“Really now, you’ll strain your eyes if you insist on working through the night like this,” he said as he plucked a candle from the holder nearest the door. He checked the wick, then held it out toward Belo’vir. “Light, please.”

Belo’vir sat up and blinked at the gloom of his study, as if seeing it for the first time, then summoned a flame at the tip of his finger. “Is it getting late? Sorry, I’ve been distracted.”

“Distracted?” Vandellor said as he used the fingertip flame to light the candle. He let the sarcasm drip heavily from his words. “How unlike you.”

Belo’vir didn’t argue, he just smiled as he watched Vandellor methodically work his way across the room, using the candle in his hand to light the rest. It was almost routine by now. It wasn’t the first time Vandellor had found Belo’vir so engrossed in his work that he’d forgotten all else. Far from it. And he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. He hadn’t been made grand magister for his lack of diligence or hard work, after all.

“Is it still that teleportation issue you’re working on?” Vandellor asked as he came to the final few candles, then returned the first to its proper holder.

Belo’vir groaned. “I almost have it. Less energy required for longer distances, with reduced arcane disruption. But there’s something I’m missing.”

“A break? A good meal, perhaps?” Vandellor asked. He settled himself behind Belo’vir’s chair and leant against its high back. It was a moth eaten, tatty thing, but Belo’vir insisted it was far too comfortable to ever replace. “At least let me do something with your hair or it’ll be half dyed indigo if you’re not more careful.”

Belo’vir laughed softly, but didn’t protest, so Vandellor took that as his invitation. He combed his fingers through its length to loosen any knots, then gathered it into three strands that he wove and crossed over one another to form a braid. Belo’vir’s shoulders slumped slightly as he relaxed back against the chair, and Vandellor caught the scent of oakmoss and violet that he used as perfume. It was comfortable and familiar, and he found himself inhaling deeply.

“You know,” Belo’vir said, his voice quiet enough that Vandellor had to lean in to hear him. “I should really just cut it short, it serves no purpose other than to get in the way.”

Vandellor let out a soft harrumph. “I hope you don’t. You know I’m rather fond of it.”

Belo’vir said nothing more, but tilted his head backward until they could see eye to eye. He wore a teasing smile, as if he was well aware of what Vandellor’s response was going to be before he gave it.

“Fine. Maybe I’ll keep—” Belo’vir paused, and Vandellor assumed he’d caught the slight shift in his own expression as he noticed something glinting in the candlelight. “What? What’s that face for?”

Strands of silver.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Vandellor asked, tipping Belo’vir’s head back upright. “It might wound your vanity.”

Belo’vir made a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Coming from you? My love, have you heard the saying about glass houses and stones?”

Another harrumph.

“Tell me, though, what is it? Was the fireball incident worse than I’d assumed? Is my hair singed at the back?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Vandellor said, winding one of the silver strands around his fingers. “You’re going grey.”

Even with their long lifespans, they weren’t immune to eventually ageing. If King Anasterian himself couldn’t outrun it and proudly sported his own head of silver, there was no reason they should expect to. Still, it was strange to see the proof so starkly before him.

Belo’vir let out a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Then he groaned. “Truly? Grey? Well, Liadrin has been calling us old more often recently. Perhaps she was right.”

“You know how she is. She only says that because she knows it annoys you.”

“Or perhaps her eyesight is better than yours and she spotted it first.” There was a brief pause as Belo’vir shifted around in his chair to face Vandellor. “Is that it now? You’ll be replacing me with a younger man. One unlikely to grey for another five centuries. Perhaps a Farstrider, all virile with rippling muscles?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d be exhausted within a day and dead within the week.”

This earned an appreciative laugh from Belo’vir. As he smiled, his eyes wrinkled deeply at the corners. They hadn’t always done that, but Vandellor loved the sight. He liked to think he’d had a hand in the smile lines and creases that formed in moments of joy upon Belo’vir’s face these days. Though, given current circumstances, he decided it was probably tactful not to mention it just now.

