hillside. The thatched roof flamed and the storm could not quench it. The executioner lit his torch. The pitiless eyes of the crowd surrounded him. Dragonsbreath seared him. He was blinded with the fierce light, and he would walk blind for all eternity, for the grizane had kept his sight and it had died with him.
But the fire was not so fierce, and that was worth the price, worth any price. He closed his eyes and huddled himself to the sweet-smelling earth. When he opened his eyes at last, the stars were shining.
His shoulder throbbed and burned. He unbandaged it carefully, hoping that the arrow had not lodged against the bone. He had snapped the shaft of the arrow too short, but he was able to grip it and force it through his shoulder, though he almost fainted from the pain.
It bled more fiercely than ever, then, and Ilbran bandaged the wound again with his shirt. The starweb was half-formed, bright enough for easy travel. Though Ilbran’s back had dried and numbed, the first inches of the descent woke it to burning fire. Before he was halfway down, his legs gave way, and he fell, to lie limp and half-stunned on the cool and fragrant earth.
When he roused himself at last, he saw the watchfires gleaming, down the slope. That way was not safe.
He crept along the line of the hill, then followed a dry wash downward. Water … he needed water … he could hear the stream falling over the rocks.
He thought his heart would stop with the cold shock of it. It burned his face and hands like fire. Still, he floundered out into midstream, into the cold running water that purifies all things. He dipped his hands and face under it, and sucked up great throatfuls like a thirsty animal. He lay in a deep pool, and let the water wash away the dirt and poison from his back.
At last, Ilbran crawled out onto the bank, still weak and dizzy, chilled and trembling with cold. What was he to do, if he could shake the hounds from his trail? Carvalon? What would he find there? His friend was dead. What use would they have for a meaningless message, scraps of an old man’s dying delirium? He could not think clearly, but he had to travel in some direction. North and east would be as good as any other way.
The starweb lit his path well, though the shadows were dark and strange. He walked on stony paths, wide outcroppings of rocks that covered whole hillsides. No sign that the hunters had come this far.
But as he walked, he began to stumble over nothing at all; a rock turned under his foot and threw him to the ground, making the hot blood spring out from under the bandage. When he dragged himself up, he stood for only a moment before he fell again. That time he did not rise.
Then the little ones came, a caress of soft fur along his bare skin, a comforting warmth huddled by his side. Their fur was pale in the starlight. Their eyes were huge and dark.
They chittered to one another, softly, and more and more of them came, warming him in the cold night as he lay only half-aware. He had never known of wild ones as fearless and gentle as these.
With the coming of the dawn, the night wind shifted, and a stench blew from the north. It woke Ilbran from his doze. He looked down at the ones that had warmed him, little ones, half as long as a man’s forearm. Their silken fur was pale and golden. Sick of heart, he knew the place he was in, and he knew these gentle creatures for what they were—golderlings. He had slept on the very outskirts of the city of the dead.
His father and mother lay somewhere in that city, and so did a king and all his children but one. The golderlings had no fear of mankind, neither would the wide-winged golden vultures that descended from the sky even now, to feast.
Golden is the color of death. Even the corpse-carriers, that polluted race, wore their saffron-bordered robes. Movement in the distance caught his eyes. A pair of them came, bearing another dweller for the city of the dead. When we die they lay us on the rocks, and let the wild beasts have their will with us. Thus is the earth purified.
The saffron-robed ones plodded closer, their heads bowed low. Ilbran