The Witch continued to work the cord, taking up the slack, then tightening the drag, until it stretched taut against the necklace, which moved no more, but lay as if welded to the floor.

He looked back, saw Moonhawk’s eyes closed and sweat on her face, the cord taut as a lute-string between her hand and the troth-gift, quivering and giving off a faint, smoky luminescence.

The ice in his belly sent a shaft lancing upward into his chest and he came off the bench in a silent rush, meaning to shake her, to pull away the cord, even to shout—

The beads shifted against the floor with a sound like sobbing, and, obedient at last, hurtled through the air to land with a clatter upon the table top, half-an-inch from the Witch’s long hand.

Lute froze, staring at her face, willing her to open her eyes, to shake her hair back, extinguish the candle and put aside the blue cloak; to mock him, even, for his terrors—She sat, still and silent as death. Beside her, the candle flame flickered, and went out.

Finally, he moved; relit the candle and set it so the light fell full on her face. It was then he saw that she was crying.

“Moonhawk?” A cracking whisper; much unlike his usual manner. He reached forth a hand and touched her, lightly, on the shoulder. “Moonhawk.”

She gasped and hurled back in her chair, lifting a warding hand, eyes wide now, and bright with terror.

“Moonhawk!” He caught the uplifted hand, and nearly gasped himself at the coldness of her flesh.

“Ah!” She cried and bent her head, making no effort to take her hand from his. Her breathing shuddered. “Gone,” she mourned. “All gone. Goodbye sun. Goodbye flowers. Goodbye love. Hello dark. Mother? Mother! Where is she? Why is there no rest, no sweet embrace and welcome home?”

“Moonhawk!” He held tight to her, cupped her chin in his free hand-sacrilege, and worth a stoning, to touch the sacred body of a priestess without her aye—and forced her head up. Wide, unseeing eyes stared into his.