take it in turns-“
The Queen was silent a while. “I believe I could defend that arrangement to my
husband,” she said at last. “But your priest is dead, goddesses. He has no body
to go back to, any more than that poor child-“
“He’s not a child really,” Harran said, “he’s about seventeen, and I keep trying
to tell you all, he’s not dead.”
“Why …” The Queen looked closely at the young man’s soul-body in the growing
light. “Indeed he’s not,” she said. “This soul is shattered.”
Mriga stood there in shock, thinking of the young body underneath Harran’s,
stiff and still-but, she now remembered with amazement, not cold. “He was struck
down in the attack that killed you, Harran,” Ischade said, “but though his body
survived the blow, apparently his mind didn’t. It happens sometimes-a soul is
too fragile to withstand the idea of its own demise and disintegrates. Leaving
the body still breathing, but empty-“
“The arrow missed the main artery,” Harran said. “The wound’ll hurt, but it’ll
heal-“
“Go then,” said the Queen, fondling Tyr’s ears and smiling slightly at her.
“Enough has happened for one day. Go, before my husband comes back and finds you
here and starts an argument.” There were nervous looks all around at this
prospect. “But perhaps one of you would stay for now?” And the Queen looked down
at Tyr.
Tyr slipped down, ran to Harran, collected a hug from him and slurped his face
then bounced over to the iron chariot, jumped into it, and sat there grinning,
with her tongue hanging out, waiting to be taken for a ride.