The names of the fourteen who fell.

He moved slowly closer. Yurga had been right. Flowers lay at the foot of the obelisk–ordinary, wild flowers–poppies, lupins, mallows and forget-me-nots.

The names of the fourteen.

He read them slowly, from the top, and before him appeared the faces of those he had known.

The chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling for no reason, looking like a teenager. He had liked her. And she had liked him.

Lawdbor of Murivel, with whom he had almost fought in Vizima, when he had caught the sorcerer using delicate telekinesis to tamper with dice in a game.

Lytta Neyd, known as Coral. Her nickname derived from the colour of the lipstick she used. Lytta had once denounced him to King Belohun, so he went to the dungeon for a week. After being released he went to ask her why. When, still without knowing the reason, he had ended up in her bed, he spent another week there.

Old Gorazd, who had offered him a hundred marks to let him dissect his eyes, and a thousand for the chance to carry out a post mortem–‘not necessarily today’–as he had put it then.

Three names remained.

He heard a faint rustling behind him and turned around.

She was barefoot, in a simple, linen dress. She was wearing a garland woven from daisies on long, fair hair, falling freely onto her shoulders and back.

‘Greetings,’ he said.

She looked up at him with cold, blue eyes, but did not answer.

He noticed she was not suntanned. That was odd, then, at the end of the summer, when country girls were usually tanned bronze. Her face and uncovered shoulders had a slight golden sheen.

‘Did you bring flowers?’

She smiled and lowered her eyelashes. He felt a chill. She passed him without a word and knelt at the foot of the menhir, touching the stone with her hand.

‘I do not bring flowers,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘But the ones lying here are for me.’

He looked at her. She knelt so that she was concealing the last name engraved in the stone of the menhir from him. She was bright, unnaturally, luminously bright against the stone.

‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly.

She smiled and emanated cold.

‘Don’t you know?’

Yes, I do, he thought, gazing into the cold blue of her eyes. Yes, I think I do.

He was tranquil. He could not be anything else. Not anymore.

‘I’ve always wondered what you look like, my lady.’

‘You don’t have to address me like that,’ she answered softly. ‘We’ve known each other for years, after all.’

‘We have,’ he agreed. ‘They say you dog my footsteps.’

‘I do. But you have never looked behind you. Until today. Today, you looked back for the first time.’

He was silent. He had nothing to say. He was weary.

‘How… How will it happen?’ he finally asked, cold and emotionless.

‘I’ll take you by the hand,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.’