The Immortal
Teren moved, unsteady but eager on his feet, across the great sweep of garden. From his small height it was a vast expanse. Twice, he toppled over: infinity capsized. Each time, he laughed, a high distinctive gulp of laughter. Nighthand, following at a distance, laughed with him.
The contours of the world’s knowledge still eddied like water currents within him; not yet fully seen nor fully understood.
But he had the instincts of all the people he had been: the caveman, the soldier, the visionary, and, most recently, Mal Arvorian: the girl who had launched herself into the sky for the sake of the world itself.
She was closest to the surface of his heart; he was her, and she him.
He was making his way towards the borometz, to stroke its fur and study its breath – but something caught his attention.
He saw the sparkle of light reflected on a bird bath: a glimmer he had seen before, but he was not yet old enough to place it in the infinite reach of his mind.
It was the glint of a stymphalian bird’s beak, refracting the light as it flew as close to the island as the fendthorn allowed.
Unease came over Teren. He turned to look for Nighthand, who had been just behind him: he was never far away. But then his unease shifted, for there was something else: a boat, coming into view. It was familiar. He let out a cry, and pointed.
Nighthand came running, and scooped Teren into his arms. ‘The Neverfear!’ he said. ‘They’re home!’