Epilogue: Free to Go Abroad

The belt of trees had grown denser over the years, that much was sure. With no one around to cut back the new twigs and trample paths over shoots and saplings, the copse was turning into a compressed jungle. Not a very tall one though. Wind and shallow soils saw to that. Here and there karregs on slimy strings hung from the branches. Others crunched and broke apart under her feet.

She wore boots, this time. Old ones from the boxes up in the attics of Crossroad Keep, but still in good condition like the rest of the clothes she'd hauled from amidst layers of camphor-scented paper. For historical accuracy, she should have been walking barefoot; however, there were some things she wouldn't do, not even for this. The braids were bad enough; she'd had them put in yesterday, and they kept pulling at her scalp.

A bramble dug its thorns in her shoulder-bag. She tore it loose. The edge of the trees was ahead.

As Deramoor opened out before her, the breath caught in her throat. The shape of the landscape was so similar to how she remembered it, yet…

It was denuded of sheep. Long grasses and thistle and foxgloves had colonised the field beyond the dry ditch, which was not very dry after a damp spring. A watery sun had finally appeared, and shone weakly over the abandoned farmland. The first part of the morning had been full of drizzle and grey clouds scudding towards Waterdeep in the train of the north wind.

Before crossing meadow and ditch, she drew her sabre. Dark fire ran along the length of the blade: another detail that wasn't right. But she had a very clear memory of what had happened to Eyepatch, and by swishing the sword across her path she could make sure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for her in the long grass. Near the ditch, the sabre did chink against something. Stooping to look, she saw a very rusty morning star lying half-sunken into the ground; a couple of slugs clung to its haft.

The fence below the hillock was rotten and bent; the gate hung off its hinges. Still, the path up to the farmhouse was little changed. The terraces though: they were a sad sight. Nettles had choked all the beds where the land's last owners had grown fruit and vegetables. Only the sunken garden of the apple tree was free of the weed.

Lila paused. A chill ran down her spine. She forced herself to recall the report Neeshka had shown her in the Crossroad Keep archive: Kana had sent a salvage troop up here after the war. They'd found nothing. No bodies, just blood stains in one of the rooms of the farmhouse. The apple tree leaned forward in its sheltered den, still crooked and bent over like a superannuated human, still covered in green leaves and tiny apples.

She stepped into the garden. The grasses came above the level of her boots. Ducking under a couple of reaching branches, she crouched before the trunk. Even there, the grass grew thick and high. With her ungloved hands, she parted them, and found the stone where they'd guessed it would be.

In the last couple of years, she'd stumbled across a number of Guardian stones; they'd be there in the midst of a woodland, or embedded in the base of an old tower, or lying on an islet deep in the Mere, a call from her past while she was absorbed in the concerns of the present. This stone was easily the best-preserved of all of them. She could even see the boss on the shield, and the deep slash that represented the pupil of his eye.

Drips of water from the leaves fell on her hair. She backed out from under the branches, and returned to the path. Reflexively, she checked the two rings she wore on her right hand. Both burned with a steady light, one red-flecked with charcoal shadows, the other emerald. She pressed her lips against them.

Luan still hadn't arrived, unless he was waiting by the farm. Opening the chronometer that hung round her neck on a darksteel chain, she checked how late it was. Over an hour left yet. For all that it was midsummer, the weather was cool enough to deter her from hanging round. She paced up and down irresolutely before letting herself swing round towards the buildings. She strode up the path, propelled by the restlessness of her nerves as much as anything else. She wasn't afraid; but like the time they'd baited their trap in Cimbar, there would be factors at work that they hadn't foreseen.

The windows of the farmhouse were boarded up; the door rattled under her hand. It felt bolted. That wasn't such a surprise; cousins of the old owners were supposed to visit the place once a month or so to make sure it wasn't collapsing. Despite the fine quality of the house, its creamy stonework and solid interior, and despite the extensive lands, they'd refrained from moving in. It took intense stubbornness to live where something so terrible had happened. She should know. She lived in West Harbour.

She rested her hand on the scarred wooden door. Focused. Her power began to gather itself. But before she could complete the spell, she realised what she was doing, and stopped. The Lila of then wouldn't have been able to draw back a bolt with magic. Instead, she left the porch and went to the nearest window. Half a minute's work with her knife had the board swinging open. Sliding the blade through the inner edge of the window frame allowed her to unhook the catch without destroying too much of the wood in the process. That took a minute.

A vase with a sea-blue glaze stood on the ledge inside the room. Despite the layer of dust and the dead flies scattered around, it was still a pretty thing. She shifted it to the far end of the sill, away from her, before climbing in. Only when her feet were on the floor inside did a flash of memory come back to her. A vase full of yellow irises, and a tortoiseshell cat.

