Caewen wrapped her arms around herself. She hunched her shoulders. There was a painful need to do something. Cry. Scream. Run around madly. But she couldn’t bring herself to do anything. Half of her was gone, and the sudden hollowness was awful. She felt as if she might never dream again. Never again idle away at a half-baked thought in her head. Never let her mind wander. Her dreaming mind was gone, and her daydreams too. She was far colder and more empty than she had imagined possible.
Cag-Mag’s voice came again, but even dimmer and less vital than before. “By weatherglass and weirdlight, lass, your head’s full of mice.”
Caewen looked at her.
“I’d never have thought of that.” A hard, difficult breath. A bloody colour was entering Cag-Mag’s eyes. Her lips, previously a healthy rose were now as pale as a death-lily. Each intake of air she sucked was a fraction more rasping. “Carving yourself up, so as to not betray your friends and your quest. Impressive… in a crazed as Mad Moll kind of way. I’d not have thought of it.” The shadows that always attended to Cag-Mag were gathered closer, gently stroking her brow, or laying fingers on her sleeve. One was weeping silently.
“You’re dying,” said Caewen.
“I had to draw a lot of myself to keep him from seeing us. More than I thought. I misjudged, and then–when I saw how things were–I took a gamble on you. I gave more of myself to the illusion than was sensible. Megsey me. I may be an archimage of no small craftiness, but the Winter King has at his back the power of a goddess, and a potent one at that. Blood from a turnip, my head do ache.”
“You’re dying,” said Caewen again, as if she were trying to say it out loud and believe it herself.
“We all die lass. Some sooner. Some later. I’ve had a good long life. I lived my youth to the fullest.” Dreamily, she said, “I supped my wine and danced my trysts in the twilight, and indulged in a few poorly conceived dalliances too. And then, I grew old, as a person ought. I did not seek to cheat death then, and I hope I will face it with some grace now. The end comes upon us all. Such is birth. Such is life. Such is death.”
“I guess.”
“Believe me, lass, when you lived to my age, you will know the truth of it. We live. We die. No getting out of it… not unless you want to try your hand at some necromantic arts, or make bargains with old gods or goddesses. That would not be the best path, though. Just saying.”
“But, I’ve still no idea what I’m to do. You called me a long way off my journey east. I just lost half of myself–what will happen if that other one–her–what if she meets Ode… or Dapplegrim?” A cold shock settled on her. “They’ll think she’s me.”
“They will. But she will think she’s you too, so it might go all fine and hummery, whatever which-ways it goes.”
“I don’t think it will.”
“No, I suppose not. You’re probably right. Well, I am dying, Caewen, so idle chit-chat isn’t the order of the hour. I can feel the coldness in my limbs. Soon enough I will lay the woman’s song. Great goghendies, it hurts. I don’t recommend over-drawing your life’s blood. It hurts something wicked.”
“Wait–is there a chance you will–“
“Come back as a horrock-o-bones, or some ill-made wight, or nasty skevrel, or mirkin bone-shanks?” She quite relished turning over what Caewen presumed were names for a witching-ghaist. “No. I have left enough weirdfire and power in my shadowlings,” a gasp for breath… “enough that they will save me from that fate.”
“Isn’t there some magic then? Or a charmed herb?” Caewen looked around the room. There were rows of recessed shelves, all crammed with clay jars, bottles and bundles of old and greyish dried leaves.
“What magic has taken away, magic cannot restore. Not without changing me into something I would not want to be, leastways.”
“I don’t know what to do then,” repeated Caewen, feeling pointless as she said it. “There’s too many things now. Too much.”
“Hurmph. Dogs may have four legs, but follow one path, lass. Stop fretting. Sleep here tonight. Rest up for a few hours. Collect some thoughts. Or there’s plenty of riches and charmed things to rifle through for an hour or two, if you can’t sleep. A whole life-time’s worth, really. I can’t say what will be useful, and what will not. I have not that foresight, and I’ve half forgotten half of what I have, and haven’t half the mind to chit-chat about the other half neither.” She gave out a small, bloody cough. “So, above all, what then? How about this–try to remember one last bit of advice from old Cag-Mag: fret a little less and believe in yourself a little more, lass. You’ve already overthrown warlock-lords and princelings. You’ve slain monsters. You’ve walked in bleak places and survived deathly attacks. You will do find a way. You will find the Old Great Spell. You will remake the world, if you want. Or you will scratch out the old glyphs and throw the spell down a dunny-hole.” She gave a shrug. “If you want.” The blood-flecked cough came again, rasping. “But mark me–megsie me–you’ll do it. Even if it is just by the moth-hole in your coat, you will do it.” A sad, sour look crossed her face. “And it needs to be done. the ancients were right to fear and hate the gods and goddesses. Too long have we poor mortal creatures been their playthings. Something must change in this, or what will be the future of humanity? Slaves and mindless children, overruled by petty, jealous gods forever and ever. It is not right.”
For a time, Cag-Mag struggled to breath. Caewen knelt down nearby, and held her hand. She could feel the papery, wrinkled skin growing more chill by the second. Her pulse was failing. “Is there anyone I should tell? A vice-wizard of shadows, or something? A son or daughter? An heir?”
The old arch-witch laughed miserably. “It don’t work like that. The mantle of the archimage ain’t passed on by seniority or rank or bloodline. The shadows choose. Chops me down and turn me into a rocking chair, I don’t know how they chose. But they do.”
“I see. Alright then.”
“Here. I’ve just one last thing to say to you, lean in close.”
She did.
“Closer.”
Caewen leaned even closer, near enough to smell the bodily tones of Cag-Mag’s breath and skin.
What I have to say is: Ixey pixey, barley straw, nine nips is that law, nip me now, nip me then, nip me when I fart again.” Then she laughed raucously to herself, guffawing. Blood spat from her lips in a fine spray. “I always wanted that to be my last words.”
Caewen stood up, and just sort of stared, mouth agape.
Cag-Mag’s last chuckle rolled out of her, and then her eyes drooped shut and her chest ceased to rise and fall.
Her shadows bent down around Cag-Mag, stooping low, and picked her up as if they were carrying a dear friend at a funeral. They then processioned slowly towards the back of the hall and passed right through a tall puddle of gloom, slipping into it as if there had been a door leading into a tunnel of darkness. Caewen followed them and put her hand against the cold, gritty stone after they slipped through it. She leaned forward, and tilted her forehead into the impassable surface.
For a long time she stood there, motionless, her head resting against the rock, her eyes closed, wanting to cry and yet finding it was impossible.
She was disturbed eventually by Fetch saying, “Tsssch. Really though, if you think about it, her actual last words were I always wanted that to be my last words, which isn’t quite as impressive.”