“Well, does it make me look distinguished, or unfortunate?” Though Belo’vir tried to keep his voice flippant, Vandellor recognised the way his intonation rose as he spoke. He was feeling self conscious.

“My darling, you looked distinguished before.”

“And now?”

“Only more so.”

Belo’vir’s expression softened, and his voice calmed again. “Well, you have to say that.”

“True. But even if I didn’t, I’d say it anyway.”

And then Vandellor leaned forward. He’d only intended to offer a brief, reassuring peck, but Belo’vir caught him and pulled him into a kiss that threatened to knock all his papers from the desk. By the time their lips parted, the sky had darkened even further outside.

“I’ll have to redo that braid for you,” Vandellor said quietly.

“Or I can just put a pause on work for tonight.” Belo’vir let his eyes rest on the pages of diagrams and calculations and scrawled notations that now lay askew on his desk. He then turned to Vandellor and fixed him with a serious expression. “But I want something in exchange if I do.”

“And what would that be?”

“Promise me something,” Belo’vir said as he leaned forward and took Vandellor’s face in his hands. “We must continue to grow old and grey together. Until we are withered and ancient, and each entirely decrepit and as grey as stone.”

Guillaume had known worse than the needle that pierced his skin and knitted together the wound cleaved hours before. A white hot pinprick led by a rough hand through his already tender flesh. Rougher than it needed to be, but with a precision that said it had done this before. Just a pinprick. Not a gouge, not a cut, not a slice, not a blow: he’d known worse.

But he’d also known better.

“Cunting needle,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Cunting falchion,” said the knight whose hand guided the needle. “That’s the cause of your problem.”

“Thomas.” The girl’s voice was sharp, and full of disapproval. She’d complained about his language a few times already, and Guillaume thought of the belting he would have received if he’d ever spoken to his own father like that.

Then he wondered if he’d let his own daughter speak to him like that, if he had one. He probably would, he admitted. He probably would.

All Thomas said was, “shouldn’t you still be sleeping?”

“Surely the water is a bigger problem, since you can’t keep your hand steady if the raft sways,” she said, ignoring him. “That’s what you should be blaming.”

Cunting conscience. That’s what started it. That’s what’s to blame. But Guillaume said nothing more aloud. Instead he just grunted and hissed at the needle, and prayed he’d made the right decision to spare the knight, the priest and the young girl over Carolus. He always knew he’d be taking command from his former captain when the man’s cowardice and arrogance grew to the point he could no longer ignore it. He just didn’t think it would come so soon, and with so much blood. Not his own, anyway.

He didn’t know what he prayed to. Whatever was still out there listening. If anything was still listening. The priest snored twice, loudly enough that it sounded closer to a snort, and Guillaume took that for some kind of an answer.

Though what that answer was, he couldn’t be sure.

Dreams came to him fitfully that night. Or morning, now. Maybe even afternoon. Flashes of things he didn’t want to see, snatches of conversations he didn’t want to hear.

And dark figures that stalked through the water, extending long, grasping fingers out and onto the sides of the raft. Each movement was slow, laboured, as if through sludge. It was hours before they managed to haul themselves up enough from the water for Guillaume to see their faces. They wore the faces of men who’d died long ago, and men still to die. Each crept closer to him now, whispering things he couldn’t hear, and things he didn’t want to hear.

PUSH THE KNIGHTS HEAD UNDER THE WATER WHILE HE SLEEPS UNTIL THE BASTARD DROWNS THE BUGGER PRIEST WONT FIGHT BACK AND THE GIRL WILL FOLLOW HIM YOULL BE RID OF THEM ALL AND THIS WILL BE YOURS

He wanted to tell the whoring beasts to find another raft to terrorise, but he knew if he opened his mouth they’d find their way in. Instead he clamped his lips shut, and jerked awake. He didn’t want it, whatever they offered, in any case.