The room she was standing in was full of old furniture, mostly covered in dust sheets. It had probably been a parlour; the empty fireplace and the framed dried flowers on the wall gave it the look of the place where the family would have met up of an evening to talk over the day's happenings, the serious and the trivial.

Beyond the parlour, the corridor was very dark. She reached her hand out, then closed it again. No. She hadn't used magelight then, had she? Sighing, she wedged the parlour door open with a stool so that some light could leaven the shadows.

Carefully, she wandered through the whole farmhouse. There was nothing remarkable in it now; just dust, mice droppings, and patches of damp plaster on a few of the walls and ceilings. Nothing out of the ordinary.

In the pantry, the dust lay on the floor and shelves in as thick a layer as everywhere else. She brushed some aside with the side of her boot. Underneath it, the stone tiles were clean. Trying not to think, she mechanically pushed a few of the jars of preserves to the left and right. Their labels were faded. But there…on the wall at the back of the shelf, there were a few brown stains.

It was almost a relief to see them. Proof that her mind hadn't devised that particular recurring nightmare by feeding on itself. In the real world, the episode had occurred many years ago, and was confined to one place. She could leave it behind.

So that was what she did. Back in the parlour, she leant her arms on the window sill, and watched a fine drizzle falling on the cobbled yard. The wind blew through the open casement; a slight stretch of the imagination allowed each gust to bring in the pure smell of conifer and snow from the Spine of the World.

The chronometer showed half-an-hour to midday. She napped its lid shut. Climbing out proved a little more awkward than getting in had been; the level of the ground in the parlour was a couple of feet below its height outside. As she pulled herself up, a tiny splinter from the sill caught in her palm. She let herself drop back into the parlour, and drew it out with her teeth after locating it, a black dot beneath her index finger. Blood welled up.

It was in the moment between lifting her eyes from the small flow of red and returning to the window that she saw it. There was a mirror on the wall in a simple old-fashioned frame. It reflected the sheet-covered furniture, the window and one side of the hearth, except for that one instant when the reflection changed; instead of dust-sheet covered armchairs and cabinets, it held the image of a solitary wooden chair. Only the back was visible, and, above the carved top, a swirl of silver-yellow hair. In the fractional mirror-world, the mistress of the house was sitting in her parlour, watching the empty fireplace.

The shift in the reflection was so brief that, if Lila hadn't known better, she'd have taken it for a trick her mind was playing on her after too little sleep.

"I've come back," she told the room. "I'll do what I can." She doubted the long-dead woman heard her; whatever power had once brought her so close to the living world seemed diminished today. Even if the words did find an audience, there could be no question of blame if they were discounted. Lila had broken a promise she'd made here before.

The drizzle had stopped as she set her boots down in the yard. With some guilt, feeling that she was closing the door of a prison, she swung the board closed and rammed the nails back into place with the hilt of her knife.

Her return to the garden of the apple tree was in time for her to see a tall, thin man leashing a dapple-grey horse to a young blackthorn a little way down the path. She squinted at him, wondering. At first, she didn't recognise him at all, even when he took off his cap to release a fall of curly brown hair. But, really, who else could it be?

"Luan!" she called to him. "Thank you for coming!" She took a few steps towards him. "By all the gods, you've grown twice-over since I saw you. What are they putting in the food in Waterdeep? Dragon blood and elephant milk?"

He approached uphill, coming to a halt feet away. Then, without drawing up his shoulders, which seemed to have developed a habitual stoop, he saluted. She took the time to scan him, take in how he'd changed; she guessed that behind the salute and the quizzical smile, he was doing the same thing.

"Captain Farlong," he said, letting his hand fall. "Ensign Luan reporting for duty." He was wearing an old grey cloak over a very unmilitary tweed suit and walking brogues.

"Since both of us left the army one way or another in the Year of the Bent Blade, I think you should just call me Lila."

He shook his head in amused horror. "Oh, I couldn't do that, Captain. I still think I hear Sergeant Katriona sometimes telling me to stand up straight and make eye contact." His expression sobered. "That reminds me…"

He crossed to the apple tree with loping strides. From underneath his cloak he produced a posy of yarrow and fluffy yellow flowers. Gently, he laid them in a hollow where the trunk forked.

"Are those yellow flowers there a kind of thistle?" They weren't part of the plan; still, they shouldn't cause any disruption.

"Griffin thistles from the mountains. They seemed appropriate somehow."

"She could be a tough lady," Lila observed.

"Very. I hated her sometimes, dumb boy that I was. Meeting soldiers from other armies changed my mind pretty quick." His mouth curled down. "By then she was dead, of course."

"The shadows never took her soul." That was the only comfort for could give him there. Ivarr had assured her of it. She moved to stand next to the long, spare man, who seemed to have no relation to the awkward recruit she'd known. In silence, they observed the posy of wilting flowers.

