MONTHS PASSED. SUMMER DRIFTED INTO AUTUMN, AND THE weather turned cold more quickly than was normal, the year’s end still weeks away when the skies darkened and the first snows fell. There were yet flowers in many parts of the Four Lands, and they were hard-pressed to survive the heavy white coating that layered them, though some managed to struggle on.
In the Westland, deep within the Sarandanon, the farms that dotted the Elven breadbasket that stretched from the Rill Song west to the foothills of the Breakline were closing up shop for the year. Crops were in, fields were turned over to wait for the next planting, animals brought in, and equipment stowed. Families began planning visits to friends and relatives while the weather would still allow for it, hasty outings organized and carried out, one eye on the horizon all the while.
For those who had been putting off visits to the healer in the tiny hamlet of Backing Fell, a fresh urgency surfaced. Their medical needs had not seemed particularly pressing before now, being mostly of the nagging sort, and thoughts of doing anything about them had been pushed to the side. But with that first snow a fresh attitude surfaced, and most chose to act while they could to prevent their various conditions and symptoms from blossoming into larger problems when the snows would prove too difficult an obstacle to overcome and winter might tie them down on their homesteads until spring.
Besides, they genuinely liked the young doctor and his wife, even if they weren’t Elves, and barely grown at that, so young they might have been the children of their patients. In most situations, the healer might have been dismissed as not yet ready to carry out the demands of his profession, still in need of further education. What could a Southlander know of healing and Elves, after all? But these suspicions were abandoned almost at once. After the first few brave souls visited and returned with stories of his gentleness and skillful ways, others quickly took advantage to make their visits, too, and the doubts disappeared.
It was rare to have a healer in such a small community, in any case. There had been none at all for so long. But the boy healer seemed not to care about the size of the community or the number of patients it provided for his practice. He seemed disinterested in larger cities and more populous regions. This was where he belonged, he insisted when asked about his choice. This was where he felt most at home.
And that young wife! Now, there was a catch. So lovely, like a china doll, her features perfect, her skin so pale and unblemished, her smile warm and she so willing to share it with everyone. She aided him in his practice, and then took time to bake breads and churn cream and knit scarves and bonnets for children and old people—all of it done without charge. She would go out in all kinds of weather to sit with the sick and injured. She would deliver medicines rather than have those that needed them make the trip into where her husband did his work.
They were a welcome addition to this farming community, to this scattering of families and neighbors, to the lives of the people of this vast and empty cropland where helping hands were often the lifeblood needed for survival. This young couple understood. Ask anyone, and they would tell you so.
Two days after the first snowfall, the initial white covering melted enough to allow for easy passage by foot or wagon or on horseback, the healing center was packed with fresh patients anticipating more bad weather all too soon. The young healer was working his way through the complaints and ailments of his patients with good humor and steady hands. Their problems were never challenging in ways he could not fathom or for which he could not find a reasonable solution. He was good at his craft, though the fact that he had perfected it over such a short period of time was something he was careful to keep to himself.
He worked steadily so that he could satisfy all of his patients’ needs by day’s end and had just finished servicing the last and when the door opened and a tall Highlander dressed all in black walked through.
For a second, the young healer did not recognize him. But when he did, he froze where he was, gone cold all through. “How did you find me?”
Paxon Leah shrugged. “It was convincing myself it was worth the effort that took time.”
Reyn Frosch moved over and sat down heavily on one of the waiting chairs, clearly shaken. “Is Arcannen still alive?”
Paxon took a seat across from him. “So far as I know. He disappeared again after he finished destroying the Red Slash.”
The boy immediately looked uncomfortable. “I don’t use magic like that anymore. I never will again. So if you’ve come to me about that …”
“No, I’ve not come about that.”
“What, then? What do you want with me?”
Paxon shrugged. His eyes were tired and his face worn. All the life felt drained out of him. “The woman I was with that last night on the bluff? The Druid? She died there. Arcannen killed her. I was supposed to protect her, and I couldn’t manage it. I was the Ard Rhys’s Blade, and I couldn’t save her. At the time, I thought you and Lariana were dead, too. But something about the way it happened bothered me. To satisfy my curiosity I went back to the bluff to look for your bodies, and there was no sign of them. There should have been something, but there wasn’t.”
Reyn clasped his hands in front of him. “So you got permission from the Druids to come looking for us?”
“You don’t understand. I didn’t do this for the Druids. I did this for myself. I wanted to believe that something good had come out of that night. That the terrible destruction I witnessed had a happy ending for someone. It didn’t for Avelene, and it didn’t for me. It didn’t for those men and women of the Red Slash or for Usurient, either.”
He leaned forward, suddenly animated. “But what if you and Lariana were still alive? What if you and she had gotten clear and found the life she said you both wanted? If you had, I could take some small measure of satisfaction just in knowing. That’s why I came looking for you.”
The young healer stared. “What did you tell the Druids when you left to find us?”
“I didn’t tell them anything. I asked for time away and they gave it to me. I’m not sure I will go back. I’m not sure I can stay with them after what happened. Avelene’s death haunts me. And there was another Druid I was close to who died before her. I may have had enough. I may need to find a different life, something that doesn’t involve people dying. I explained this to the Ard Rhys. He wanted to take my sword from me but I wouldn’t let him. I told him it belonged to me. In the end he agreed to let me keep it. Of course, he thinks my keeping it will bring me back to Paranor. And he may be right.”
They were silent a moment, avoiding each other’s eyes. “Do you still use the sword?” Reyn asked finally.
Paxon shook his head, eyes downcast. “I haven’t had to. I haven’t been in a situation where it was necessary. I would prefer not to have to use it again for the rest of my life.” He looked up. “You seem to have been able to do that with the wishsong.”
“Not entirely. I use it in my healing practice. But using it that way helps people.”
“Then you should keep doing so. I can’t say that’s true for me.”
Reyn looked down again. “You don’t think Arcannen might have followed you?”
“No one followed me.”
“But he might still be searching for us.”
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t know about the absence of your remains. He fled immediately after. Now he’s a hunted man. Everyone in the Four Lands and the entire Druid Order is looking for him. He hasn’t time to go chasing ghosts.”
“Ghosts.” Reyn smiled again. “How strange to think of Lariana and me like that, but I guess it’s what we are. Ghosts reborn to another life.”