After a while sitting in the cold winds, Caewen stood. She stretched her limbs as if she had woken from a dream, and moved her attention back to the aftermath of battle. She turned her back to the north, and the shadow-lands of Sorthe. With a half-smile, she stepped away from the cliff.
The boy followed.
But–and without explanation–Caewen immediately wandered away to the left, looking to talk to Dapplegrim it seemed. The boy supposed that she may want a private moment. So he walked off on his own way, going into the thick of the battleground, and wondering if he might be of any help with the injured. But he had no healing skills, and the hobbes all seemed to be busy with their own injured and dead anyway.
Everywhere there were corpses. Dead humanfolk of the nightlands, and dead hobbes too. Two of the white women were kneeling where their companion had been burned and destroyed. They were gathering up the charred remnants of clothing, shield, spear and weapons. There was nothing left of the woman herself. She had vanished as completely as fog in sunlight. The pair carried on their work, then stood–arms full of weaponry and armour–both silent, both with a mournful look in their eyes. The Fane-Queen stood near at hand, over-watching the collection of the articles.
“Is she dead?” said the boy, voicing his question to no-one in particular. “Properly dead, I mean. Gone?”
The spectral fane turned her gaze at him: – they are all dead already, the women of the white mists. i have given them form and substance, but it is insubstantial only. her spirit has been severed from its physical form, but not destroyed. it is difficult to destroy a soul utterly. even the gods and goddesses find that difficult–the fane queen gazed then at the scorched earth, still smouldering–she is beyond my help now, but these others are not. i will retreat to my place in the darkness, where my flesh lies. asleep. if they will accompany me, i will work magics in the shadows. i will restore the slain ones, as best i can. their lives were taken from them. their flesh and blood was taken from them. warmth and love and touch and laughter and good meals and the noise of children. all gone. – but… and here she seemed to consider what was possible. – i will test my arts and my enchantments. what i may do, i will do, i hope.
“I hope you can,” the boy said, filling the space with words. And not thinking, forgetting who he was talking to, he added, “If you can do it.”
The fane-queen gave him a haughty, amused, though not offended look. She smiled and nodded and said, – if i can do it. yes.
“Oh. Er. Sorry…” said the boy. “I meant only that…”
– hush. what was spoken was well intended. Her smile brightened a fraction. and we must depart. my powers are holding together these bodies just barely, and i am like a fisherman holding together the wicker pieces of a coracle falling apart neath him. i cannot hold this false-flesh together much longer. we must return to the darkness and safety of my restful tomb. and quick. afore all form melts and we truely are lost to the living world. i do not wish to be reduced to a wandering voice on the wind. travel thee well, young child. fare thee well and seek thee a name. it is not good to go about the world without a name. there are certain advantages in the face of magic, yes, but them that die without knowing their own names–whether given or found–those folks become untethered spirits, sorrowful and voiceless and pained. angry. enraged. it is not good to die nameless.
“Right,” he said. “Yes. Thank you.”
Before she left, she paused and added: – i see that the old tutor of the book has been busy in your dreams. you are a child of letters now, and much other knowledge. good. it made for a fine education when i was youthful and wide-eyed. i hope it will make just such an education for you. be blessed and charmed in your dreams, and wide-eyed in your wakings.
A last smile, and she turned away from him.
He watched her go. He watched the ghosts gather about her and form a trail, carrying among themselves the raiment and armour of the fallen lady. By now the uninjured hobs-houlard were going back and forth, scouring the whole field of fighting, tending to the injured, using long knives on whichever fallen knights still lingered at the threshold of death, but refused to die quite quickly enough.