After a few moments, she felt her eyes drawn down to where the stone rested concealed in the grasses, as if it was exerting some force over her. Reminding her, maybe, that she still had preparations to complete.

Unslinging her shoulder bag, she took out the first object that her fingers touched. It was one of the ones that she'd carved herself out of milk-coloured willow wood. She'd rendered the face as accurately as she could, given that it was meant to represent Balaur, the spirt of an elven archive-keeper whom she hadn't seen for years. She'd thought about him though, as she'd whittled and chipped away at the carving through one long evening in late spring. Lifting it up by the leather cord that she'd looped through a borehole, she let it hang from the nearest branch of the ancient tree.

Thirteen more to go…

"You've made heegies…karregs?" Luan asked in surprise. "Why?"

"They're something between an offering and a…well...something like a causeway. They're to help him find his way." She doubted that her explanation made much sense. Her message to his workshop in the Neverwinter Quarter of Waterdeep had simply said that she needed his help to help an old acquaintance. Considered from the perspective of a paladin, the message might be considered just a touch misleading. But she wasn't a paladin, and if she'd set out what she intended in full, he might not have come.

The next karreg she hung up represented an elven warrior, one of the Silken Sisters. That was another of hers. After untangling a few of the leather thongs from the knot they'd made of themselves, she drew out another. Made from oak, and styled geometrically in a conscious imitation of Illefarn patterns, the cheekbones, eyes and jaw of the dwarf Annaeus had been gilded with an attention to detail that bordered on obsessiveness. She hung it on one of the thick boughs that could be mistaken for an arm from certain angles.

Luan caught it as it swung in a gentle pendulum. He ran his thumb over the square dwarven features in the manner of a connoisseur. "Someone else made this – the elf karregs are naturalistic. This is – not."

"Ammon made that."

His hand let go of the karreg as suddenly as if it had burned him. That kind of reaction was not new. Neverwinter people tended to fear warlocks in general, and one of them in particular.

"It's good, isn't it? But I think he was just showing off with the gold leaf. Ash made one too, though he cut it out of a roasted turnip and fed it to the dog afterwards." She kept her voice light as she spoke, hoping that Luan wouldn't decide that dark magic was involved, and flee. He wasn't essential, but he might be useful.

"Ash is your son?"

"Yes." Ash was his use-name, as opposed to the name – the name that contained power, and was therefore secret – that his father had given him the first time he held his son in his arms. "Born a month early under an ash tree; I'd like to believe that's a sign he'll grow up to work in the arboretum of the Eighth Earl of Beregost. No invasions, plagues or evil spirits there for over three centuries."

Luan laughed. "May I?" His hand hovered over the bag of karregs.

"Please."

They took turns bedecking the tree with hanging discs of pale and brown wood.

"I visited your workshop when I was in Waterdeep last year on business," she said glad to talk about pleasant matters. "You were away, but your assistant let me watch as she unloaded the kiln. What you make now – it's beautiful…I don't have the words for what you do. I'm not surprised you stopped being a Greycloak, to make things like that." As she spoke, she hung up the last karreg. One of her own. The half-elf archer's face spun this way and that. It and his wife had been the best likenesses she'd created; she'd never forget their features.

"I was an appalling Greyloak," said Luan with cheerful directness. His New Leaf farmer's accent was still audible in the way he pronounced his 'k's. Waterdeep must have erased the other tells. "I didn't like drinking, hated sharing a dormitory, wanted to know the reasons for orders…"

"Officer material then!" Lila joked. "Well, except the part about the drinking…"

"After the war, I knew I didn't want to be a soldier anymore, but didn't want to be a farmer either. When I was put in the way of an apprenticeship with a master potter near the docks, I jumped at it." He rubbed his narrow chin. "That was an education."

"In more ways than one, I'm sure…" she murmured, recalling the drinking dens and thugs loitering and loiterers advertising their services along the wharves of Neverwinter. She checked the chronometer again. Fifteen minutes.

"A chronometer, yes. A gift from a friend in Thay. The main dial tells you what time of day it is, and the smaller one shows the year."

Luan's eyelashes fluttered up and down. He briefly looked almost as gawky as he had when he was seventeen. "I have a gift too. Not really a gift…actually it's something I meant to return ages ago, except I didn't know where you were. Anyway -" he reached inside his cloak again. Either it or his jacket must be filled with pockets, a sartorial choice of which she approved "-here."

On his palm there was a folded square of red cloth. As her fingers touched it, they felt silk. "My sash. Gods, I wore that right from West Harbour through to being Knight Captain. I never thought I'd see it again after Eyepath rode off with it round his leg." Delighted, she unfurled it so that its full length and width could be inspected. Apart from one or two patches that might be imperfectly removed bloodstains, it looked much as she remembered. Quickly, she tied it round her waist.

She was ready to begin, but Luan seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. He gazed down the path towards the grey horse.

