The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [153]
Faharn’s etheric double, pale and stretched thin in the bright blue glow, hovered a long way above his body. The silver cord had dwindled to a mere thread, and as Laz rose up, he saw the thread snap. Faharn’s utter bewilderment clung around him in a thick gray mist.
“Faharn!” Laz thought to him. “I’m here!”
The etheric double swooped down to meet him, but Laz could hear no thought, only feel Faharn’s wordless terror. His own stab of guilt made him tremble. I should have told him, I should have told him the truth earlier. He forced his mind steady.
“You’re dead.” Laz projected as much cold calm as he could muster. “You’re dead, but it’s not the end. You’re going to go on and live again. I’ll lead you.”
Faharn held out pale blue hands.
“You can’t touch anything here,” Laz thought to him. “You’re going to a new life. Follow me!”
His years of unthinking trust brought Faharn rewards now. Whenever Laz glanced back, he saw Faharn’s glowing blue form following him. Laz rose to the upper levels of the etheric, then opened a gate to the astral world beyond. As he swooped through, Faharn came after. They soared upward through the indigo tunnel, studded with stars and images, echoing with ghostly voices, past the twisting, churning forms projected from both their memories, until at last they burst out into the pale lavender meadows of Death. Ahead, beyond the field of white poppies, lay the white river, where water that never flowed on earth nor reached an earthly sea slid past without a ripple or a sound.
“Cross over!” Laz said. “Cross over to a new life!”
Yet Faharn lingered, hovering close to him. When Laz let his own form drift toward the river, Faharn came after. Close to the bank a mist was rising, reaching toward them with pale wisps like hands. Laz glanced down and saw his own silver cord stretching out thin.
“Faharn, go to the river.” He made his thought-voice as gentle as he could. “Trust me. Life awaits you.”
With a bob of its head the etheric double obeyed. The misty hands caught the image of Faharn’s hands and pulled him to the river’s edge. A vast silver wave rose up and enveloped him, washing him safely to the farther bank. In the rising mist Laz could see no more.
Laz turned his consciousness to his body, left far below. With a yank, the silver cord thickened and hauled him back to the gate. He plunged through. Down he swept through the indigo tunnel, down and down, until with a gasp and a wave of pain, he fell back into his flesh.
Aching and gasping for breath, Laz opened his eyes. He found himself still crouched over Faharn’s body, soaked with darkening blood.
“Here, here, lad,” a familiar voice said. “There’s naught to be done for him. Come away now.”
Laz looked up to see Garin standing nearby, his eyes all sad sympathy.
“True enough,” Laz said. “I was just saying a prayer or two for the dead. It’s our custom, you see, among the Gel da’Thae.”
“Ah, well and good, then.”
Laz stood up and turned away from the dead thing that had once been his friend. He would miss Faharn, he realized, another person he’d not appreciated until it was too late. Ye gods! he thought. That’s a nasty thread to have woven through your life! When he glanced around him, he saw Brel nearby, barking commands as his men restored order in the disrupted camp.
“We’ll bury him with our dead,” Garin said. “Back in Lin Serr.”
“My thanks, Envoy. That’s an honor indeed.”
Garin bowed to him.
“It’s time for the truth, Envoy,” Laz continued. “Even though remaining with your people would be another honor, I have a grave reason to leave you.