The single lamp was the tent's only source of heat or light, and it flickered in the soot-stained shadow of glass that hadn't been cleaned since the last time a healer had no patients awaiting attention--which might possibly have happened, once or twice, a year or two ago. Cold air crept through the gaps in the tent wall, and tugged at the weighted sides.
There were no healers here. They were with people who had some chance of survival, and this tent, this time, was mercifully uncrowded. Only one of the low cots was full, only one young soldier waited to die, fair hair discolored with blood, limp already in something deeper than sleep.
Syuveil waited with him, knees bumping his elbows as he folded himself awkwardly onto the low stool, his spear cleaned of the evidence of battle but abandoned for the moment on the ground. The smell of blood had soaked everything, until the Dragoon hardly noticed it.
Every book Syuveil studied was infinitely valuable, coming as they usually did at the price or risk of lives; stolen from Wingly homes or Wingly libraries, by agents of Emperor Diaz or Lady Charle. Syuveil had to remind himself of this quite often, when the arrogance dripping oily from the pages made him want to burn the whole collection and fling the ashes somewhere past the eastern sea.
"We must all be grateful to the forgotten Winglies who forged this bargain with the Devildom at virtually no cost," the most recent text had declared, gleeful, "that no one need ever fear the darkness after death. The terms include even Humans who are specially loyal, and the fate of the others is quite appropriate." Because Human souls didn't count, Humans belonged to their Wingly masters in life and in death, and why ask how the Humans felt about it?
And almost none of the books held any useful information, no hint of how they could break the Wingly bargain, free their dead from Wingly control. No one even seemed to know where the Death City was. It was not exactly a vacation spot, and what few visitors Syuveil had found only reported warping in from Kadessa or one of the other Wingly cities.
A thin, patched wool blanket covered the wounded soldier, undyed except for the rust-red stains that would never come out again. As a measure of final comfort, Syuveil supposed it was better than nothing, but not by much.
He didn't know the young man's name, and probably never would; certainly the soldier himself would never tell him. Syuveil knew death when he saw it, and although the stubborn heart still fluttered, the cool skin and gray pallor told their story. Even Shirley's magic would be hard-pressed to save this boy now, and Shirley had already driven herself into a collapse from exhaustion. Too many wounded, and not enough magic, that was always the trouble.
Too many dead. How many hostages had this rebellion delivered to the Winglies so far? And always more to come, more brave men and women who risked their souls in hope of freedom.
If they led all the world to freedom, but Human souls were still held in Wingly torment, that was no true victory. And Syuveil still didn't know how to free them.
The sound of soft footsteps behind him didn't register with Syuveil until a light, childish voice ventured, "What...what are you doing, sir?"
He spared a glance. The teal-haired girl Belzac had rescued hovered near the door, red eyes wide and glinting in the lamplight, cloth for bandages piled high in her arms. Syuveil couldn't remember her name, but it hardly mattered.
What am I doing? Nothing useful. Nothing he did could keep the young warrior away from death. He couldn't even offer the boy any kind of peace. Helpless and abandoned to Wingly mercy--Syuveil couldn't imagine any worse fate. If there was anything better waiting to aid Human souls, his books held no evidence of it. Wingly magic still held the dead in thrall.
The question dragged a dark bitterness up from his soul, displaying in full detail just how little he had accomplished. What am I doing?
"Watching him die," Syuveil answered at last, and the bitterness surged to color his voice with the bleak knowledge of failure. There is nothing else I can do.
The girl made a low, wordless squeak, shuffled her feet, and darted away, the entrance swinging freely in her wake with a slap of leather.
Syuveil didn't bother to watch her go. He gently wrapped both hands around the boy's cold fingers, rough with blisters from swordplay, and watched each shallow breath with an increasing pain in his own chest. "I won't leave you there," he whispered. "I won't let them keep you long. I swear it."
He didn't know if the young man was able to hear or understand on any level, but it was the only comfort he had to give. He'd made the same pledge to others before, to old men and soldiers and widows, children and mothers, to all his dead. Every time, it was a reaffirmation of all who had gone before. I haven't forgotten you.
The faint breath hitched for a moment, settled back to its uneven rhythm. Really, the boy wasn't so much younger than Syuveil was, but the stillness in his face stole away the years of pain that the war had added to them all.
The next pause was longer. Then a soft sigh, and there was no breath at all. Syuveil watched the last flicker of life tremble in the hollow of the young soldier's throat, then cease.
Syuveil didn't release his grip until the weary healers came at last, and he helped them carry the cold body gently to its pyre; no time or place for a burial in the rocky ground. Then he walked back to his books, deathly smoke clinging to his clothes and stinging his eyes, his own soul a heavy weight on his heart.