"They kept me stationed at Revier for the rest of the summer. Darmon had this idea that since I arrived on horseback, I'd make a good messenger to the court." According to Neeshka's vast reserves of old gossip, that wasn't the only thing the knight had thought Luan would be good for. "When I finally made it back to the Keep, all the battles were over, and the after-party was starting."

Lila raised her eyebrows in curiosity. "Khelgar told me a little about that. He said it did more damage to Crossroad Keep than the whole Shadow Army managed in the siege."

"He's not wrong," said Luan with a choked laugh. "It was Nasher's people and the reinforcements from Waterdeep, mainly. We – the garrison, I mean – we weren't in the mood. We'd lost friends on the walls, and we'd lost our captain too. Kana rode out to search the ruins, and then there was no one around ready to control the other soldiers." He flicked a moth off his sleeve, and scowled bitterly. His memories seemed to have taken a nasty turn. "Katriona would have kept them in line."

"I'm sorry," said Lila. Had something happened to him, or was he just showing the disgust of a craftsman for needless destruction? He sniffed, and clenched his jaw. Suddenly he seemed very young again.

"I wish you'd come back sooner," said Luan. His tone was almost accusatory. "Maybe then there wouldn't be all this – all this politics -" He waved an arm around, embracing all the lands round Deramoor.

"I doubt it," she said gently. Not that she hadn't spent sleepless nights running through events, trying to decide if fate was more like the fall of an axe, or the wing of a butterfly. "I couldn't have stopped the Spellplague. And once Nasher died, there were always going to be problems."

"It would have been better with you there," Luan insisted mulishly. She wondered how his belief in her had survived that terrified march over the hills and valleys. This hero of Neverwinter stuff just wouldn't stay dead. "What were you doing for all these years, anyway?"

He sounded as if he was expecting her to explain that the dog had eaten a decade's worth of her homework, and that consequently she'd been unable to save the Sword Coast. They had about five minutes; the full account would take weeks.

"Oh well…we were here and there, you know. The gith asked us to catch a murderer in Limbo, and we ended up discovering a spy...in Chessenta we were blackmailed into finding a spy, and we ended up helping a murderer escape. We lost ourselves in the Fields of Itsharopena to throw off some rather unpleasant pursuers, and lived for a while with a former Alarch of Imasker in a tower of polished alabaster, surrounded by meadows of black chrysanthemums…" Even a paladin couldn't query her truthfulness there. That it was all true amazed her.

"Black chrysanthemums!" breathed Luan. His manner reversed, becoming as enthused as it had been dour. "I like that. The tower too. I wanted to make something different to present to the Guild in Waterdeep. That could be the key to the design…"

Her travels, both the voluntary and the compelled, had introduced her to many wonderful sights. To creatures too. On returning to the Mere, the ordinary appeal of watching a water-boatman sculling over a coppery pool in the reedbeds had struck her for the first time.

"We should start." She felt the grasses in front of the tree, and was surprised to find them dry. The sun was out properly at last, and its heat was almost enough to neutralise the needling wind, but it shouldn't have sufficed to remove three days' worth of rain showers. Regardless, she sat, assuming the straight-backed posture that Zhjaeve had once taught her to use in a similar exercise.

"Should I sit?" Luan asked.

"I find it easier to concentrate that way, but it's up to you." He sat down a yard to her left, mimicking her posture even to the extent of straightening his bent shoulders.

He cleared his throat. "Captain, is this safe? I don't want you to think I'm a complete coward, but I don't know magic and haven't held a sword since I left the Greycloaks…"

"It's safe." She spoke in her most confident voice. It would have been more accurate to say that she could see no persuasive reason why it would be dangerous. "He can't hurt us. Nor does he want to."

Luan looked reassured; some of the over-exactness left his posture, and his shoulders started to slump again.

"What do I need to do?"

"Remember the man you saw talking to me? Right after Eyepatch was injured."

"Yes." He frowned. "I didn't see him up close. But didn't he have…a kind of shepherd's smock? And dark skin and hair?" Praise the gods for Luan and the tenacity of his eyes' memory. The intricate glazed patterns that his workshop was developing a reputation for must have at least part of their origin there.

"That's enough. All you need to do is – remember him, as you saw him then. Concentrate on him as strongly as you can, as if you were looking at him right now."

"I'll try." Luan took his hands off his knees, folded them in his lap, then put them back on his knees again as he realised what he'd done.

Lila smiled at him before turning to face the western edge of the garden. The ditch and belt of trees were just visible from where she sat. Focusing, she brought herself back to that day: the heat, the crickets chirping, the glare of the sun, and the sound of sheep tearing up mouthfuls of grass in the field behind her. He'd stepped out of the trees…

"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a clever orphan boy. He was born in the village of Isernant in Netheril. His first years passed happily enough, though he was poor. His sister's family took good care of him, and he was good friends with an elf-child from one of the better farms.

