Ah, Stave. Linden wanted to weep with him, and could not. Your son? I didn’t know. Neither he nor Galt had allowed any hint of their kinship to pass between them. Yet it was Galt who had chosen to protect Jeremiah’s life with his own, so that Anele might expunge the croyel.

In the end, Galt must have heeded his father.

The rest of the Masters, or all of the Haruchai, may have suppressed their vulnerability to sorrow. Stave had not.

While his tears ran, Linden yearned to stay with him. She owed him that much. To her percipience, however, the injuries of her other companions were as audible as cries. She could taste the onset of infection and fatality, the fiery gnash of pain. Even in gratitude for Jeremiah’s life, she could not pause to share Stave’s grief.

Fortunately none of the Giants were as close to death as Anele. Even Clyme and Branl were not, although they rejected the aid of the Demondim-spawn. Stonemage’s heart beat on its own under Kindwind’s steady pressure. The shreds of Esmer’s raiment fluttered as though impalpable winds tugged through him, but his old wounds did not appear to trouble him. When Linden had studied the company, she decided that the Swordmainnir could wait for her a little longer. If she felt compelled to walk away from Stave, she could nonetheless afford to spend a few moments with the old man who had sacrificed himself for Jeremiah.

Anele lay on the churned ground a few paces from his companions. Somehow he had crawled that short distance, or someone had dragged him, seeking safety during Linden’s cataclysm of wild magic. Now he sprawled on his back with his arms outstretched, gazing sightlessly at the sun, and straining for breath as if he had inhaled a pool of blood. The orcrest-light was gone from his eyes: his eyes themselves were gone. Yet he was not afraid.

Kneeling beside him, Linden tried to say his name. But her throat closed against her.

“Linden Avery,” he gasped wetly. He must have felt her presence. “Chosen and Sun-Sage. Accept my gratitude—and my farewell.”

Gripping the Staff, Linden fumbled for Earthpower. But Anele panted, “Do not. Do not heal. Make no lament. My time is past. I was the hope of the Land. Now I have given that gift to another. I have kept faith with my inheritance.” Small spasms of suffocation wracked his chest, but he fought to speak. “Now I may stand with Sunder my father and Hollian my mother, and feel no shame. If you slow my end, you will delay my spirit from their embrace.”

In sorrow, Linden acceded. It was intolerable that she had no good farewell to give the old man. After a moment, she forced herself to reply.