“Dost mine eyes behold the revenant?”

  Cerenid gazed down at Azarius from the dais. The Immortal had been bathed and vested in simple crimson robes. The light through the high glass beamed down upon the Him, alighting His visage. Cerenid’s crown slipped askew as he leaned forward to examine the prophet. He set it straight on his head.

  “Aye, my Lord,” Azarius answered.

  “Art thou come to save us?”

  “Nay,” Azarius answered, shaking his head. “I cannot save men from themselves. I come only as a beacon of hope, to be seen and not to compel, and to offer my counsel if it be sought.”

  “And what would be thy counsel?”

  Azarius turned then to those gathered in the hall—reiks and wardens, priests and captains— and his gaze seemed to linger upon each in turn, as though weighing the hidden burden each carried. Some met his eyes, hungry for reassurance. Others looked away, fearing the weight of what they already knew must be spoken.

  Turning back to Cerenid He answered, “My council is this: that the rex muster the Norland host. For the Beast is vulnerable this day, yet by winter’s coming it shall be unassailable, for the High Gate will be unreachable.”

  The high priestess stepped forward, her voice measured but trembling. “The revenant hath been foretold. The hour appointed is now upon us.”

  “You say you come as a beacon of hope,” Cerenid observed, “yet thy counsel is war. Tell me, what hope is there in marching south and leaving our walls undefended?”

  “To march means defeat is not certain. But that is not the hope of which I wish to speak, my Lord.”

  “Then of what hope do you wish to speak?”

  “I speak not to the flesh of men, but to their spirit,” said Azarius, his voice carrying and echoing from the highest arches. “This life is but a breath drawn and released. A heartbeat, and it is done.”

  He paused again to draw the ear of those assembled.

  “Yet despair not at life’s ending; for whether thy end be given by sword or by slow withering, thy spirit abideth still eternal. Fear not that which must come for all, for it cometh to all alike. When your brief span is spent, thou shalt pass onward into the next estate, where thy honor shall be weighed and thy reward made known. And of this passage, I am all the proof thy mortal eyes demand.”

  A long silence settled upon the hall, heavy as fog. Cerenid shifted upon his seat, the crown weighing upon his brow as he pondered. At length, the rex gave voice to his resolve.

  “Bring Kethu. And send forth the wardens to summon the council of reiks.”

  “I would address the reiks and thegns when they come, my Lord,” Azarius added. “If you will allow it.”

  Azarius was led to the gardens and bid to wait. There, he listened to the fountain murmurs and breathed the sweetness of the Spring flowers newly come into bloom. We waited, almost reposed, bathed in the warm Sol light filtered through the budding leaves. After an hour, two men at last appeared bearing Kethu in a chair. They set him down beside Azarius beside the fountain. Kethu sat slumped, his body nearly wasted. His hair was gone save for wisps of white; his beard patchy and thin. His hands were bent and twisted like the roots of ancient trees, and his skin clung spotted and thin.

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  “Kethu, canst thou hear me?” Azarius asked.

  “Yes,” came the answer, a groan more than a word.

  “Knowest thou who I am?”

  Kethu stirred faintly.

  “It is I, Azarius.”

  Kethu strained and pulled his head up. Then, upon opening his cloudy eyes, they gleamed with recognition, welling as he spoke.

  “Thou hast returned.”

  “As I promised.”

  “I am ready, then.”

  “I know you are, my friend.”

  “I yet grieve,” Kethu continued. “All these centuries… yet I grieve still.”

  “Tomorrow thou shalt grieve no more.”

  “I have never ceased despair for Vesther… since her passing. And Arcian, for whom I failed as father.”

  “Despair not,” said Azarius. “Thou shalt meet thy beloved again, in the next life. And by your honor and theirs, thy new life shall be lived in an age unstained by the suffering you endured in this one.”

  “My son,” Kethu said, his voice breaking. “He bore the weight of my sin.”

  “Thou didst not fail him,” Azarius answered. “And thou shalt yet be his father and he shall be your son, once again, and thou shalt see him grow to manhood beneath gentler skies.”

  Kethu wept in the broken, straining way of old men.

  “I betrayed my king,” Kethu lamented, “my brother. For that dishonour, I cannot be redeemed.”

  “Thy alms have been given, my friend. Thy debt hath been repaid. Thy spirit stands redeemed before The One.”

  “Forgive me,” Kethu cried. “Forgive me, Aeon.”

  “Your king and brother forgave thee long ago,” Azarius replied. “Thou shalt meet Him again, in a city of crystal and silver, where the red Sol rises over quiet seas. Together, you shall watch the alloy ships glide in graceful peace. And you will know that Aeon hath forgiven thee.”

  Kethu breathed shakily.

  “Will there be pain… when I pass?”

  “No,” said Azarius. “Thou shalt sleep, and dream of a great thirst. And with many others, both friend and foe in life, ye shall come upon the River Thol whose waters shall quench it.”

  Azarius then turned his gaze upon the garden.

  “Doth this splendid place not call Vallis to mind?”

  “Aye,” Kethu smiled. “Yet only as a candle calls a great pyre to memory. I see Mount Meru, now, in the distance, and the wyvern circling above in the golden sky.”

  “What else, my friend?”

  “I see Mosul leading a great legion of men, and my father, too. He beckons me. I am just a boy, again.” Kethu’s eyes glazed in memory. “The slow turning Sol moving west to east.”

  “Aye,” Azarius affirmed. “A day there like unto a year here,” Azarius added.

  “Oh, and the trees. The mighty trees. As tall as mountains.”

  “Their majesty far beyond the grasp Ed?’s sons.”

  At this, Kethu’s countenance dimmed, and his frail voice sank low. “And the dragon. And the Nephilim. No Norland man would credit such things, though I swore them true.”

  “Soon shall they behold them with their own eyes, my friend.”

  “Tell me,” Kethu asked at last, “is Vallis lost forever?”

  “Nay,” Azarius replied. “For it is writ: all that is ruined shall be remade.”

  Thus they sat together in the garden until Sol had fully set, and the saffron twilight yielded to night. Thereafter, two men bore Kethu unto his chamber and laid him alone upon his bed, leaving beside him a single candle, which burned low, guttered, and at last was quenched in the deep hush of night.