"But one day a group of mages fell on the village without any warning. They burned the houses, and any people died trapped inside them. No one ever found out why: it might have been for sport, or as a reprisal against the tithe holder. The boy survived, albeit without sister, house or possessions. All was gone. His friend offered him shelter, but he refused it, and all other offers of help. He'd had enough of Netheril, he said. He was going to make a life elsewhere, or die trying.

Lila paused. The branches of the apple tree were creaking. Karregs clacked against each other, sounding like conkers being cracked in children's games. She forced herself to keep looking ahead.

"Remarkably, he survived. After walking some two hundred miles, swimming over the river at the border – gods only know how he made it so far – one evening he staggered up a slope, and found himself on a broad plateau. Rosagero, it was called. Moor of the deer. He was starving and tired, in a wretched state, so when he saw the farm at the highest point – what else could he do? - he went to it and knocked at the door. The woman who answered, a beautiful woman with a heart-shaped face and hair the colour of winter sunshine, she pitied him.

"She invited him to spend the night, and gave him all the food he could eat, and more. She and her husband couldn't have children, though they desperately wished they could. And so it was natural to invite the lost boy to spend another night in their house, and then another, and another. Eventually, they didn't need to ask. He stayed. He was their son, now."

Lila gulped. He was there, as if he'd risen directly from the soil. Standing at the edge of the garden with his quarterstaff in his hand, dark hair framing his wide-boned cheeks. Sunlight shone through the folds of his smock, and through his skin. She rushed to continue, scared he would fade if the words did.

"They were so proud of him. He was clever, and quick to learn, but not arrogant. He'd never had parents before, and wanted to please these new ones that had fallen across his path. For a long time, he was afraid that he'd lose them, somehow, the way he'd lost his sister.

"After a while, the local tutor noticed his ability, and arranged for him to spend time in Arvahn, learning from the scholars and enchanters there. Like many people who've known loss early, he became apt at drawing others to him. Filling the hole.

"But however much admiration he won for his talent and friendliness and humble manners, I wonder if he ever really felt secure? He was dark-skinned human in a land of pale elves and dwarfs. Everyone he met just had to look at him to know his origins. He was from Netheril, from the enemy."

As she spoke, he walked towards them. With every step, he seemed to become more solid, more real. Lines at the corners of his mouth promised a quick smile; the dark eyes would remain solemn, whatever the circumstances. Ash might look a little like the shepherd one day. Her stomach clenched at the thought of the ritual.

She hazarded a glance at her chronometer. The needles in the smaller dial vacillated around madly; the needle in the larger dial pointed straight to midday.

"Not long after he reached adulthood, Illefarn lost three battles against Netheril in quick succession. Two of their armies were routed, and fled from the border, abandoning their weapons in terror of the war mages and their winged steeds. It was then that the priest Annaeus announced his plan, and asked for volunteers."

The man stood between them, not looking at her or Luan but past them to the apple tree. She could smell the musk of pine resin on his clothes. She hoped Luan was staying calm; he'd kept his composure till now.

Smoothly, the shepherd turned, and sat down in the grass between them, his quarterstaff leant against his shoulder. He was listening. He had to be.

"He was staying with his parents when he heard about Annaeus's plan. Just the outline at this stage. A hero was needed; a sacrifice was required. The next morning – at the crack of dawn – he rose, planning to leave without telling the people that loved him most of his intentions. But by chance, he met his mother on his way, and told her he was going to find a lost lamb."

She broke off again. The next words were hard to say, and she knew it would only get worse. But the story had to be told. It had to be set before him, all the missing pieces brought together. "Instead, he went straight to Arvahn.

"He joined a crowd of other would-be volunteer sacrifices on the steps of the Temple of the Seasons. This was his great chance to prove his loyalty to Illefarn, and revenge himself on Netheril at the same time. Some of his friends begged him to withdraw, tried to persuade him that there was no shame in it; others encouraged him, talking about patriotism and the survival of a great civilisation.

"He stayed – of course he did – passed easily through all the initial tests.

"It was then that Annaeus told him exactly what would happen in the rite. At that point, he'd gone too far, made promises that his sense of pride and honour wouldn't let him rescind. The other volunteers dropped away one-by-one, deemed unsuitable, finding excuses, until only one was left.

"Netheril was harrying Illefarn to the east and south. The rite itself would take a hundred days to complete. There was no time to be lost. The circle of learned citizens that had the final say didn't dare wait another year for the most auspicious day on their calendar to come round again. So just a few days after he volunteered, he was led down into a stone chamber, and the magicians of Illefarn began their work."

