Диана Дуэйн - The Door Into Fire

She's hiding, something in him told him suddenly. But why? From what?
The feeling ebbed, drained away, leaving the air just air again, and Segnbora was just a young woman sitting against a wall, not a numinous shadow-wrapt figure gazing at him through darkness and silence. She looked back and shuddered all over. Herewiss wondered what she had seen.
'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'I didn't see anything clearly. That wasn't what I was going to say. Prince, you will do it. I'll help any way I can.'
She cares a little, he thought in quiet surprise. More than a little.
Well, she would.
He bowed to her, the deep bow of greeting or farewell from one veteran of the Silent Precincts to another. 'Sister,' he said; and there was nothing else to say. He went around the corner and back inside.
Nothing had changed. Lorn's people were all asleep, and Lorn was still rolled up in his cloak, in a tight angry-looking ball. He was snoring.
Herewiss stopped by the firepit, sank down wearily into his chair. The flames flurried momentarily higher, and Sunspark was looking at him again.
(So how is the night?)
(Strange,) Herewiss said, (but then that could be expected.) He sat there for a little while and avoided looking in Freelorn's direction.
(I'm never going to get to sleep by myself,) he said eventually. (Maybe
I should take something—) He stopped short. (The Soulflight drug—)

Tale of The Five Vol 1 – The Door Into Fire (?)
(The innkeeper at the Ferry Tavern gave it to me. If I took a little, I could probably drop right off into pleasant
dreams – though with the smaller doses you sometimes don't remember what happens to you—)
(You could probably use some pleasant dreams tonight,) Sunspark said.
Herewiss went and got the little bottle out of his saddlebag, then sat down by the firepit again and regarded it. He unstoppered it and put his nose to the opening. There was a faint sweet odor, like honey. He stuck his finger in, took a little and licked it off.
The taste was extremely bitter; he choked a little as he put the stopper back in the bottle and set it aside. Well, he thought, let's see what happens—
He leaned back and closed his eyes, and waited. —an easy, drifting passage into— CRASH!!

