Chapter 7: Sáeril Quepentorne – Corpses
A few days earlier, Sáeril walked among corpses. He wasn’t in the Mouth of War, so those dead weren’t from the Franária’s Civil War. He remembered taking shelter in Lune, which was in Deran, in the north of Franária. While Patire and Baynard fought each other in the Mouth, Deran defended the whole of Franária against invasions from the north.
The metal pounding of battle still pulsed in the air. The tearing sound of blade slashing flesh, screams silenced by steel, bloody gargling. Sáeril covered his nose with one gloved hand. He noticed movement, a body still not dead, leaking life into the mud. The postponed corpse was Séramon.
The Master of Lune tried to speak. His throat was already dead and no sound came out of his mouth. Even so, Sáeril understood.
‘You want my help.’ He read it in the dying man’s eyes. ‘I am sorry, I can’t.’
With a fingertip he touched a broken spear, then said:
‘I’m afraid I’m dreaming. Don’t argue, I’m aware that this is reality, but mages often dream of realities. After all, the certainties they contain are but dreams to us. I promise you I’m still resting in the room you kindly gave me.’
‘Please,’ the mage read in Séramon’s eyes, ‘don’t let my children die.’
‘Mortals tend to die with or without my permission.’ He raised his hands in a sign of peace. ‘All right, all right, don’t get worked up like that. I’ll see what I can do for your children.’
The Master of Lune filled his eyes with gratitude. Then his eyes did not close, but merely emptied. Sáeril Quepentorne woke up. He was still weak and needed a few more days before he could stand on his own legs.