The shepherd was still sitting on the grass under the apple tree, his arms wrapped around his legs. There was no sign in his profile or in the looseness with which his hands held each other clasped round his legs that he was hearing anything that disturbed him. Ten years ago, he'd screamed with fear at the thought of what had been – or would be – done to him. Was she too late? Was he too faded to be recalled? She felt tears burning in her eyes, and was surprised at herself. Then annoyed.

Fuck it. She'd recreated Akachi from a few pieces of mask. She could do the same for the lost shepherd. This was her land. No one got to haunt it without her agreement.

"Afterwards – after the spells and the butchery were done – there seemed to be nothing left of the clever orphan boy, or the man he'd become. The pieces of his body were taken and buried across all the territories of Illefarn, and stones were placed to mark their locations."

She bit her lip.

"That was when a box was brought to Deramoor, and buried underneath the apple tree. You'd asked that it be so. The box contained your heart."

She looked at him again. Still, he showed no reaction; he looked as peaceful as the weathered carvings on the Guardian stones. A representation of a person, as real as one of her son's stick figures. Her hope was failing, but she wasn't ready to give up. She had one more trick prepared.

"I don't know how your parents reacted. They couldn't howl your name and weep, because your name had been erased from the knowledge of the people of Illefarn. But they never forgot you; no spell however strong could make them do that."

Her pulse uneven, feeling nauseous, she brought her story to its terminus, as she had planned. She turned to face him.

"Do you want to know your name?"

She held her breath. Waited. She couldn't hear anything beyond the blood thrumming in her ears.

He nodded. "Yes," he whispered.

Slowly, taking care not to frighten him, she leaned close and murmured his name. He closed his eyes.

In the same instant, a sharp crack rang out behind her. She was very familiar with the sound masonry makes when it crumbles, and didn't need to turn round to discover what had happened to the Guardian stone. She hoped that exactly the same thing was happening all across the Sword Coast, wherever the grim reminders of sacrifice had been erected.

"Free. I'm free." His voice sounded hoarse for lack of use. Standing up, he looked first at Luan, then at her. "Thank you."

He was still holding his quarterstaff. Pressing his lips together, his nostrils flaring, he took an end of the staff in each hand, and twisted – hard. It snapped in two. He threw the pieces to the ground in disgust. "The sacrifice is over. The fires on the altar are dead."

When he put his hands to his face, as if trying to hold back a huge surge of emotion, she realised that they were already fainter than they had a moment before. Just then, when the stone had split, and he'd opened his eyes as a free man, she'd thought he might have been given his life back, along with his name. But now, it was clear that he was fading. To go somewhere? Or was he bound for nowhere, like Bishop in the Wall?

He was looking at his hands too, observing their growing translucency with a slight smile. Whatever was happening, he seemed unconcerned.

"Your parents are waiting for you," said Lila. "And the spirits of your friends are still at Arvahn. And Annaeus. He won't ask for your forgiveness, but he might take it if you offered it. If you could. I wouldn't blame you if you left him there, personally."

The shepherd bowed to her. A few locks of hair fell loose from behind his ear. They were more blue now than black, the colour of the sky.

Luan rose, and took two steps toward the vanishing figure. On a sudden impulse, it seemed to her, he stuck out his arm, hand open, as if reaching for a friend being pulled away in the currents of a river.

The shepherd smiled again; she thought the broad smile might even have touched his solemn eyes. He held out his hand to take Luan's, but before their fingers could meet, his had thinned into nothing.

She and Luan were left alone in the sunken garden. The sun was hot as it bounced off the limestone walls. A thrush was singing somewhere nearby and unseen. Crickets chirped. Hastily, she dried her eyes on her sleeve before Luan could notice that his former captain had been crying.

So that was it. Centuries of fractured existence had drawn to a close. The King of Shadows was dead, and the shepherd too had vanished from the hills. She'd thought it was over after the horrific fight in the depths of the palace, but this – this was another kind of ending. Midsummer's day in an ancient garden, and a bird filling the air with a high whistling song.

"I wasn't sure if I should come," said Luan. His eyes were red-rimmed. "But I'm so glad I did. I'm glad I trusted you."

She looked down, and shook her head. Tried to get a grip on herself. "You've just watched an era end, and an empire with it. Thank you, Luan. You've helped make history today, even if it isn't the sort that most often finds its way into the record books."

Luan gave a shaky laugh. "Do you think he will forgive the priest that planned everything?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. Stranger things have happened. I think they might at least come to an understanding." She paused again. "But, you know, it's possible that the spirits trapped at Arvahn vanished when he did. None of them may ever see each other again."

"I hope they do." Luan was wiping his eyes on a linen handkerchief. He had the confidence not to disguise his tears. She respected that, even if she couldn't do it herself.

"Yes. Perhaps the surviving gods of Illefarn will grant them that much grace, after centuries of abandonment…" She cut herself off. A peaceful life was what she was aiming for; not waking one morning to find an angry deity on the doorstep. Her family had enough enemies.

