In the morning Kieran said he felt better again, but Ash noticed his movements were slower, accompanied by more wincing, and he coughed more often. The skin around the wound was hot; his forehead was clammy. He stumbled when he tried to get up on the horse alone. He turned it into a joke, complaining that he was seasick and would stay in his cabin until the storm was over, but he couldn't hide his frustration and growing fear. Sometimes his directions were confusing; he'd say things wrong, telling Ash to go round the left side of that tree, when there were no trees to be seen, or up a slope when the slope led down. Sometimes he lapsed into Iavaian, and had to be reminded that Ash didn't speak that language. Throughout the day's travel he dozed more than he had the day before. Even with Ash pouring oil on the waters of his dreams, he wandered into nightmare more easily than before, grunting and mumbling in his sleep.

The mare was getting thinner. Ash could see every tendon and bone in his own hands, and as for Kieran, there was nothing left of him but rope and girders. To pass the time, and to give himself something to settle Kieran's dreams with, Ash fantasized about where he'd rather be, and how he'd rather nurse Kieran -- an ivy-cloaked house on Helermont Bay, windows thrown open to the salt wind, sunlight blue and gold with the sparkling sea. There would be a stone-tiled stove to drive off the damp at night, and blankets of soft red wool, and clean white sheets and towels to cool Kieran's fever. Shelves on the walls would be full of old familiar books, so that he could entertain Kieran by reading to him; there would be plenty of warm, filling food, and fruit, and tea, and silly urchin children singing for spare change and sweets under the window. There would be days when gentle rain fell, when the only sound would be the creaking of fishing boats along the docks, and there would be lots of windy bright days when the gulls would yelp and holler overhead. Ash sometimes let himself fall so deeply into this fantasy that the next thing to bring him back to reality hit him with an almost physical shock. After that happened a few times, he decided the daydream's escape wasn't worth the dismay of returning from it.

That night, neither slept well. Kieran kept them both awake coughing. His lungs were making noise constantly now. His pain overflowed into Ash, his fear showed in his eyes, his weariness had reached the bone. He said nothing about it, but gripped Ash's hand desperately all night.

When it was light enough to travel, a potential problem occurred to Ash. He'd been following Kieran's instructions, but what if Kieran became unable to give them? He had no idea where they were. He doubted he could even retrace their circuitous path, let alone find the river or the road or any landmark from here. As for their destination, Kieran had been vague about it, and what if there was no help for them when they got there?

He addressed this concern tentatively once they were underway, but he must have been leaking emotion, because Kieran went off on a delirious streak of apologizing. He meandered between Eskarne and Iavaian, incoherent in both languages, and seemed to be talking to a lot of people who weren't there. Ash could only try to soothe and quiet him, and got no answer to his question. A sickness of a different kind was growing in Ash's heart. To see someone so strong broken down so badly was hard enough. But Kieran wasn't getting any better. He just kept getting worse.

At midday, they rested. In trying to dismount, Kieran took a disastrous spill, falling on his injured side, which dragged out of him a high scream like a dying animal's. It made Ash's scalp crawl to hear it, and to see Kieran panting and whimpering and coughing in the wake of the fall was unbearable. In addition, this accident broke several stitches; or, rather, ripped the loops of thread through weakened skin, and a rivulet of stinking yellow-and-red liquid ran out from under the bandage.

Trying to stay calm, Ash built a small fire, boiled water, and cleaned the wound as best he could. Kieran was conscious through this, but couldn't seem to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. His breathing was shallow, full of clicks and whistles. He seemed to have nodded off by the time Ash tied on a clean bandage, but stirred when Ash tried to move away.

When he spoke, his voice was so weak that Ash had to ask him to repeat himself. "You'll like it there," Kieran wheezed. "It's like a garden. There's a pond... and pictures... I found a wild rose with... all those little thorns... looks like hairy legs... like a bug..."

"You don't have to talk," Ash said gently. He tried not to share his fear.

"Not delirious," Kieran said a moment later.

"Okay. You should sleep a bit. We could just call it a day --"

"No. Listen." Kieran opened his eyes long enough to find Ash's face, closed them again with a smile. "I want to think about you being... being there... in the garden. You need green. Flowers. Love you. God I love you. I'm picturing... you there by the pond."

Ash thought he could actually hear a crack run through his heart, like lake ice breaking. He couldn't speak.

