In the darkness he glowed with a faint silvery light as he stood smiling at Berwynna. “Remember me, lass,” he said in the language of Alban, “but live your life, too. I loved you enough to wish you every happiness. Find a new man.” “I don’t want to,” Berwynna said. “The only thing I want is for you to come back to me.” “This is as far back as I can come, just up to this side of dying. Wynni, live your life!” He vanished. Berwynna screamed and sat up, scattering blankets. She found herself in a round tent so unfamiliar that for a moment she thought she still dreamt. The Ancients, she reminded herself. I’m safe among the Ancients, but Dougie’s dead. The first light of dawn fell like a gray pillar through the smoke hole in the center of the roof. Across from her, on the far side of the tent, a bundle of blankets stirred and yawned. Uncle Mic sat up and peered at her through the uncertain light. “Are you all right?” he said in Dwarvish. “Did you make some sort of a sound just now?”
