by Janny Wurts
So much that she would take him in full recognition of her loss, and still find joy before heartbreak; Haldeth thought upon the young harper, and wished he had the humility to call him back.
Now, shocked past the sting of old irony, Haldeth pondered the memory of Ithariel's reply. For the first and last moment of his life, he understood that Korendir had remained true to his nature, and died for it.
Haldeth saw too clearly that he had lost himself on the night the Mhurgai attacked his loved ones. He should have died on the swords of his enemies in the moment they laid hands on his wife. Afterward, shattered beyond reprieve by his guilt, he had never again risked the question, never tried to discover who or what he might become if he reached and sought the riddle that might redeem him. And so he survived, and cursed the shade of his departed friend.
The ballad written this morning might finish on the slopes of the Hyadons in winter; but death would not claim the last word. Endings did not happen with such clean simplicity. The future was shaped upon the moment that had preceded, back to Neth's first creation.
Callin would take up his father's sword. He had tried since the first time he was old enough to stand upright and yearn toward its peg on the wall. Quiet, enigmatic Shayna would initiate with the enchanters at Dethmark, and the legacy of Korendir and Ithariel would extend through the next generation.
Still the world's wheels would turn, and always Haldeth would weep because he was only a smith, and never enough the brash hero to forgive his past failure and call back the harper to compare dates.
