Nightbird. Not King Danube. Not Father Abbot Agronguerre, nor father Abbot Markwart-and I do believe that Markwart, in his misguided way, tried to do just that-before him. No one, nor any one group, be it Church or Crown. Perhaps the perfect king could bring about paradise across the land-but for only a few short blinks in the rolling span of time. Even the great heroes, Terranen Dinoniel, Avelyn Desbris, and my own dear Nightbird, will fade in the fog of the ages, or their memories will be perverted and warped to suit the needs of current historians. Their message and their way will shine brightly, but briefly, in the context of history, because we are fallible creatures, doomed to forget and doomed to err.

Yet there is a point to it all. There is a meaning and a joy and a hope. For while perfection is not attainable, the glory and the satisfaction lie along the road.

And now I know, and perhaps this is the end of grief, that such a journey is worth taking. If all that I can accomplish is the betterment of a single day in the life of a single individual, then so be it. It is the attempt to do what is right-the attempt to move myself and those around me toward a better place-that is worth the sacrifice, however great that sacrifice must be.

Yes, I have lost my innocence. I have lost so many dear to me. Every day, I see the cairn ofElbryan. He was a ranger. He walked the road toward paradise with his eyes wide open and his heart full of hope and joy. He gave everything, his very life, trying to make the world a better place.

futile?

Not to the people he saved. Not to the mothers and fathers who still have their children because of him. Not to the people ofCaer Tinella, who would have died in the forest at the hands of the goblins and powries had it not been for Nightbird. And hadAvelyn not given his life in destroying the physical manifestation of Bestesbulybar, then all the world would be a darker place by far.

Perhaps this is the end of my grief, for now when I look upon the grave ofElbryan, I know only calm. He is with me, every step of my own road.

That road is out ofDundalis, I know, out of the hiding place called Fellowship Way, to those places where I am needed most, whatever the personal price.

Yes, I see the world clearly, with all its soiled corners, with all of its cairns for buried heroes.

There is work yet to be done.