“Why did he take away your little army men?”

“It’s part of the game.”

“Do you want ice cream?”

“No thank you.”

“What did he say to you?” Una asked.

“It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, of course. Robin didn’t say, he stared out the passenger side window as the station wagon drove on Lomas Boulevard, towards the setting sun. Una turned on the radio and after a few blocks, clicked it off.

“What did the doctor say?” Robin asked.

“Nothing much,” Una lied.

They were quiet the whole way home.

* * *

Silver were the tears of Cinabinathi. The blue moon rose, the red moon chased after her, and the ruins glowed an unrequited violet. No matter how he raced, the red moon could never catch up to his love.

For two nights and two days, Cinabinathi kept vigil at Barak’s side beneath a cedar tree at the south wall of the ruined keep. She refused the food and water. All was lost.

As the third moon rose and overwhelmed the faint lovelight with silver, Bobbert the apprentice hurried over with two bowls of steaming broth. The boy had surprised everyone with his resilience. His master was gone but he sprang back and seemed to be everywhere within the camp. He brought water and soup, he changed bandages, he recorded last words and vowed to carry them on to the next of kin. Cinabinathi wondered at the child, how could he spring back so quickly when all was lost? He was a spry sapling that bent against the storm. She was a hollow oak, with everything rotted inside. She could not find the will to thank him.

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“Drink that,” Bobbert ordered when she made no move to accept the bowl.

Cinabinathi blinked. It was an order, from a human. Not even a grown one. Anger kindled, and her long fingers curled into a fist. Whatever scant magic the boy possessed would not save him from the beating of a lifetime. But Bobbert never noticed. He set the bowl beside her and turned his attention to the motionless dwarf. Bobbert thrust two fingers under the dead dwarf’s jaw. He nodded and began to remove Barak’s bandages.

“These should have been changed hours ago,” Bobbert chided her.

Chided her! Her thoughts flashed to the dagger at her waist, but the gloom rose all around her, the curse she meant to say escaped as a sob. The humans were so brief, so brutal. The boy could not possibly understand her sorrow.

“You both need to eat. Drink that soup, then, feed him. Very carefully. Spoon a little into his mouth, a tiny bit at a time.”

“But he’s gone. There’s no lifebeat.”

“Dwarves are different. Their hearts can beat very slow when they’re hurt. You have to press deep to feel, but it’s there. Make sure he doesn’t choke as you feed him. Take this salve, change those bandages every three hours. If you run out, come find me for more. He’s lost a lot of blood, he needs all his strength.

Hope blazed in her breast, brighter than the silver moon. She moved towards the bowl beside Barak, but Bobbert pulled it away from her.

“Do as I say. Eat first, then feed him before you pass out. He’s not going anywhere.”

Cinabinathi looked at him, unable to believe this was the bumbling lackey who’d chased after Prescote’s robes the whole campaign.

“I never wanted to be an apprentice. Barber suits me better,” Bobbert confided. “I’ll be back when I can. Take good care of Barak and yourself. You two saved us all.” Bobbert packed up his knapsack and left her with a roll of clean bandage cloth and the pungent salve.

“Bobbert,” she stopped him as he was about to leave. “I name you Elf-friend.”

Bobbert stopped in the moonlight, struck by the unexpected honor. It was strange to see such tired eyes on a child’s face. He’d seen too much horror, too little sleep. After a moment, he found what he was looking for.

“Eteta-niuna

suma-silva

perpeta-eta.”

Bobbert spoke with reverence, almost as close as a human could come to the right tones. The boy knew the Cada Canta: In the forests—of forever—we will be one—together. The sage had trained his pupil well.

“I will speak with the seven about you, to find you a new master. You would be wasted as a barber.”

Bobbert’s mouth fell open. Without Prescote, he’d resigned himself to a life of cutting hair and hacking off limbs. Now was an Elf-friend, invited to train with one of the great masters. His entire trajectory had changed. He swallowed and shouldered the weight of the moment.

“I am honored. Rest well, dragon-slayer.”