Memories of Ice

'Ah, but won't he? Whyever not, dear? If the Lord of Death is without patience, then Kruppe can dance on Coll's pointy head! Which he most assuredly cannot. You shall not return to that ancient body.'



The Mhybe glanced back at the Rhivi spirits. 'Will I age here? Will I eventually. '



The elder shrugged. 'I do not know, but I suspect not. You are the vessel. The Mhybe.'



The Mhybe. Oh, Silverfox. Daughter. Why are you not here? Why can I not look now into your eyes. The begging for forgiveness goes both ways. She drew a deep breath, tasted the sweet life filling the cool, moist air. So easily, then, to take this world into myself. She removed the first copper bracelet, held it out to the Rhivi. 'This is yours, I believe.'



The elder smiled. 'Did its power serve you well?'



She nodded. 'Without measure …'



A presence filled her mind. 'Mhybe.'



Togg, a rumbling power, the will of winter itself.



'We reside within this realm, realm of the Beast Thrones, but you are its mistress. There is one within me. A mortal spirit. Cherished spirit. I would release him. We would release him. From this realm. Do you give us -'



Yes. Release him.



Benediction. Godless, he could not give it. Not in its truest form.



But he had not comprehended the vast capacity within him, within a mortal soul, to take within itself the suffering of tens of thousands, the multitudes who had lived with loss and pain for almost three hundred thousand years.



He saw faces, countless faces. Desiccated, eyes nothing more than shadowed pits. Dry, torn skin. He saw bone glimmering from between layers of root-like tendons and muscles. He saw hands, chipped, splintered, empty now — yet the ghost of swords lingered there still.



He was on his knees, looking out upon their ranks, and it was raining, a wavering deluge accompanied by reverberating groans, splintering cracks filling the darkness above.



He looked upon them, and they were motionless, heads bowed.



Yet he could see their faces. Each face. Every face.



I have your pain.



Heads slowly lifted.



He sensed them, sensed the sudden lightness permeating them. I have done all I am able to do. Yes, it was not enough, I know. Yet. I have taken your suffering -'You have taken our suffering, mortal.'



Into myself -



'We do not understand how.'



And so I will now leave you -



'We do not understand. why.'



For all that my flesh cannot encompass -



'We cannot answer the gift you have given.'



I will take with me.



'Please, mortal -'



Somehow.



'The reason. Please. That you would so bless us -'



I am the.



'Mortal?'



Your pardon, sirs. You wish to know of me. I am … a mortal, as you say. A man, born three decades ago in the city of Erin. My family name, before I surrendered it to Fener's Reve, was Otanthalian. My father was a hard, just man. My mother smiled but once in all the years I knew her. The moment when I departed. Still, it is the smile I remember. I think now that my father embraced in order to possess. That she was a prisoner. I think, now, that her smile answered my escape. I think now that in my leaving, I took something of her with me. Something worthy of being set free.



Fener's Reve. In the Reve … I wonder, did I simply find for myself another prison?



'She is free within you, mortal.'



That would be … a good thing.



'We would not lie to you, Itkovian Otanthalian. She is free. And smiles still. You have told us what you were. But we still do not understand — your. generosity. Your compassion. And so we ask again. Why have you done this for us?'



Sirs, you speak of compassion. I understand something, now, of compassion. Would you hear?



'Speak on, mortal.'



We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned. T'lan Imass. Compassion is price' less in the truest sense of the word. It must be given freely. In abundance.



'We do not understand, but we will consider long your words.'



There is always more to do, it seems.



'You do not answer our question -'



No.



'Why?'



Beneath the rain, as darkness gathered, with every face raised to him, Itkovian closed himself about all that he held within him, closed himself, then fell back.



Back.



Because. I was the Shield Anvil. But now.



I am done.



And beneath the Moon's torrential rain, he died.



On the vast, reborn tundra with its sweet breath of spring, Silverfox looked up.