mind; he had to talk with her about her moods. He resolved to go see her that very night.
Kyra always felt a sweet melancholy after Tosch's visits ended; it was only then that she
was truly aware of her loneliness. This time it was no different, but after a hectic
evening of waiting tables she was anxious to pick up her brushes and paint while she still
had some strength.
She had no idea how many pictures she had painted of Seron; she had long ago forgotten the
count. In fact, she had forgotten many things - but not the face of her husband.
Her husband's image, with all of its sweetness, hung above her bed.
Seron's likeness, with all of its ambition and drive, hung in the alcove that she called
her studio.
Even where she cooked and ate, his face looked down upon her with all of its childish
charm and humor.
Everywhere there were pictures of Seron. They were piled one upon another, and hung in
every corner of her shack. She was surrounded by his image. And yet she was not finished
with her work.
Frail and sickly, she had continued to paint. With eyesight fading, her joints aching, her
fingers shaking, she kept on dabbing at the canvas with her brush, hoping to finally
capture the perfect image of the man she still loved.
On this late night, painting by the light of red coals in a dying fire, Kyra's breath came
in short gasps. She was tired. But she didn't want to stop - not before she completed her
latest work.
In this picture of Seron, he was lying on a sheet that was spread out on the grass behind
their hut. A pile of neatly folded laundry was off to the left. There was a look of
longing on his sad-eyed face. He was alone in the picture, facing forward, with his arms
outstretched, reaching.
Was that the way it really was? she wondered.
She gazed at the image of Seron. The sad eyes of her husband stared back at her. Slowly,
just as the red mist on the Blood Sea would disappear when the sun reached its zenith, so
did the fog lift away from Kyra's memory.
That was exactly how it was. It was Seron in every detail. His hands, with their long,
shapely fingers, his prominent cheekbones, his jutting chin, the shoulders she so often
lain her head upon - it was all just right.
Or was it?
Kyra's heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Was there something wrong with the
painting? Something missing? The picture seemed to cry out to her for its final perfection. But, somehow, she had left something vital out, and she didn't know what it
was.
In that moment, she felt so unworthy of her Seron that she turned her back to the wet
canvas. Except there was no escaping her husband's sad eyes; he looked down upon her from
every wall.
She lifted her arms to him and wailed, “I wanted all of Krynn to stand before you and look
up lovingly, just like I did. I wanted them to feel something of what I felt. But look,”
she sobbed, her arms sweeping in a wide arc, “I never captured your love in a single painting. Not one!”
Kyra fell to her knees and wept with as much anguish as the night the fire took her
husband away from her. Against a deep crushing pain in her chest, she cried out, “Did I
fail you all these years? Are you ashamed of me? Oh, Seron, am I even half the woman you
hoped I would be?”
When Tosch arrived at Kyra's shack, he called out to his old friend . . . but he heard no
answer. Again he sang her name out. And again there was silence.
Finally, in exasperation, he roared, “Kyra!” as loudly as he could.
Half the inhabitants of Palanthas were stirred out of their beds by the frightful sound.
But Kyra didn't answer him.
Tosch had no patience left. He slammed one of his huge feet against the door and it flew
wide open.
The brass dragon's anger instantly turned to pity when he saw the crumpled form of Kyra
lying on the floor at the foot of a painting.
Tosch let out a deep, mournful sigh. As old as Kyra was, he
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