Sitting beneath the overhang of the opening was the Bolg king, staring at the simmering ashes of a pyre, the elemental sword of fire glowing dully at its center, a birthing cloth in his hands swaddled around a sleeping infant. The baby’s head, the only part of it visible, seemed to glow ethereally. The battered scabbard of Daystar Clarion lay on the rocky ground beside him. The smoke from the pyre lingered in the air above the ledge, a single curl rising above it and wafting over the wind across the vast gulf to the Blasted Heath beyond. “Uncle?” he whispered. Achmed did not respond, but continued watching the curl of smoke make its way east to where the sun would, with any luck, appear in the morning. Meridion waited in silence. He tilted back his head and let the wind wash over his face, clean and cold, with the heavy scent of woodsmoke born of brambles and hastily gathered random kindling, and a lighter one, almost imperceptible, but familiar, the trace of vanilla and earthy spice, a hint of flowers and soap.
