tend our vines? Who will save Paul and Sarah? Who? Will she die because of me?
“And who will feed Seth? Who will care for him?”
He dropped the handfuls of Earth and reached out and clutched fiercely in desperate fists the fur on the back of the coyote’s neck. He pulled Seth close, almost falling into him. The coyote put his head under Chance’s chin and closed his sad, knowing eyes.
The Guardian stared down at the weeping boy. Slowly his hands rose, as if to reach for the boy, and then fell again. He opened his mouth, ready to demand that Chance follow him, but no words came out. His gray cheeks twitched.
Only fifty days before, the Guardian had been wakened when he sensed the god. Before that, he had not moved in two eons, had not breathed in five hundred years. Where he had stood in a forgotten cavern, deep in a forsaken land, his slate-gray skin had petrified as his feet had grown, like stalagmites, into the limestone floor. And when he first felt the god, for one human moment he had longed to remain in the forgetful dark and let the lime continue to wrap him in stone. But the Old Gods had chosen him well: even after long centuries, he did not desert his duty to kill the god.
And so he had tried, as he walked the surface again, to bring the cave with him, to wrap himself in the cool indifference of the ages, his thoughts fixed to purposes as old and heartless as the rising of mountains.
But a terrible struggle raged within the Guardian now. He could see the Earth with the eyes of an ancient thing, where mortal lives flitted by, and the fall of a maple seed, the leap of a fish, an avalanche of stones, and the death of a father were all ordinary, brief events among endless events. Or, he could feel the pull of life, like the noisy, driving vortex of the river behind them as it fell over rapids. The fleeting cares of this boy threatened to sweep him away. He could be drawn down and whelmed in the hopes and sorrows of the living—seized by the concerns of a boy not unlike the son he had once raised and lost. Long, long before.
The Guardian had to choose between those worlds.
Slowly, the Guardian dragged one foot forward. He paused again, his shaking hands held out uncertainly. Chance pressed his face still against the coyote’s neck.
Then the Guardian reached up to his throat and undid the clasp on his cloak. It slipped off his shoulders to hang in his fist, revealing his head for the first time that day. He swung the tattered gray cloak around Chance and laid it over the boy’s shoulders. He put his hand on Chance’s head.
“I am sorry, Puriman,” he whispered. His voice sounded, for the first time in many centuries, like a human voice. “I am sorry for your loss.”
And the boy wept, in gasping, choking sobs, for the miseries that mortality makes of human life.
CHAPTER
7
A fter Chance and the Guardian returned to the fire by the boat, the Guardian rebuilt it to a tall, crackling flame. As he worked, Chance sat against a fallen tree and asked him, “What about Sarah?”
“The woman he took?”
“Is she safe? And my brother?”
“Most likely she is safe,” the Guardian said. He sat down on the moss-covered fragment of a tree trunk, across the fire from Chance. Seth curled at Chance’s feet and peered up warily at the Guardian.
“You told me you don’t have a dog,” the Guardian said.
Seth’s ears snapped up with indignation. His tail slapped the ground once. “I-I-I am not a dog,” he protested. “I’m a coy-coyote.”
The Guardian grunted.
Seth laid his chin back down on his crossed paws. “Soulburdened rock,” he mumbled. Chance and the Guardian both pretended not to hear that as they stared at the flames.
After a few minutes, the Guardian asked, “Did the bear speak the truth? Do men hunt the woodwardens?”
Chance hesitated. “The soulburdened? We Purimen do not hunt them. Though our Rangers turn away the bears and large soulburdened, and discourage the others from
“And who will feed Seth? Who will care for him?”
He dropped the handfuls of Earth and reached out and clutched fiercely in desperate fists the fur on the back of the coyote’s neck. He pulled Seth close, almost falling into him. The coyote put his head under Chance’s chin and closed his sad, knowing eyes.
The Guardian stared down at the weeping boy. Slowly his hands rose, as if to reach for the boy, and then fell again. He opened his mouth, ready to demand that Chance follow him, but no words came out. His gray cheeks twitched.
Only fifty days before, the Guardian had been wakened when he sensed the god. Before that, he had not moved in two eons, had not breathed in five hundred years. Where he had stood in a forgotten cavern, deep in a forsaken land, his slate-gray skin had petrified as his feet had grown, like stalagmites, into the limestone floor. And when he first felt the god, for one human moment he had longed to remain in the forgetful dark and let the lime continue to wrap him in stone. But the Old Gods had chosen him well: even after long centuries, he did not desert his duty to kill the god.
And so he had tried, as he walked the surface again, to bring the cave with him, to wrap himself in the cool indifference of the ages, his thoughts fixed to purposes as old and heartless as the rising of mountains.
But a terrible struggle raged within the Guardian now. He could see the Earth with the eyes of an ancient thing, where mortal lives flitted by, and the fall of a maple seed, the leap of a fish, an avalanche of stones, and the death of a father were all ordinary, brief events among endless events. Or, he could feel the pull of life, like the noisy, driving vortex of the river behind them as it fell over rapids. The fleeting cares of this boy threatened to sweep him away. He could be drawn down and whelmed in the hopes and sorrows of the living—seized by the concerns of a boy not unlike the son he had once raised and lost. Long, long before.
The Guardian had to choose between those worlds.
Slowly, the Guardian dragged one foot forward. He paused again, his shaking hands held out uncertainly. Chance pressed his face still against the coyote’s neck.
Then the Guardian reached up to his throat and undid the clasp on his cloak. It slipped off his shoulders to hang in his fist, revealing his head for the first time that day. He swung the tattered gray cloak around Chance and laid it over the boy’s shoulders. He put his hand on Chance’s head.
“I am sorry, Puriman,” he whispered. His voice sounded, for the first time in many centuries, like a human voice. “I am sorry for your loss.”
And the boy wept, in gasping, choking sobs, for the miseries that mortality makes of human life.
CHAPTER
7
A fter Chance and the Guardian returned to the fire by the boat, the Guardian rebuilt it to a tall, crackling flame. As he worked, Chance sat against a fallen tree and asked him, “What about Sarah?”
“The woman he took?”
“Is she safe? And my brother?”
“Most likely she is safe,” the Guardian said. He sat down on the moss-covered fragment of a tree trunk, across the fire from Chance. Seth curled at Chance’s feet and peered up warily at the Guardian.
“You told me you don’t have a dog,” the Guardian said.
Seth’s ears snapped up with indignation. His tail slapped the ground once. “I-I-I am not a dog,” he protested. “I’m a coy-coyote.”
The Guardian grunted.
Seth laid his chin back down on his crossed paws. “Soulburdened rock,” he mumbled. Chance and the Guardian both pretended not to hear that as they stared at the flames.
After a few minutes, the Guardian asked, “Did the bear speak the truth? Do men hunt the woodwardens?”
Chance hesitated. “The soulburdened? We Purimen do not hunt them. Though our Rangers turn away the bears and large soulburdened, and discourage the others from
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