She stood up, and went to the eastern side of the garden. The wall was full of footholds; she climbed it and was on the grassy slope above in a matter of seconds.

Trees lined the sheer edge of the plateau. Beyond them, she could see Haresrun, Redfell, and Kelin. They seemed vast on that clear afternoon; no heat-haze obscured their rounded summits.

Raising an arm, she let power race through her. Silver flames balled from her fingers, and streamed up into the sky like a geyser. So long since the shard had been cut out of her chest, and yet the light of her magic retained the exact hue of the fire that had drawn Gith's Silver Sword together.

She didn't need to wait long. An answering beacon of scarlet and black flames rose from the northern tip of Redfell. She smiled, and touched the rings she wore again. The gem on the larger of the two felt warm.

"What was that?" Luan was staring up at her.

"A message to Ammon. He's been watching from the far side of the valley."

A short scramble and a jump, and she was back in the garden. Peering under the tree, which seemed undisturbed by the exorcism that had shaken its little kingdom, she found the remains of the Guardian stone: a heap of broken rock and dust rested in the grass where it had lurked.

"Captain." Resting on Luan's outstretched hands were the halves of the quarterstaff. The blackened wood looked unremarkable. It had no aura of power, nor did it shine with an otherworldly light. As far as she could tell, they were simply pieces of what had once been a well-made staff. Applewood, she was prepared to bet. "You should take them."

She put her hands on them, letting them lie there long enough to sense for any charms or spells hidden in the grain. Nothing.

"Keep them. They're quite inert. Keep them in memory of Deramoor."

"You're sure?"

She nodded. Perhaps she should warn him that one morning he was going to walk into his workshop to find a warlock already there. But no need to worry him in advance. "I can look up to the hills whenever I visit Crossroad Keep. That's not so easy for you in Waterdeep."

"True enough." He tucked the broken staff under his arm, and replaced his cap. Slowly, they returned to the path. "What's the Keep like now?"

"Thriving. The people in the farms roundabout have started calling it Castletown." She wasn't blind enough to pretend that a stab of thwarted possessiveness didn't strike her when she thought of the tumble-down fortress flourishing without her. Still, she'd made her choice, and didn't regret it. "Khelgar is officially in charge, if anything can be considered official these days. Neeshka works in the background. I'd call her the power behind the throne, but I think she'd hate the idea of such an obvious hiding place…"

"I can't imagine it without Kana. She always seemed to be everywhere at once…" Luan had shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket as they wandered down the slope towards his horse. How quickly the normal world reasserted itself; it was like waking from the intense dreams she'd suffered in Rashemen and Itsharopena.

"Hardly anyone's still there from our time. Light of the Heavens moved on with her sister; Startear left, and so did Ivarr. Bevil commands the garrison now, though it's smaller than it was. Most of the rooms in the Keep itself have been turned over to accommodation for merchants and adventurers." From which flowed enough money to pay the wages of the Greycloaks. It would be long before support came from Neverwinter again; perhaps it would never come.

Luan added the broken staff to the gear in his saddle-bags. Taking off the horse's nosebag, he stowed that away too. "I'll have to go there one day," he said. "See if anyone's in the market for high-quality stoneware." He patted the gelding's neck. For the first time, she looked at the horse properly.

"Is this the same grey that…?"

Luan gave her a quick grin, and the horse another pat. "Darmon said I might as well keep him. I know I should've looked for his real owners, but we were friends by then. Weren't we?" The grey's ears pricked up. "Yes!"

As the horse devoured a carrot that Luan has produced from his pocket, the tall young man rested an elbow on the saddle. He half-turned towards her.

"You know Eyepatch is with Lord Bann now?"

"As Captain Veirs. Yes, I heard. Darmon too." She didn't raise her eyebrows, and kept her intonation level. "I hope they like the climate. Port Llast always seemed to be either freezing, stormy or humid when I was there."

"But Lord Bann. Do you think he could be good for Neverwitnter?" His eyes sparked with enthusiasm. She repressed a sigh. Luan wasn't interested in talking about the weather. He wanted politics. If he was a spy trying to entrap her, he was a truly awful one. But the most effective spies were often the most improbable.

"Neverwinter hardly exists anymore," she reminded him gently. "And I haven't met him. Many people who have speak well of him." And others said the reverse. Most of her contacts just wanted to avoid being caught up in a civil war.

"My family in New Leaf say he's strong. They don't understand why the Council won't confirm him as Nasher's heir…" Because, as far as she could tell, there was absolutely no evidence that he was, except that he was blonde and looked good on horseback. And controlled the northern army. "If you said you supported him…"

She rubbed the bridge of her nose in frustration. She'd forgotten that Luan could be deeply annoying as well as sweet. Before he could say more, she'd decided how to shut him up.