False alarm. One more time—

WHAT??! NO!!
Cold dusk, a gray evening, no sunset pouring crimson-gold through treetops and touching the Woodward with fire; torches quarreling weakly with the evening mist; and silence, deadly silence. No children running and playing, though even on chill evenings they would be out this late, resisting their mothers' attempts to get them back inside. Little sound, little movement. Walk quietly up to the
great carven door, pass silently through it. Greet the
Rooftree with reserve, and go by; up the stairway, left at the top of the stairs and down through the east gallery, but softly, softly. Someone is dying. Turn right into the north corridor, one of the more richly carven ones, and keep going. There on the walls is carved the story of Ferrigan, your ancestress, and the panels show her rebuilding the Woodward after its burning, with the help of creatures not wholly human. You always loved her story, that of a person who mastered her own powers and went her own way, disappearing into the Silent Precincts one day, never to be seen again. Herelaf liked that one too. But very shortly now Herelaf will be past liking anything at all, at least in this life. Walk softly, and go on in: last room on the right, the corner room, the room that is the heir's by tradition.
There is the bed, there is Herelaf, the sword out of him, now; your father standing there, not looking at either of you, not daring to. For fear that he will see one of you die, and the other of you live. Oh, he loves you well enough: that much is certain; but right now Hearn is finding it hard to love you at all, who were so stupid as to play with swords while drunk. Herelaf is lying very still, looking very pale. How strange. He was always the darkest one in the family; you used to tease him about it sometimes, saying that there must be Steldene blood in him somewhere; and he would grin and say, 'Mother never told us half of what she did while she was out Rodmistressing. You can sleep with some strange sorts in that business. Maybe something rubbed off.' That was the way he always was: big, gentle, inoffensive, easygoing; no-one had a bad word for him, not a single person anywhere, most especially not the many people he called loved. There were enough of them in the Wood, men and women both, and
people used to marvel that he never took one loved with an eye to
marriage. 'I like to spread myself around,' he would always say. 'So far there's nobody that special that I'd want to give all of me to just them. But maybe …'
Forget that. He's going to die tonight, and all the chances close down forever. You did that to him. Yes you did. Don't try to deny it.
DAMMIT LET ME OUT OF HERE!!!
Hearn stands there, looking like he wishes he were anywhere else than this – facing down the Shadow Himself, anywhere but here. But he cannot desert either of you; he knows that you both need him now, both of you need him there desperately, and Hearn was always brave. Maybe not prudent; certainly if he were prudent he would go out of here. But brave.
Herelaf lies there, drained dry, waiting for the Mother to come for him. She can't be far; his body has a castoff look about it already – or maybe it is his closeness to the Door that is apparent, and the light from that Sea of which the Starlight is a faint intimation is shining through him, as if he were a doorway himself. The gray light makes everything in the room look unreal, except Herelaf – and he will be unreal soon enough.
You go over to him, kneel sidewise by the bed, take his hands in yours. They are chill, and this shakes you more terribly than anything else; his hands were always warm, even in wintertime when you always went clammy and stiff with the cold. Herelaf, now, with those big warm hands of his – big even for a Brightwood man – getting cold; getting dead. You did it. Oh yes.
NOT THIS AGAIN!! PLEASE, NO!!
Oh yes. 'Dusty,' he says, his beautiful soft deep voice gone all cracked and dry and shallow with pain. 'Little brother mine. It wasn't your fault.'
The words go into your head, but they make no particular sense. At least they didn't then. They do now, and it hurts at least twice
as much, because you know it was your fault. Then, though, you bury your face in those cold hands, punishing yourself with the terror of what is going to happen. The Mother is kind, but inexorable; when She comes, there's no turning Her back. And you know She's coming.
'Dusty, are you listening to me? Look at me.' He turns your face up to him, and you try to look away, but it's no good; even dying those hands have all their strength.
You look at him: dark curly hair like yours, big around the shoulders the way you got to be eventually; the droopy sleepy eyes, the smile that never comes off. Even dying, there's a ghost of it apparent, a slight curling-at-the-corners smile. He loves you. That's the worst part of it all, really.
'Don't do anything stupid,' he says. 'I expect you to stay right here and get things straight. You're going to be the heir now. You have a lot to learn. Don't run out on Da.'
And you nod, the pain becoming even worse as you realize that this is a lie. There is nothing that will keep you here after Herelaf dies, not pleas nor threats nor even Hearn's need. You have a worse one; punishment of the deathguilt, and getting it attended to as quickly as possible, before the deed starts to rot and smell up the Wood. You know you'll try to go after Herelaf, to achieve whatever justice is meted out on that last Shore to those who murder their brothers.
Lying to your brother on his deathbed. You are worthless.
He flicks a tired, tired glance at the bandage around his middle, and at the stain spreading on it. 'Wasn't your
fault,' he says wearily. How that voice used to sing in the
evenings; now it can barely speak. Herelaf looks up at something, Someone on the other side of the bed. He smiles faintly. 'Mother,' he says.
And then is still.
And you get up, and wander away.
Into the gray places where nothing matters.
Here's a window. That's as good as anything else.
Someone is stopping you. It's Freelorn.
Damn him anyway.
You pull yourself gradually out of his grip and wander off into the gray places again. Where nothing matters.
You emerge occasionally to try to make an end of yourself. They stop you. You wander off into the gray again.
Nothing matters.
Nothing.
It's all gray.
Thank Goddess that's over. How do I get out of this?
Gray mist, cold. There are voices, remote, speaking words in other languages; other wanderers lost in the gray country. You ignore them.
And someone singing. Freelorn? Yes. The voice is changing, and cracks ludicrously every other verse.
'"On the Lion's Day, When the Moon was high, then the queen went to the Fane for her loved to die;
' "On that Night of dread, opened up the deeps, And she knew the Shadow there, and in Rilthor forever she sleeps;
' "And her daughter wept, vengeance in her heart, and swore
herself as vow to take her mother's part, bating love and breath till the Shadow's death.
'"And she laid Him dead, and herself she died, never dreaming all the while that in His death, He lied . . ."'
You shake your head sadly. Freelorn's song, to be sure, redolent as usual of last stands and heroism past the confines of time and expectation. But all Beorgan's heroism couldn't change the fact that Shadow was stronger than she, immortal, more permanent than death. What use is anything, anyhow – all hearts chill, and all loves die, and maybe the time has come for yours too – there in the mist, beckoning, waits the dark shape with the heart of iron and the eyes of ice, and all you have to do is despair; He'll do the rest—
(Oh, Mother. No.)
You summon your strength, and go away from there quickly, before the cold eyes see you and mark you for their own. Here, now, the mist is thick, and a little warmer. Faintly you can sense a body passing by, not far away—
''—to bring the lightning down, one a shadow, one a fire, one a son and one a sire; one who's dead—"'