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.“Little brother mine.It wasn’t your fault.”The words go into your head, but they make no particular sense.At least they didn’t then.They do now, and it hurts at least twice as much, because you know it was your fault.Then, though, you bury your face in those cold hands, punishing yourself with the terror of what is going to happen.The Mother is kind, but inexorable; when She comes, there’s no turning Her back.And you know She’s coming.“Dusty, are you listening to me? Look at me.” He turns your face up to him, and you try to look away, but it’s no good; even dying those hands have all their strength.You look at him: dark curly hair like yours, big around the shoulders the way you got to be eventually; the droopy sleepy eyes, the smile that never comes off.Even dying, there’s a ghost of it apparent, a slight curling-at-the-corners smile.He loves you.That’s the worst part of it all, really.“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says.“I expect you to stay right here and get things straight.You’re going to be the heir now.You have a lot to learn.Don’t run out on Da.”And you nod, the pain becoming even worse as you realize that this is a lie.There is nothing that will keep you here after Herelaf dies, not pleas nor threats nor even Hearn’s need.You have a more imperative one—punishment of the deathguilt, and getting it attended to as quickly as possible, before the deed starts to rot and smell up the Wood.You know you’ll try to go after Herelaf, to achieve whatever justice is meted out on that last Shore to those who murder their brothers.Lying to your brother on his deathbed.You are worthless.He flicks a tired, tired glance at the bandage around his middle, and at the stain spreading on it.“Wasn’t your fault,” he says wearily.How that voice used to sing in the evenings; now it can barely speak.Herelaf looks up at something, Someone on the other side of the bed.He smiles faintly.“Mother,” he says.And then is still.And you get up, and wander away.Into the gray places where nothing matters.Here’s a window.That’s as good as anything else.Someone is stopping you.It’s Freelorn.Damn him anyway.You pull yourself gradually out of his grip and wander off into the gray places again.Where nothing matters.You emerge occasionally to try to make an end of yourself.They stop you.You wander off into the gray againNothing matters.Nothing.It’s all gray.Thank Goddess that’s over.How do I get out of this?Gray mist, cold.There are voices, remote, speaking words in other languages; other wanderers lost in the gray country.You ignore them.And someone singing.Freelorn? Yes.The voice is changing, and cracks ludicrously every other verse.“On the Lion’s Day,When the Moon was high,then the queen went to the Fanefor her loved to die,On that Night of dread,opened up the deeps,and she knew the Shadow there,and in Rilthor forever she sleeps,And her daughter wept,vengeance in her heart,and swore herself as vowto take her mother’s part,bating love and breathtill the Shadow’s death.And she laid Him dead,and herself she died,never dreaming all the whilethat in His death, He lied…”You shake your head sadly.Freelorn’s song, to be sure, redolent as usual of last stands and heroism past the confines of time and expectation.But all Béorgan’s heroism couldn’t change the fact that the Shadow was stronger than she, immortal, more permanent than death.What use is anything, anyhow—all hearts chill, and all loves die, and maybe the time has come for yours too—there in the mist, beckoning, waits the dark shape with the heart of iron and the eyes of ice, and all you have to do is despair, He’ll do the rest—(Oh, Mother.No.)You summon your strength, and go away from there quickly, before the cold eyes see you and mark you for their own.Here, now, the mist is thick, and warmer.Faintly you can sense a body passing by, not far away—“—to bring the lightning down,one a shadow, one a fire,one a sun and one a sire,one who’s dead—”—a quiet voice, unfamiliar, singing a fragment of something to itself.It passes through the gray and is gone again.Follow it, if you can: it might show you the way out—Suddenly in the grayness a tall form appears before you, vague through the fog.You press closer to it to ask for directions.Even if it can’t tell you the way out, company would be welcome.It’s company, all right.It’s you.Now you know how Dritt felt this morning.This is the you that you’ve seen in clear pools and mirrors, but changed.He’s about three inches taller than you are, more regal of carriage.He moves with easy unthinking grace, whereas you just kind of bump along.He doesn’t have those ten extraneous pounds on the front of his belly, where you have them; his eyes are bluer; his muscles are lithe under the smooth skin.He doesn’t have any of your moles, and his face is unlined where your frown has long since indented itself; he doesn’t have the little scar just above the right eye where Herelaf hit you with the fireplace poker when you were three and he was five.His face is serene, wise, joyous.You look at him with awe, reach out to him—and your hand goes through him.He’s a dream Herewiss.You might have suspected as much.(I never looked that good,) you think.He doesn’t really see you; he is interacting with someone else who isn’t there.Someone who is dreaming about you.Well, if you follow him, you may get back to the real world again.He moves away through the mist, and you go along with him, feeling unnerved to be in the company of such perfection—even if he is you.Eventually the fog begins to clear , and you find yourself back in the hold again [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]