"Look," she said. She concentrated. Between her hands a large piece of vellum flickered, then stabilised. It was an illusion, but she knew the original so well that it was an almost perfect illusion.

Luan recoiled briefly till, recollecting himself, he started to inspect the document, eyes jumping up and down the page. "What is it?"

"Nevalle brought it to me before going into exile." And she would never be to understand exactly what had motivated him to do that. "It was taken from Nasher's desk, if you believe him."

Luan's lips moved as he worked his way through the elaborate elven script. "By my own free will and under the Eye of Tyr, I do bestow upon Lila Farlong of West Harbour the title of …Marshall… of the Southern Marches, and besides do confirm all duties and arms associated therewith…" He looked down at her, his eyes full of questions.

"There's no seal, so it has no legal force. But it was signed and dated."

"Thirteen eighty-five," Luan read. "…that was the year of the Spellplague." He seemed ready to shrink away from the illusion again. "Those stains – they're not wine, are they?"

She shook her head. He was lucky not to have seen the other document Nevalle had brought, a pardon for Ammon that was unsigned, without a seal, and almost illegible for the red-brown patches that covered most of the surface.

"We think he was sitting at his desk when the mages from the Academy found him." She let her hands fall; the image disappeared. Distracting herself from thoughts of the Spellplague, she stepped up to the gelding, and rubbed his nose. "I don't claim the title," she explained, not observing Luan for his reaction. "But I will fulfil the responsibility. The Southern March used to stretch from the Dardeel south to the border. While I can, within reason, I'll keep the Mere and the dales safe. And out of wars and politics." Not ignoring them though. Politics wasn't like a bear: it wouldn't leave you alone if you played dead.

"I…understand. I think," said Luan.

She turned to him, seeing him look as crestfallen as he used to do as a recruit at Crossroad Keep when the soldiers played tricks on him. "You're lucky, you know. Gifted. You make things that are useful and beautiful – that speak a little of another world. If my son wanted to be apprenticed to you one day, I'd be proud of him."

She meant it. She'd spent a lot of her life killing people and creatures. Many of them had been necessary deaths. Some hadn't.

Luan laughed incredulously. "I doubt his father would agree."

"His father wants him to stay alive. Craftsmen and artificers tend to have longer lifespans than adventurers, believe it or not."

"Or soldiers," Luan added in a rueful tone, adjusting his cloak as if it was sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders. He took the horse's bridle, and they walked together down to the old fence. Then it would be time to say goodbye.

"Which way are you going?"

"The same as in the war. West, to Fort Revier, then the road north. I haven't seen my family since moving to Waterdeep. It's high-time I paid them a visit." She wondered if he would be paying visits to Darmon and Captain Veirs as well. Dropping in on a couple of old friends, trading stories… It wouldn't matter if he did. What had happened today deserved to be known beyond this patch of meadow and moorland.

Luan swung himself onto the saddle with practised ease. After changing the angle of his cap and checking the saddle-bags, he took hold of the reins. They looked at each other; the meeting had been a triumph, and a forewarning. New fractures were creeping into their history; former allies couldn't meet without sensing their advance.

"Go well, Luan. You did a great thing today. Thank you."

"It was my honour." He bent down to shake her proffered hand. "And, Captain, it would be my honour too if your son chose to be taught by me. Someday."

When he and the horse were out of sight, she turned north, skirting round the base of the tumulus. Idly, she drew her sabre again, and slashed at the grasses in front of her, checking for traps. Venting her discomfort.

It felt strange to be standing on Deramoor, and yet distant from it. For years, the plateau had been a memory of burning heat, blood, laughter and yellow irises. The land she was crossing now felt so normal. But even if she spent a winter camped out here, through frost and falls of snow, she knew that the first overwhelming impression of a sun-drenched summer's day would endure long after the snow had melted.

She'd finally completed what she'd longed to be able to do then. If the colours of Deramoor seemed less crystalline, the humming of the bees less insistent because the genius loci had departed, it was a small price to pay for his freedom.

An hour or so was all she'd need to reach Hunter's Brook, as long as she didn't break her neck scrambling down the eastern slopes. Still, she felt impatient to be away. She wanted to tell Ammon that the time they'd spent following a centuries' old trail hadn't been futile; more than that, she wanted his embrace. She didn't know why she felt so desolate.

The noise of feathers shivering in the air reached her before she saw the bird. Its long wings moved with a steady beat, their ends flexing a little inwards and downwards with each flap. The heron was bound on an easterly course. It was grey, and its pinions were black-tipped, as if with ink or coal dust.

Raising a hand in farewell, she watched it diminish, until it was nothing but a smudge over Haresrun. It if continued that way, the ruined palaces, mines and temples of Arvahn would soon unfold beneath it.

Once even the smudge had melted into the blue, she let her hand fall, and resumed her own path, winding steeply down from the heights to the easier pastures beside the river.