Out of an avenue of autumn-scented trees a red-haired young man appeared. He was tall, clothed as for a hunt in leggings and leathers, his bow and quiver strapped across his back. His eyes were bright, sparkling like a woodland stream; freckles dusted across his nose, and his generous mouth laughed. His head was crowned with autumn leaves, brown oak, red maple, yellow birch, and his stride was wide. He pursed his lips and whistled, and the sharp sweet sound pierced Ingrey’s spirit like an arrow.

Bounding out of the mists, a great dark wolf with silver-tipped fur ran to the youth’s side, jaws agape, tongue lolling foolishly; the huge beast crouched at his feet, licked his leg, rolled to one side and let the red-haired youth crouch and thump and rub its belly. A collar of autumn leaves much like the youth’s crown circled the thick fur of its neck. The wolf seemed to laugh, too, as the youth stood once more, legs braced.

Pacing in a more dignified manner, but still eagerly, the spotted leopard appeared. Ijada, looking bewildered, walked beside it. The leopard’s neck was bound with a garland of autumn flowers, all purple and deep yellow, and a plaited chain of them ran up to circle Ijada’s wrist like a leash, but which was leader and which was led was not clear. Ijada wore the spotted yellow dress in which Ingrey had first seen her, the one she’d been wearing during the nightmare of Boleso’s death, but the bloodstains were fresh and red, shimmering like rubies embroidered across her breast. Her expression, as she saw the youth’s bright face, changed from bewildered to wide-eyed, exalted, and terrified. The leopard rubbed against the youth’s legs on the other side from the wolf, nearly knocking him over, and its rumbling purr sawed through the air like some serrated song.

The youth gestured; Ingrey’s and Ijada’s heads turned.

Prince Boleso stood before them in an agonized paralysis. He, too, wore what he’d been found in the night he’d died: a short coat and daubs of paint and powder across his waxy skin. The muted colors made Ingrey’s head ache; they clashed, not rightly composed. They reminded Ingrey of an ignorant man, hearing another language, responding with mouthed gibberish, or of a child, not yet able to write, scribbling eager senseless scrawls across a page in imitation of an older brother’s hand.

Boleso’s skin seemed translucent to Ingrey’s eyes. Beneath his ribs, a swirling darkness barked and yammered, grunted and whined. Boar there was, and dog, wolf, stag, badger, fox, hawk, even a terrified housecat. An early experiment? Power there was, yes; but chaos even greater, an unholy din. He remembered Ijada’s description: His very mind seemed a menagerie, howling.

The god said softly, “He cannot enter My gates bearing these.”

Ijada stepped forward, her hands held out in tentative supplication. “What would You have of us, my lord?”

The god’s eye took in them both. “Free him, if it be your will, that he may enter in.”

“You would have us choose the fate of another?” she asked breathlessly. “Not just his life, but his eternity?”

The Son of Autumn tilted his wreathed head a trifle. “You chose for him once, did you not?”

Her lips parted, closed, set a little, in fear or awe.

He ought to feel that awe, too, Ingrey supposed. Ought to be falling to his knees. Instead he was dizzy and angry. With a piercing regret, he envied Ijada her exaltation even as he resented it. As though Ingrey saw the sun through a pinhole in a piece of canvas, while Ijada saw the orb entire. But if my eyes were wider, would this Light blind me?

“You would—you would take him into Your heaven, my lord?” asked Ingrey in astonishment and outrage. “He slew, not in defense of his own life, but in malice and madness. He tried to steal powers not rightly given to him. If I guess right, he plotted the death of his own brother. He would have raped Ijada, if he could, and killed again for his sport!”

The Son held up his hands. Luminescent, they seemed, as if dappled by autumn sun reflecting off a stream into shade. “My grace flows from these as a river, wolf-lord. Would you have me dole it out in the exact measure that men earn, as from an apothecary’s dropper? Would you stand in pure water to your waist, and administer it by the scant spoon to men dying of thirst on a parched shore?”

Ingrey stood silent, abashed, but Ijada lifted her face, and said steadily, “No, my lord, for my part. Give him to the river. Tumble him down in the thunder of Your cataract. His loss is no gain of mine, nor his dark deserving any joy to me.”

The god smiled brilliantly at her. Tears slid down her face like silver threads: like benedictions.

“It is unjust,” whispered Ingrey. “Unfair to all who—who would try to do rightly….”

“Ah, but I am not the god for justice,” murmured the Son. “Would you both stand before My Father instead?”

Ingrey swallowed nervously, not at all sure the question was rhetorical, or what might happen if he said yes. “Let Ijada’s be the choosing, then. I will abide.”

“Alas, more shall be required of you than to stand aside and act not, wolf-lord.” The god gestured to Boleso. “He cannot enter in my gates so burdened with these mutilated spirits. This is not their proper door. Hunt them from him, Ingrey.”

Ingrey stared through the bars of Boleso’s ribs. “Clean this cage?”

“If you prefer that metaphor, yes.” The god’s copper eyebrows twitched, but his eyes, beneath them, glinted with a certain dark humor. Wolf and leopard now sat on their haunches on either side of those slim booted legs, staring silently at Ingrey with deep, unblinking eyes.

Ingrey swallowed. “How?”

“Call them forth.”

“I… do not understand.”

“Do as your ancestors did for each other, in the purifying last rites of the Old Weald. Did you not know? Even as they washed and wrapped each body for burial, the kin shamans looked after the souls of their own. Each helped his comrade, whether simple spirit warrior or great mage, through Our gates, at the end of their lives, and looked to be helped so in turn. A chain of hand to hand, of voice to voice, cleansed souls flowing in an unending stream.” The god’s voice softened. “Call my unhappy creatures out, Ingrey kin Wolfcliff. Sing them to their rest.”

Ingrey stood facing Boleso. The prince’s eyes were wide and pleading. I imagine Ijada’s eyes were wide and pleading that night, too. What mercy did she get from you, my graceless prince?

Besides, I cannot sing worth a damn.

Ijada’s eyes were on him, now, Ingrey realized. Confident with hope.

I have no mercy in me, lady. So I shall borrow some from you.

He took a breath, and reached down into himself farther than he’d yet done before. Keep it simple. Picked out one swirl by eye, held out his hand, and commanded, “Come.”

The first beast’s spirit spun out through his fingers, wild and distraught, and fled away. He glanced at the god. “Where—?”

A wave of those radiant fingers reassured him. “It is well. Go on.”

“Come… “

One by one, the dark streams flowed out of Boleso and melted into the night. Morning. Whatever this was. They all floated in a now somewhere outside of time, Ingrey thought. At last Boleso stood before him, still silent, but freed of the dark smears.

The red-haired god appeared riding the copper colt, and extended a hand to the prince. Boleso flinched, staring up in doubt and fear, and Ijada’s breath caught. But then he climbed quietly up behind. His face held much wonder, if little joy.

“I think he is still soul-wounded, my lord,” said Ingrey, watching in bare comprehension.

“Ah, but I know an excellent Physician for him, where we are going.” The god laughed, dazzlingly.

“My lord—” Ingrey began, as the god made to turn the unbridled horse.