“I know enough,” Kieri said. She lay now on the ground, the silvery glitter in her elven blood dying away. He could not pity her, who had brought so much sorrow to so many. She struggled, trying to push herself up; he regretted the pain in her face and the undying enmity. But she was neither enemy soldier nor one of his, to whom he could give the death-stroke and end it.

Her light was gone now. His own brightened, reflecting from her eyes. They widened. “You … cannot … have…”

“What?”

“Elfane…” Then a rush of blood from her mouth, and she sank back, unmoving, her sightless eyes staring upward.

Kieri had no feeling of a spirit freed from its husk, as he’d often experienced when humans died … She died as an animal died, all at once, with nothing left. Her body looked dead, the white gown now dabbled with her blood, all luster gone from her skin. The elven mail crumbled to grit as he watched.

Kieri took a deep breath, then another. He looked around. The last of the mist had gone; he could see every tree trunk, every fern and herb, each leaf and petal. The light—the light was his own, he realized. It spread, more silvery than sunlight, true elf-light. Silence held him, but the feel of the taig was stronger than he’d ever experienced. What it conveyed was … joy. It seemed to nestle into him as his first children had nestled in his arms. Within its bubble was peace, silence, joy, health … and a dead elf.

He sighed. A dead elf must be laid straight with the sacred boughs upon her, whether evil or no. But … his mother’s murderer? Here, so close to the shrine he had built? She should be laid straight, yes, but … not here.

Here. The word resonated in his head and seemed to shimmer in the margins of his light.

Here? Why here? Was it not an insult to his mother … to the pain this elf had caused his father and his sister … and himself?

Light flashed from his mother’s ring, from his father’s, from the pommel of his sword … warmth from the torc around his neck. Dazzled, he blinked against the light and saw—for an instant that lasted the rest of his life—his mother’s face, the face that once seen he could not believe he had ever forgotten, and felt the true embrace of her love.

Here, closing the circle, completing the pattern, but in joy, not hatred. Tears sprang to his eyes, and now pity rose in him for the dead. His mother, beloved in memory by those who had lost her. And this elf, who had given up all hope of love and joy to seek lasting vengeance. He wept for them both, for the friendship they could have had, and finally for himself.