It was half dark still, with dawn little more than a threat on the horizon. Hardly any time at all had passed since the last stitch had been jabbed through his head and the thread tied off. The priest still snored, though it had quietened to more of a cooing. Like a pigeon. The girl didn’t snore, but he noticed she’d fallen asleep nearby.

Thomas’ eyes were on him, studying him in the half light. There was no excess of kindness in them, but neither were they cruel. It was something simpler than that. Understanding.

“Strange dreams?”

Guillaume grunted something close to a “yes” as he pushed himself up to sitting. At first he feared it was a fever dream, but he patted his skin and found it neither clammy nor hot to the touch. He’d had enough fevers to know he was simply having nightmares. A grown man having nightmares.

“Must have eaten some bad fish,” Guillaume said. “How long did I sleep?”

“‘Not long enough. Won’t tell a man how to live his life, but you’d be better off resting after a wound like that.”

“I know that’s advice you’ve also ignored in the past.”

He agreed with a sound somewhere between a grunt, a laugh and a cough. “And I was sorrier for it.”

“I’m sorry enough already.”

“It can get worse. Always does.”

The girl shifted in her sleep, and stuck her foot out so that her big toe tapped Guillaume’s ankle bone. When he lay back down and fell asleep it was deep, and it was dreamless. He didn’t wake until the sun was high in the sky and his stomach gurgled with a midday hunger.

The raft made slow progress that day. Thomas had strong arms, but not the technique of an oarsman. The priest had neither. When Guillaume tried to stand to take over he instead swayed side to side and then retched over the side of the raft, bringing forth the contents of his stomach. After that he lay flat, barking what advice he could and trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. He resolved himself to being well enough to take over the following day.

He prided himself on being a quick judge of character, though he was large enough that most men seemed to be a quicker judge of him. He’d not been wrong about Carolus. He hoped he wasn’t wrong about choosing to throw his lot in with the knight and the priest instead.

He’d quickly recognised another fighter in Thomas, and he was sure they’d have been friends if they’d have met under different circumstances, without the threat of plague looming. A tavern, or maybe a whorehouse. Père Matthieu seemed a decent enough sort for a priest—at least he’d not wasted his breath yet on a sermon. And he was giving the oar his best go.

Guillaume wondered for a moment when his last confession had been, since there would be worse than Père Matthieu to hear it. Then decided it didn’t matter. It was too late for that now.

They saw no other vessels on the water that day, and Guillaume was glad of it. Afternoon faded undisturbed into the inky dark of the evening.

He slept deeply, only waking once in the depths of the night to see the priest pissing off the side of the raft. When Père Matthieu noticed him, he started, and there was something apologetic in his manner.

“Even angels have to piss,” Guillaume said. Then wondered if it was proper to talk to a priest like that. Then decided it must be, since the knight had said far worse and the good father hadn’t complained yet.

“Quite,” Matthieu said. And Guillaume swore he threw a quick glance toward the girl. Maybe he was concerned she would overhear the coarseness in his words.

Maybe she was an angel.

The thought extinguished itself as quickly as it had appeared. Angels didn’t walk among men. And even if they did, that’s not what she was. Guillaume was sure he’d know if he’d seen one. He changed the subject.

“Strange company for a priest to keep.”

Père Matthieu gave an odd, sad smile. “This world has made strangers of us all recently. Though I believe I’ve fared better than most.”

Guillaume didn’t ask him what he meant. He instead turned over and sank once more into sleep.

The next day he was well enough to row. Not quickly, but quicker than the priest. That was enough. He took his place before the oar, and fell into step with Thomas. Conversation was easy, until the girl drew them into something that seemed half theological debate and half verbal sparring match. She won.

He’d been surprised at first to learn that Thomas wasn’t her father. They didn’t look alike, but for all he knew she’d taken for her mother and Thomas had a liking for frail blonde women with faraway eyes. He himself preferred the hardier types, but he wasn’t one to judge. To know the girl was an orphan made everything make that much more sense, somehow. He had a sense she didn’t belong to anyone but herself.

