I laughed. "And when I have gone you will bring the other last buckle out, I suppose," I said. He grinned. "It is not impossible," he replied. "How then would five silver strike you, for such fine tooling and my very nearly last brass buckle?"

I enjoyed haggling with him over the price, and as usual we ended up somewhere between our two extremes, but in the end of the day I didn't really care what I paid and I'm afraid he knew it. Still, when he offered to cut it to my size I could laugh and tell him that I was soon going to require a larger size in belts and I'd keep it as long it was. He wished us joy and I walked out with Varien on my arm and the belt around my waist on the tightest hole, most thoroughly pleased with myself.

I also managed to find a clothiers and bought a good weight of material for a tunic in a deep blue that Varien said suited me. We wandered back through the streets towards the inn and found ourselves in a part of the city where a patch of grass and a small stand of trees grew by the edge of a stream. The trees were all bare branches, of course, and with the brown grass I suppose it was bleak enough, but by the waterside sprouted Lady's-bells, their silvery-white heads nodding among the bright green of their leaves, and here and there pale ground roses were just beginning to open, pink and palest yellow. It cheered me just to sit there in the weak afternoon sun before we went back to the inn.

I know this is not the stuff ballads are made of. I suspect anyone who can be bothered to read so far is wondering why I should write such things, that can interest no one but an old woman remembering her past. The truth is that those days were so full of great and terrible things happening, so full of pain and fear and change and darkness, that sometimes I like to recall the times when Varien and I were just being new-wedded idiots together. There were few enough of them. That day was wonderful, without a single care, and I will never forget it. After so long running from pursuit, we felt safe for the moment, and we resolved without a word being spoken to act that day as if all would be well. The Healer's work, despite her manner, was well done and I felt vastly better than I had. Varien dared to tell me of his joy at the mere possibility of being a father, and for the moment I barely heard the voices that whispered at me. It was the Lady's promise of paradise come to real life as a brief glimpse—or so I felt that day, and so I still believe. If there is a life beyond death, if there is a kindly place where we go to be forever with those souls we love best, it would be hard put to it to rival that one bright day with Varien.

Alas! If we had known we might have fought it, but we did not know. I was too blind, too full of the sight of the land running like water to understand the reason behind it.

And yet, what could we have done? Fire was rising against us and we knew not where to turn. We could not fight it with tooth or talon, we could not burn hotter than the fires of the earth. Perhaps in the end we had no choice. I bespoke Kedra as soon as I reached my chambers. It was now deep night.

"My son, are you well?" I asked quietly.

"We come, Father," he replied immediately. "Sherok is enjoying his treat, a flight in the dark to visit grandfather Shikrar. Brave soul, my son!"

I waited.

"We will be there very shortly, Eldest," said Mirazhe, her mind voice amazingly clear and calm. I took heart from hearing her. "Sherok and I will await you in Lord Akhor's old chambers by the Great Hall. It seems fitting somehow," she said, "for I would guess that we will see Varien Kantri-akhorfar sooner than we had thought to."

"There is nothing more likely, dearest daughter," I replied, and could not resist the ghost of an amused hiss. "He may be ever so slightly surprised."

"It will be good for him," said Kedra. "He has hardly spoken with us since he left. If we are a surprise to him, so much the better, it will serve him right."

"May all the Gedri be as eager to see us, though I fear they will not be."

"Ah, but we have the Lady Lanen to speak for us," said Kedra.

"She is one voice among thousands, and herself declared that she was of no particular note among her people," I said. "Do you think that those who must be persuaded will hear her, courageous as she is?"

"Father, I crave your pardon, but you have forgotten," replied Kedra, undaunted. "This child of the Gedri, of no particular note, managed to talk the Kantrishakrim, assembled in Council, out of killing her and into accepting her as the mate of our king. Name of the Winds, this is a soul that could rule the world."

I could not help myself. Faced as I was with change and the end of my life as I had known it, still I laughed at the truth behind my son's words. "Bless you, Kedra, you dreadful kit!" I said. "Solemnity now would undo me. Where are you now?"

"Mirazhe and Sherok are safe in Akhor's chambers, with a fire lit. I come," he said. He was with me almost as his thought ended.

"Welcome, most welcome, dear my son," I said as he came into the Chamber of Souls. We embraced, and I held him to my heart, my wings wrapped about him, just as I had when he was but a youngling. "Ah, Kedra, my dear," I said, and suddenly I could say no more. My throat tightened and I choked on my words. He had been born in that place, my beloved Yrais had died there, the very walls were hallowed with memories and life, and I knew I would never spend another night there. I remained in my generous son's embrace with bowed head and my heart caught in the depths of my despair, when I felt a terrible thing.

We are creatures of fire. We produce fire when we are pleased, when we are angry, when we are deeply moved, as the Gedri produce the salt water they call tears. Few know it, but we also weep, in the last extremity of soul's darkness.

I felt a tear hiss its way down my faceplate.

Kedra saw and did nothing, just held me. I knew deep in my soul that he was remembering the night Yrais died, for then it was he who had wept. I had held him then, been his strength when my own heart was shattered and dead, and now that strength held me up.

Has ever father had such a son?

Blessed be the Winds, but such times are short. I touched his soulgem with my own, that intimacy that only parents and children share, and was again myself.

"Thank you," I said simply.

"I am thirsty, Father. Let us drink before we begin," he said, embarrassed I think.

It is often difficult even for such a one as Kedra to admit to great strength.

We went the few steps out the door of my chambers and both drank deeply of the stream that ran close by. The simple feel of the water, the taste of it on my tongue that I had not noticed for years, the smell of the slow-approaching spring beneath the earth were suddenly precious beyond words. The thought "you will never do that again" threatened me, but I turned from it. Time enough to grieve later.

Water. Fire. The island alight—no, there could be no mourning until we were safely gone.

With a heart weighted down with sorrow we turned back into my chamber. I had lit a fire in the main chamber both to hallow our actions and to aid us in our task.

We scraped together great handfuls of khaadish from the corner where I slept and began to make several deep bowls, breathing fire to melt and smooth the surface and to ease the shaping of them. When they were complete I sent Kedra out to gather moss while I made flat plates about the size of the bowls, bent them slightly that they might act as coverings, and laid them aside. I used the moss to line the bottom and sides of the bowls.

I could delay no longer. As we stood at the opening of the inner chamber, the wall facing us was covered in khaadish with the soulgems of our Ancestors set deep in the soft metal. I bowed to the gathered Ancestors of our people, reached up to the highest and oldest and with a careful talon dug it out of its setting. As I placed it gently in the vessel I felt my sorrow as a physical pain, but I could bear it. I had to.