“Gwen?”

Steffan was calling her name.

“Gwen, are you all right? What’s happening?”

Doing something other than crying required dragging her thoughts through the tear-soaked mud that was her mind. “Dead,” she managed weakly. “They’re all dead.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let her do this,” Steffan muttered.

“This is to be expected,” the Herald said. “Someone as devout as Gwendoline will take time to come to terms with the fact that the objects of her devotion are no more.”

Gwen sniffed. She wiped her eyes, but she only got a brief glimpse of Steffan’s concerned face before they filled with tears again. Her knees were starting to ache from where she knelt on the floor, but she didn’t care.

There was no such thing as being prepared for something like this. Not really. She had known that if the Herald was being truthful, if he really had Ryland’s ember to give her, then the Beohur really were dead. But knowing that in her mind hadn’t prepared her heart for the feeling of it, the intense, aggressive absence in her chest. She was warm and cold at the same time, full of divine power but empty of divine connection.

It was like losing her parents all over again. Emptiness within emptiness. The comforting benevolence of smarter and stronger people had been stripped away. At the same time, Gwen had inherited those people’s responsibilities before she achieved their competence.

“Pain is the soil in which strength takes root,” the Herald said. “It is good you are mourning this. It means you are taking the situation seriously. You will be less likely to give up when adversity arises during your journey.”

He had a point. The worse Gwen felt right now, the more she needed to do this. With a deep breath, she struggled to her feet. She wiped her eyes again, and this time they stayed dry. She could keep mourning later. Right now, she needed to use her grief to push her forward. It would be the resin that let her torch burn bright and long.

Steffan offered Gwen her tea, but she shook her head. She wasn’t thirsty. She wasn’t anything except determined.

“Tell me more about being a Torchbearer,” she said to the Herald.

“Your task is to grow your ember. This is a holistic quest, requiring strength of body and of spirit. Increasing your physical power is a component, as is increasing your spiritual awareness. Exercise and meditation will both grow the ember, though either on its own will do little in comparison to both in concert.

“Your ember will need to be a full flame in order to reach Selador. Climbing Ascangen itself can be difficult, not to mention the harsh climates and unwelcoming peoples on some of the branches. More importantly, however, when you reach the top rings of branches, the ambient magical power they possess will prevent you from climbing farther without a strong enough ember.”

“The top branches have their own magic?” Steffan asked.

“The Beohur sort of give it off,” Gwen said. “Gave. That’s why there aren’t any humans living in Selador. Only the Elvar can handle that much magic floating around because they’re partly made from magic.” And now Gwen was too. “But won’t that magic start to...” She swallowed. “...to fade?”

“Only slowly,” the Herald said. “It has saturated the upper reaches of Ascangen for thousands of years. It will take at least two decades for it to fade noticeably. The same is true of any natural forces. They exist beyond the Beohur, and while they will eventually become unbalanced, it should not happen before the Torchbearers have ascended. There will be enough time to keep the world stable.”

Steffan rubbed his forehead. “Good. There’s no urgency.”

“No urgency?” Gwen asked. “The Beohur are dead. Of course there’s urgency!” Just because nature wouldn’t turn inside out tomorrow didn’t mean the Beohur weren’t important. They were vital pieces of reality, and they needed to be restored.

“There is indeed,” the Herald said. “There are forces that were kept at bay by the very existence of the Beohur. If word of the Beohur’s death spreads far enough before the Torchbearers replace them, there could be great danger. Additionally, each individual Torchbearer has reason to move quickly. The first Torchbearer to reach Selador and ascend to godhood may claim Ryland’s throne and become the monarch of all Beohur.”

“So the fastest to the top of Ascangen is the one who becomes the next ruler?” Gwen hadn’t assumed she’d be given the throne, but she wouldn’t have been surprised, given that her ember had belonged to the previous king.

“Correct. That monarch will have quite a bit of influence on the culture of the new version of Selador.”

That was as exciting as it was terrifying. Gwen didn’t necessarily want to rule, though she would accept the role if given it. What she did want was someone decent and compassionate and thoughtful on the throne. She’d read enough stories about Willem’s stormy moods, Leif’s fiery temper, and Wymond’s naivete to know that some people were probably better suited than others to lead the entire world.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“I suppose that means I should set out as soon as possible,” she said. Usually she’d be tired this late in the evening, especially after a full day of exercise and a great deal of crying. Yet Gwen found she had a wellspring of energy. The ember was probably to thank for that. “If I pack now, I can sleep most of the night and leave by dawn.”

“Dawn? Tomorrow?” Steffan asked. “Why so soon? Where will you get the money to travel? What will I do with the sheep?”

