Tension drained suddenly from the air of the cottage, like a pain endured so long one was only conscious of it when it left. Yet the air didn't feel empty or solitary; it was as if someone listened, smiling.
"She's better," Councilwoman Radola said with relief.
Wythen nodded and sighed, feeling the child's forehead. The girl stirred in her sleep, but the simple rest-spell held. The room was warm, slightly damp and fragrant with the herbs boiling over a brazier in one corner. A stuffed dragon peeped out from the coverlets.
"Lung fever's dangerous at her age," Wythen said. "But the crisis is past. Once spring sets in fair, we ought to be over the worst."
Narvik relaxed his hold and his consciousness snapped back to its psychic anchorage in the cottage. Water dripped from melting icicles around the eaves. He turned to the flower boxes beneath the windows, where the translucent silver sheen of ice lilies showed, peeking through crusty, melting snow. He extended hands—they felt like hands—and strained. It was harder than the straws, heavier, not spell-sensitized to his command like the books and instruments.
A ghost could not gasp, but he felt himself thin as he pulled, as if the effort were draining the strength that let him remain near the land of the living. At last the flower parted and came free in his hand. He laid it on her plate before her chair.
A few seconds later Wythen bustled in; laden with a full basket from the councilwoman's house, her face flushed with the raw chill of early spring. She unwound the scarf from her head, fumbling with the bone clasps of her long sheepskin coat. The basket of food almost went down on the lily, but she snatched the wickerwork aside and stood staring for a long moment.
When she raised her head there were tears running down the frost-reddened cheeks. Wythen would never be anything but homely, but Narvik forgot that as he watched.
"Nobody... nobody ever gave me a flower before," she whispered. "Thank you."
She slid the frail stem into a small vase and set it in the center of the table, blushing and smiling.
Wythen woke in blue, predawn light and crawled reluctantly out of bed, shivering as she drew her robe around her shoulders and stooped to stoke the banked fire. She lit a splinter of wood at the cheerful flames, using it to light the oil lantern on the mantlepiece—and froze, as she saw a book on the table.
"What is it, Narvik?" she whispered. "Is trouble coming?"
As before, a clean straw marked a place and she opened the book to the page indicated. Leaning close she read: 'To Lay a Troubled Spirit."
Wythen closed her eyes and bit her lip, as grief shot through her. Rest, she thought. He wants to rest. Her fingers curled to slam the book shut in denial. No. I killed him. I cannot wrong him again.
"I'm sorry," she said, and began to read.
"I-I've never done anything so complex," she stammered. This time it was fear that made her fingers itch to close the book. The diagrams alone... and the danger, if only one thing went wrong.
A feeling passed by her eyes as she sat; warmth, comfort, the touch of a hand on her shoulder. "Every time I think of you, my heart breaks," she said. Then she sat a little straighter. "But if this is what you want, I will try."
Slowly and deliberately, the page before her turned... in still, cold air that didn't even ruffle the wisp of hair at the back of her neck. That rose on its own. To find the results of Narvik's actions was one thing; to see them in the waking day, another.
She read, "To Bring the Mage-Born Back to Life When Untimely Slain." Her heart gave a kick. This is what he wants! It was what she wanted too. Of course she'd have to leave then, but still...
She read the spell and frowned. But for one word, they were identical.
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. He was so fair, she thought, to show me both. Leaving the decision up to her.
I must give up Parney, she thought bleakly. Friends. Respect. Home. The road again, the loneliness and the cold rain.
Or... he might turn her over to the Syndic for trial. He'd seemed to forgive her, but... trust no one, her teacher Navila had warned, cackling, not even me.
She sighed. Either spell must be worked on Lammas Night, two months away. She'd plenty of time to think about it.
Carefully, she closed the book. "I will," she promised. "Narvik, I will."