Tsem nodded his head sadly. “You almost were, but a horse healed you. I know that sounds stupid.”
“No, it makes sense,” she told him. “Who is dead?”
“Brother Horse. Bone Eel, Qwen Shen. Lots of soldiers.”
“Perkar? Ngangata?”
“Ngangata is fine. He's doing what he can for Perkar.”
“Perkar? Is he badly hurt?”
“Very badly, Princess. He will probably die.”
“I should—maybe I can help him.” But she knew that she could not. Brother Horse had never taught her how to mend a torn body, only how to cast off possession. And neither of her remaining familiars had such arts. And they, too, were weak. But Perkar! Added to Brother Horse and Ghan …
“Take me to him,” she pleaded.
Tsem nodded, lifted her up, and carried her to where Perkar lay.
He was near death, she could see that. Ngangata had bound up his belly, but blood still leaked through the bandage, and he must be bleeding inside, for she could see his spirit ebb.
“She healed me but not him,” Ngangata muttered when they arrived.
“Who?”
“The Horse Mother.”
Hezhi took a deep breath, fighting back tears. “She said he offended her—” she began.
Ngangata laughed harshly. “Yes, he did. That's Perkar, always offending some god or other.” He tried to smile, with small success.
“But his sword. Can't his sword heal him?”
“The Blackgod destroyed Harka,” Ngangata explained.
“What do we do?” Tsem asked quietly.
“Wait, I suppose,” Ngangata replied stiffly.
Hezhi nodded and took one of Perkar's cool, bloody hands in hers. The smell of iron and water was strong, but the cavern was quiet now, and the last of the flames on the water had dwindled to a pale glow. Hezhi began, at long last, to cry—for Ghan, for Perkar, for Brother Horse—even for Ghe. She cried until a light appeared, high above them, a disk of gray and then blue; beyond Erikwer, the sun had risen.
EVEN in Perkar's dream, the pain remained—a nest of ants burrowing in his intestines—but it was, at least, muted. He lay in a grassy meadow, high in the mountains. Nearby, cattle lowed softly. It was an unusually vivid dream; he smelled the sweetness of the grass and the resin of spruce needles, even the almost-forgotten scent of cows. Wishing fervently that it were real, he knew it wasn't. Only the pain was real, the hole in his body. The rest was just his mind trying to ease his death.
“Oh, no, it's real,” a voice assured him. He turned at the words and smiled, despite the pain. There, perched on a branch, as regal as any lord of the air, sat the most magnificent eagle he had ever seen. It was a bluebolt, body feathered in black and white with a crown of almost velvety indigo feathers. Its eyes were fierce, the eyes of a warrior, a predator.
“Harka,” he said. “I must say you are more attractive in that form than as a sword.”
“It's been long and long since I enjoyed a form like this, felt the wind in my pinions,” the eagle answered in precisely Harka's voice. “I had actually forgotten, you know, what I was until that day you asked my name. I had forgotten having ever been anything but a sword.”
“And now?”
“Now the Forest Lord will clothe me like this. I can spend a few years in a mortal skin and then perhaps take up residence in the mountain. It will be good, feasting on rabbit and fox again!”
“I'm happy for you. I thought the Blackgod destroyed you entirely.”
“Not at all, though I admit I thought I was dead; having my body broken like that really hurt. But in the end he did me a favor, freeing me. Though I hated to abandon you, Perkar—believe it or not, I developed a real fondness for you.”
Perkar regarded the huge bird. “As I said,” he finally said, “I'm happy for you. But I wonder…”
“Yes?” Harka sounded almost eager.
“Can you tell me what happened? Exactly? It all went so fast.”
“Oh.” The god's voice fell a bit, as if disappointed. “Of course.” He cocked his head. “Karak believed that only the River's own blood could destroy him, and only at his source. That was probably true enough. But that thing—the Tiskawa the River made to seek Hezhi out—contained many things, many kinds of blood and soul. The ghost of an ancient Nholish lord, your old love the Stream Goddess, other, smaller gods—all were given puissance and life by the River. A potent combination, one that served the same purpose as true Waterborn blood. The death of the Tiskawa performed the same task as Hezhi's own was meant to: killed him deader than a bone.”
“You are certain?”
“I am certain. I have flown over him, and I have seen. His death follows him downstream; when these waters reach the sea, nothing will remain of the Changeling.”
“And the River will be without a god. What a strange, strange thought.”
“Without a god, yes,” Harka said. “But not without a goddess.”
Perkar turned to him so sharply that, even in his dream the pain was suddenly exquisite. “What?” he gasped in both astonishment and agony.
“Well, there was one spirit inside of the Tiskawa uniquely qualified to take over in the capacity of lord of the river.”
“The Stream Goddess?”
“None other.”
Perkar sank back and stared up at the sky, happy despite the fact that he was dying.
“What a glorious world,” he muttered.
“Ah, yes, and that brings up the point of my visit—besides coming to say good-bye. In fact, if you weren't so thick, you would know why I'm here.” The eagle hopped down, flexed its wings, and moved a pace closer. ”You are about to leave this glorious world—unless you have changed your feelings about me.”
“About what?”
“More than once you cursed me for healing you. You asked me to let you die. Do you still want that?”
“You aren't my sword anymore.”
The bird lifted its wings to the wind. “No, but I could do one last favor for a friend, if he wanted.”
Perkar chuckled. “Fine, Harka. I take it all back. I'm glad you never let me die.”