"I won't make it. You go, though. Down... from here take any... anything looks like water... cut it running down. Hit a dry stream... bed..." Pause to cough, wracking, fiery agony all across his chest echoing in Ash's mind. "Upstream there. Find a wet... a stream... wet sand, maybe mud... upstream. Got it?"

"Yes." Ash's voice betrayed him; the word came out as a sob, making Kieran open his eyes again.

"Don't be sad. Giving you a present. Listen. Not far now, nobody... knows about it and it... it's got power still. It might. Hide you. Oh god --" A convulsion of a cough, which left him gray and shaking.

Moving to the uninjured side, Ash helped him sit up to spit. Wiped his lips and chin, smoothed back the sweaty tendrils of hair that had escaped his braid. Kieran leaned into Ash's shoulder, walking his hand clumsily up to grip a handful of Ash's shirt. Ash said, "You're not going to die. I won't let you."

"I'm scared," Kieran whispered.

"Don't you dare give up."

"Not. Go down swinging."

"Don't go down at all! Damn it, Kai, are you listening to me? I refuse to live without you!"

Kieran made a sound that might have been a laugh. "You're such... a kid... but I do love to hear... hear you talk."

"Fuck this. Get up." Ash levered Kieran's arm around his shoulders. "Help me. You know you can. Come on, for god's sake get your legs under you --"

"Oh shit. Ow." But Kieran managed not to be completely limp, even if Ash had to take most of his weight.

"Good. Just a couple steps. Lean on me and I'm going to put your foot in the stirrup, now grab -- good --" It wasn't as hard as it should have been to boost Kieran into the saddle. For someone so tall, he didn't weigh nearly enough.

"What's the damn hurry?" Kieran wheezed.

Ash took his place and the reins, holding tight to keep Kieran from falling, for the Iavaian was entirely strengthless now, too weak even to sit up. "You're going to see your garden with the wild roses." He forced the weary horse to walk. Only after they were well underway did he realize he'd left the saucepan behind. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The world was flat, unreal, composed of only three things: I love him; he loves me; he is dying. It seemed to Ash that there was nothing more painful than those three statements together.

"Gonna sleep a little bit," Kieran said. "If I die... wake me up... so I can watch."

"If you die I'll follow you and beat you up, you jerk. Fight."

"Yeah. Okay. Bury me... in the garden. Write... my name on the... wall." A slight laugh. "Big heart around it. Like kids do."

"Look, stop thinking about death things. Think about life things. What do you want to do while you're recovering, in this garden?" This got no response, but Ash could sense that Kieran was awake. "What's our day going to be like? You want to teach me things? I'll teach you Hanite if you want, I'll teach you to swear in Prandhari --"

"Tattoo." Kieran raised his good hand weakly, then dropped it. "Need eight dots. You too -- you want one?"

"Sure. You can show me how. Then what? There's a pond, you said; Maybe we could go fishing?"

A faint nod was all Kieran could manage.

"And then when you're well, what do you want to do?"

"Fuck your brains out." Kieran's laugh started strongly, but ended in another gurgling cough.

With a painful smile, blinking too fast, Ash managed to return a bit of a chuckle. "There, now, you wouldn't want to miss out on that, would you? You're just going to have to stay alive."

"I'll see... what I can do."

A few minutes later Kieran sank into unconsciousness, and this time he fell quickly below the strata where dreams occurred, down into the trenches of his mind where Ash couldn't find him. To the empathic sense, he gave out nothing but pain and sickness; his emotions dropped off the map.

This left Ash free to weep as much as he wanted, and so, ironically, the tears wouldn't come. Maybe I'm starting to believe my own talk, about there being a future. Such a sweet future. I could never have imagined a world so perfect, even an hour ago. This garden he was talking about, I wonder... no, it does exist, it has to be real, and he will live to see it, and he'll get better, and we'll live there together and we'll be happy...

If he dies, I'll bury him under that rosebush he mentioned. Then I'll put his gun in my mouth and blow my head off.

Ash tried not to think so much, after that. He concentrated hard on figuring out which way was downhill, discerning the marks cut by water long-dried, guessing which way it had flowed.

