“Then!”

Aloê felt two pairs of hard, blunt, dwarvish hands lift her out of bed. As she stood, waveringly, on her own feet—not sure she wanted to stand, not willing to say she was unwilling—someone put something into her hand.

She looked at it uncomprehendingly. If Morlock had made this, it was not up to his usual standards. A spiderweb of silvery seams covered its surface, as if it had been shattered and repaired. It was a wand, about the length of her forearm, but not as heavy as it should have been. The end pointed away from her had a sort of clawed mouth. . . .

It was one of the lifetaking wands.

She looked up to see Morlock standing in front of her. He had a knife if his hand. When her eyes met his, he slashed his bare forearm with the knife and fiery blood sprang forth.

The two shadows struggling within her struggled no longer. Finally, they agreed on something. She learned then that grief is not only love; it is also hate—hate for whatever lives when the loved one is dead. The longing to live and the longing to punish everything alive had found something to agree on.

The lifetaking wand sang in her hand and she knew the evil ecstasy of stealing someone else’s life.

She cried out, in delight and horror, and Morlock fell to the ground in a shower of burning blood.

As she came wholly alive she realized what she was doing and she threw the wand from her as hard as she could.

She ran to Morlock where he had fallen and knelt beside him. He was breathing at least, but his eyes were clenched shut and his breathing was broken by croaking sounds, as if he were choking on phlegm.

She ripped a piece of cloth off his shirt and carefully bound up the gaping wound in his arm. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to tend to his injuries, so she managed to do it without burning herself. She put her hand on his face and waited for him to stop choking.

His breathing grew more even. His eyes opened and looked into hers.

“That was stupid,” she said.

He coughed once, twice, and sat up. “Worked,” he said.

“You could have died.”

He looked at her with those luminous gray eyes and said nothing.

“Sorry to interrupt this tender moment,” Deor said gruffly, holding out his cape, “but this is fireproof. And you’re dripping fire all over the place. And we are surrounded by pine trees.”

Morlock smiled with half his face and took the cape, wrapping it around his wounded arm.

“So,” she said, remembering words that had come to her through the gray fog of despair and grief, “you brought me to Thrymhaiam?”

“Yes,” said Morlock. “Our harven-kin insisted. In fact—”

He stood. She looked up at him astonished as he reached down and picked her up. He carried her in his unwounded arm out the door of the little hut and into the thin golden light of the ailing sun.

They stood on a steep slope on the western side of Thrymhaiam. The valley below was full of folk—mandrakes, dwarves, men and women, all waiting there, waiting for something.

Morlock lifted Aloê up and held her triumphantly over his head in the thin sunshine. “Put me down, you champion idiot!” she shouted.

The crowds below roared. It was like a storm at sea; it went on and on; there was no stopping it.

Aloê was amazed. Why did it mean so much to them? Was she, as a person, so important to them? Had she come to stand, in their minds, for all their dead and wounded, and their triumph in her healing was a way to overcome their grief? Was it because she was Morlock’s mate?

She didn’t like that thought. But she remembered a voice saying in the night, They will make that crooked man king someday. At least in the North. And she remembered another voice saying, Shut your lying mouth.

She wanted to agree with the second voice. But she began to fear that the first voice might be right.

The crowds were still cheering when Morlock turned and carried her back into the lodge. He laid her gently down in the hateful bed where she had spent so many empty hours, but it was not so bad now. Thea was still dead and Aloê still grieved for her, but the spring sunlight was pale on the windowsill, reminding her that the world itself was dying. She had work to do, while her own life lasted, however long that was.

She was alive enough to feel hungry and tired, though. A weidhkyrr named Khêtlynn brought her a bowl of broth and a mug of beer from the cooking lodge of the weidhkyrren, and she gratefully accepted them. After Khêtlynn left she napped until the woman in yellow returned to sew up Morlock’s wound. The healer wore odd metal-mesh gloves to do the work. The thin sunlight and flecks of bloody fire glittered on the metal as the healer worked patiently, and Aloê nodded off again.

When she awoke, she found that Morlock was in bed beside her. Horseman was rising, its blank eye staring through the western window of the lodge. In the unforgiving light Morlock looked uglier than ever, and so tired—his eyes like bruises as he snored there. She remembered with wonder what he had done for her, and what he had said about her as she was dying. Now part of her life was his. She felt the honor; she felt also the burden. She kissed him gently on his weary eyes and slipped out of bed.

It was chilly for a spring night, but she wore her red vocate’s cloak, wrapping it close around her. The grass on the slope was winter-dry and sparse, hissing against her shoes. Horseman was not in the sky, but great Chariot stood somber in the east, and little Trumpeter was high in the western sky, still full of light and hope. The major and minor moon gave her plenty of light to pick her way down the slope. She wasn’t sure where she was headed but she had to get out and see something.

There was a camp in the valley below, almost like a town full of lights and people. She drifted toward it.

There was a fire surrounded by fire-eyed Gray Folk at the edge of the camp. They rose and spoke to her politely in their crunchy language, called her harven, and asked her to sit with them. She begged off, saying she wanted to shake her legs a bit. The idiom made their eyes stretch wide and she had the sense they were about to laugh. But they didn’t laugh, and when one of them said, “Our word of respect to your husband, Ruthen Morlock,” they all bowed their serpentine heads and touched their scaly chests. A voice whispered in her ear, They will make that crooked man a king someday. She turned away from them and it, striding deeper into the camp.

She saw Naevros syr Tol coming toward her up the narrow path between shelters, and she wondered what they would say to each other. Had he been among the crowd, cheering with the rest, when Morlock had held her up triumphantly in the sun? Had he been wounded in the battle? Who else that they knew and loved had been killed in the stupid war now ended?

He brushed past her without speaking. That astonished her. She almost turned and spoke to him, but then strode proudly on instead. Perhaps the bond between them was finally broken. Perhaps it was time for that: it was a time of endings.

Suddenly weary, she leaned against a wooden booth. She felt tears on her face, but only an emptiness inside her, frighteningly like the grayness of despair and near-death she had recently escaped.

“What brings you wandering into the night, Rokhlan?” asked a familiar voice.

She opened her eyes to see Deor looking up at her.

“Ath, Rokhlan!” she replied politely. “I needed to walk and breathe some fresh air. I was tired of that house of sickness.”

“I understand that,” Deor said, “but have you overdone it, perhaps.”

“No.” She stood tall and smiled down at him. “No! But . . . something bitter just happened to me.”