felt oddly alone.
His last thought before he fell asleep was that, in a way he
didn’t yet comprehend, he was.
He slept fitfully, but without dreaming, waking often amid
stirrings of dissatisfaction and wariness that darted through the
corridors of his mind like harried rats. Each time he came awake
it was still night, until the last time when it was almost dawn,
the sky beyond the curtained window brightening faintly, the
room in which he lay still and gauzy. A white-robed Stor passed
briefly through the room, appearing from out of the shadows
like a ghost to pause at his bedside and touch his wrist and
forehead with hands that were surprisingly warm before turning
and disappearing back the way he had come. Par slept soundly
after that, drifting far down within himself and floating undis-
turbed in a sea of black warmth.
When he woke again, it was raining. His eyes blinked open
and he stared fixedly into the grayness of his room. He could
hear the sound of the raindrops beating on the windows and
roof, a steady drip and splash in the stillness. There was daylight
yet; he could see it through the part in the curtains. Thunder
rolled in the distance, echoing in long, uneven peals.
Gingerly, he hoisted himself up on one elbow. He saw a fire
burning in a small stove that he hadn’t even noticed the previous
night, tucked back in the shadows. It gave a solid warmth to the
room that wrapped and cradled him and made him feel secure.
There was tea by his bedside and tiny cakes. He pushed himself
up the rest of me way, propping himself against the headboard
of his bed with his pillows and pulling the cakes and tea to him.
He was famished, and he devoured the cakes in seconds. Then
he drank a small portion of the tea, which had gone cold in the
sitting, but was wonderful in any case.
He was midway through his third cup when the door opened
soundlessly and Walker Boh appeared. His uncle paused mo-
mentarily on seeing him awake, then closed the door softly and
came over to stand at his bedside. He was dressed in forest
green-tunic and pants belted tight, soft leather boots unlaced
and muddied, long travel cloak spotted with rain. There was
rain on his bearded face as well, and his dark hair was damp
against his skin.
He pushed the travel cloak back across his shoulders. “Feel-
ing better?” he asked quietly.
Par nodded. “Much.” He set his cup aside. “I understand I
have you to thank for that. You saved me from the Werebeasts.
You brought me back to Hearthstone. It was your idea to bring
me to Storlock. Coil and Morgan tell me that you even used
magic to see to it that I stayed alive long enough to complete
the journey.”
“Magic.” Walker repeated the word softly, his voice dis-
tracted. “Words and touching in combination, a sort of variation
on the workings of the wishsong. My legacy from Brin Ohms-
ford. I haven’t the curse of the fullness of her powers-only the
annoyance of its shadings. Still, now and again, it does become
the gift you insist it must be. I can interact with another living
thing, feel its life force, sometimes find a way to strengthen it.”
He paused. “I don’t know if I would call it magic, though.”
“And what you did to the Werebeasts in Olden Moor when
you stood up for me-was that not magic?”
His uncle’s eyes shifted away from him. “I was taught that,”
he said finally.
Par waited a moment, but when nothing more was forthcom-
ing he said, “I’m grateful for all of it in any case. Thank you.”
The other man shook his head slowly. “I don’t deserve your
thanks. It was my fault that it happened in the first place.”
Par readjusted himself carefully against his pillows. “I seem
to remember you saying that before.”
Walker moved to the far end of the bed and sat down on its
edge. “If I had watched over you the way I should have, the
Spider Gnomes would never have even gotten into the valley.
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