“Here.” Gwen opened her clothes chest and reached deep inside to grab her coin purse. “I’ve been saving, but I can probably camp outside and use my Torchbearer senses to hunt. You can have most of this.” She dumped the purse onto the table, then put enough back for two hot meals and a night at an inn, just in case. She pushed the rest toward Steffan. “If you sell just a few of the sheep, you might be able to manage by yourself. Or you could sell all of them and become a guard, or even a carpenter’s apprentice.”

“Hold on,” Steffan said. “Why have you been saving in secret?” It was a fair question. They had always pooled their savings in case something needed fixing. “We could have hired Seamus to mend the pen for real, and then we wouldn’t have spent an entire day chasing down Dotty.” Steffan had fixed the fence himself two weeks ago, but one of their sheep had still found enough of a hole to squeeze through. She gave them the run-around for several hours, even with Theodora’s help.

Gwen’s cheeks burned. “It was for both of us. I wanted to take a pilgrimage, so I started saving up. It had to be enough for me to live off of for a year and for you to hire another hand while I was gone.”

Closing his eyes, Steffan took in a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh. Gwen could see a mostly contained tension in his jaw, something she would have missed before gaining the ember.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” His voice was flat and cold and dangerous as a frozen lake.

“Of course I was. But I wouldn’t have had enough for a few more years, so there was no point in making you brood.” She had hated keeping a secret from him, but if she’d told him, he would have spent the entire few years worrying.

Steffan’s eyes widened in shock. “Brood? Is that--brood? I’m sorry if you mistook the depth of my care for being a simple worrywart.” He wrenched open the door. “Do what you want. I’ll find my way.”

Then he was gone into the night.

#

The month after her parents’ death was a blur for Gwen. She had usually slept in their father’s bed and Steffan in their mothers, so now both of the beds were big and cold and empty.

She remembered Brother Ferdinand stopping by with food every morning and evening. Sometimes Charles, the town healer, came with him to check on her and Steffan. Somehow the house stayed clean and the sheep stayed fed and watered.

A few days after the attack, the village lit a funeral pyre and burned the bodies. Gwen remembered Brother Ferdinand standing in front of the towering flames, seemingly unbothered by the heat rippling off of them. He gave a speech about how the burning of the body freed the soul to rejoin the divinity of the Beohur. Gwen didn’t really understand it, but something about Brother Ferdinand’s passion and the rhythm of his words made the scene stick in her mind.

Gwen’s only other specific memory took place a couple of weeks later. She had finally found enough energy to go outside and curl up with the sheep. Their warm, soft wool was comforting, and so was the bright midday sun.

As Gwen returned to the house, she heard voices from inside, including her brother’s. So she did what any younger sibling would do and pressed her ear to the keyhole.

“I heard you,” Steffan said. “I heard you talking about what to do with us.” Steffan’s voice was accusing--almost angry, even. Gwen could imagine the glare on her brother’s face as he spoke.

“Well, yes,” Brother Ferdinand said. “Something must be figured out.”

“We didn’t want to burden you,” Charles said gently. “We wanted you to be able to grieve without worrying about what comes next.”

Gwen heard a dull thunk as a fist smacked the table. “I already know what comes next! We keep herding the sheep just like they did.”

Gwen nodded, even though no one could see her. The sheep needed taking care of and she and Steffan needed to stay together. If they were sent to some orphanage in Wirtrumburg, which was the only place large enough to have those, they would be separated in a few years when Steffan was old enough to be an apprentice. That couldn’t happen.

“We did discuss that,” Brother Ferdinand said. “You have a place to live, and you’re only a couple of years from working age. But your flock isn’t especially small, and considering the dangers--”

“I know the dangers!” Steffan shouted.

“Of course you do,” Charles said. “But we have to think about them too, you understand? We have to be your adults now, even though everyone wishes we didn’t. We have to protect you.”

“No you don’t! Our parents told us to protect each other! They didn’t say anything about you! And we can protect each other best by staying here with the sheep and doing what we already know. Besides, I have Mother’s sword. I can learn to use it.”

There was a long silence--long enough for Gwen to think about going inside just to make the talking start again. But then Brother Ferdinand cleared his throat and said, “We’ll talk it over again. Maybe a compromise can be reached.”

At the sound of clattering chairs, Gwen realized she had to move or be caught. She ran back to the sheep and lay down again, closing her eyes just as she heard the door open.

#

Charles and Brother Ferdinand came back the next day to tell them the good news. “We’ll let you stay and be shepherds,” Brother Ferdinand said, “on a few conditions. You will only take half of the flock out at a time. You will never cross the grove to the west. You will never be separated from each other or the sheep.

“And we’re getting you a herding dog to help out,” Charles added.

Once the adults left, Gwen hugged Steffan tight. Gratitude and relief filled her so full she felt like bursting, and she imagined the emotions flowing into him through her embrace.

That night, they slept in the same bed, back to back. It was the safest Gwen had felt since the day with the bandits.

#