Père Matthieu took the first shift sleeping that evening, and Guillaume had his dice out before the priest let forth his first snore. He played Thomas for nothing more than pride and the last few handfuls of the dried pilchards they’d taken from a barge several days before, but it was good.

And when the salted fish dried their throats they reached for the remains of the wine. There was more left than Guillaume had expected, and it flowed easily. He found a question coming to mind.

“The girl’s not yours, but have you got any out there?”

Thomas cast his eyes down before he answered, and Guillaume realised too late that it was a question that he shouldn’t have asked.

“I had a son.” Thomas said. He didn’t elaborate, and Guillaume made his own assumptions about what that meant. “You?”

Guillaume’s coarse laugh turned into a wine belch. “Fucked if I know. Probably. Couldn’t tell you where. Or how many.” Probably better for them.

Thomas snorted, and raised his drink.

Then he looked toward the girl. Sleep had taken her before it took the priest, and she was now curled up in a tight ball. Guillaume noticed Thomas’ eyes soften at the corners, just slightly. She might not have been his daughter by blood, but she was by bond. That much was clear to see.

“You’re a good man,” Guillaume said blearily. The wine was taking effect now, and honest thoughts wormed their way to his mouth before his mind had a chance to catch them.

Thomas didn’t reply, not that Guillaume would have heard if he did. He didn’t wait before putting his head flat against the raft and falling into a half drunken sleep.

Salt. He tasted saltwater, but he knew that wasn’t right because the Saône was fresh. And it was thick. Too thick for water. And there was a metallic tang that shouldn’t be there. And his whole body ached. No, no it didn’t ache. It stung. Like he’d thrown himself into a nettle patch. Or a hornet’s nest.

Guillaume tried to sit up, and to spit up the blood that now filled his mouth and threatened to spill down his throat and into his stomach and his lungs, but he couldn’t. He was stuck fast against the raft, staring into an abyss. He spluttered and coughed, and then it was in his nose and his eyes and his ears and he couldn’t breathe any more. He was drowning.

He was still coughing when he woke up.

Everyone else was asleep, save the girl. Though it seemed unusual, he didn’t question it. She stared at him through eyes heavy with sleep, and he thought she looked like the statues he’d seen outside the church in his village. He’d not been back there since he was a boy. He didn’t even know if the church still stood, but he knew the statues did. Staring, with their heavily lidded eyes.

“You’ll die if you continue on with us,” she said. He knew the voice with which she spoke wasn’t her own, and he knew the words she spoke to be true. But he didn’t know how he knew that.

“I know.”

“You’ll never see that woman again. That pretty one from Nantes, with the red hair. The one you thought would make a good mother for your children. She still lives, and she thinks of you sometimes, whenever the nights seem longer and darker than they should.”

His surprise that she knew of Adeline was overshadowed by his surprise that he knew what was to come, and that he’d already resigned himself to his fate long before she’d spoken it aloud.

“I know.”

She stepped forward and planted the lightest of kisses upon his cheek. It reminded him of the bees he’d watched collecting nectar as a child.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m doing it for Thomas, not you and not me,” he said, though he hadn’t known those words would leave his mouth until he said them. “It’s his soul that matters. Not mine.”

For a moment she looked as though she meant to argue, but she didn’t. Instead she just smiled a resigned sort of smile.

“Does he know what you are?” Guillaume asked. As he said the words he realised he didn’t know what he meant.

“Not yet,” she said with the voice that wasn’t her own. “He will. One day.”

Guillaume nodded, then woke up again.

It was morning, but only just. Père Matthieu was a silhouette against the pink-grey sky, and for a moment Guillaume wondered if he was pissing again. When he heard the dawn chorus of Latin words he couldn’t understand, he realised he was praying.

He let the sound wash over him as he tried to recall the dream he’d had. It was something melancholy, he knew that much, but he couldn’t remember anything else.