Hours crawled. The sun was sinking when he found the dry streambed Kieran had mentioned; he cursed the slow pace, but even if the horse had been capable of a better gait, anything faster would have jolted Kieran unbearably. Then he wasted an hour going the wrong way, before he found some patterns in the sand that corrected his guess about which direction was downstream. This area was wind-whipped and bare, a plain of scattered boulders and mean, straggling weeds, with far-apart buttes standing out of it like rotten teeth. Eventually a line of stunted cottonwoods resolved into view; he deduced this must be the waterway Kieran had described, and impatience made him urge the mare to go faster. She ignored him. The animal was exhausted. Kieran was still comatose, breath bubbling in his lungs.

Evening fell purple across the land. The moon was already up, and by its growing light Ash was able to keep the trees in sight, and eventually to turn upstream on the buried creek; little more than a wet place in the sand, with occasional deposits of thick mud that sucked at the mare's hooves and made her prone to stopping. He feared she'd refuse to start walking again, but he always managed to convince her.

At a stretch of open water, he let the horse drink, and lowered a canteen on its strap to fill itself. He dribbled some into Kieran's mouth. Kieran didn't even swallow.

Time went even stranger. The moon hung still for what felt like years, and then moved a handsbreadth in the sky when he blinked. Eventually the stream became continuous, and he had to urge the horse up out of it, onto the dry land beside. He didn't remember when he'd left the open plain, but somehow he'd gone beyond the scattered outcroppings that had made a horizon at sunset, and was in a valley. Sometimes it was so narrow that he had to move back into the water, praying that the horse wouldn't step on a buried rock and break a leg. Sometimes it was as wide and gently sloped as he thought a valley ought to be, and he imagined it carpeted with green grass. From time to time the stream spread out so that it was just a wet spot on the ground, but that happened less often as the night wore on. Trees grew here, and the way was sometimes choked with brush and weeds.

All this time, Kieran was sinking deeper. Little by little his pain stopped transmitting itself to Ash; it was not that the wound hurt less, but that Kieran was subsiding below it. Ash had the feeling his own heartbeat was driving Kieran's, felt that somehow his own life was being drained away to keep Kieran alive. He hoped it was true.

When the hills faded away to either side, he thought at first it was just another valley. Not until the stream began to swing into a series of oxbow loops did he realize he was crossing a wide plain.

Riding with his head bowed for so long, he'd missed the point where the near and narrow horizon fell away, but now he was seeing some distance ahead. In the dark it was hard to tell just how far. Stands of trees punctuated this flat area, and the horse began to balk every few minutes to grab at a patch of grass or snatch a clump of leaves from some low-growing bush. Let this be it, he prayed, please let this be the garden, and shelter not far ahead... A sparkle off to the left proved to be the moon reflected in water, and as he saw it, Ash sat up straighter in a frail burst of new energy. Kieran had said something about there being power here. Was it this water, was the water sacred? But as he skirted the pond, he felt a greater energy beyond, like a fire's warmth on his face. The black horizon rose as he drew nearer to the power's source. He'd found the far edge of the plain, apparently a sheer cliff, its height impossible to judge, and in the cliff wall some kind of regular shapes were emerging.

All at once it came clear, and a thrill of awe ran through him at the size of the thing, at the mere fact of its existence in this country where so many ancient temples had been thrown down. An opening in the stone, twenty feet tall and a hundred wide, lay before him. This open mouth was toothed with thick pillars. Broad, shallow steps led up into the place. From between the center pair of pillars the stream flowed out, guided by a paved channel into a reflecting pool that was crossed by two flat bridges. These bridges were each a single slab of stone a foot thick; one had cracked and fallen into the pool, but the other was intact. Grasses, vines and flowers twined and choked these structures. The air was full of the smells of water, blossoms, and rot.

Ash guided the horse across the intact bridge and up the steps. Echoes of each hoof's fall clattered loudly inside, giving the impression of a vast space, but Ash didn't bother going in much past the rank of pillars.

There's something here. Or someone. Some old god, some lingering scent of sanctity, and I've just ridden a muddy-hoofed animal into the temple. That's probably blasphemy. Well, let your curse fall on me, whoever you are, but don't blame Kieran for it.

Gathering what strength he had -- a little more than he really had, it seemed, borrowing on credit -- he dismounted and pulled Kieran down with him. He couldn't stand; catching Kieran knocked him down, and it was all he could do to gentle Kieran's fall a little. Then there was no way he could get up again to unpack blankets and things, even if the mare weren't wandering away in search of the vegetation he hadn't let her explore on the way in. So he stayed where he fell. Sprawled, cradling Kieran in aching arms.

I'll just rest a moment. Just until I'm strong enough to go catch that stupid horse. He could hardly find any sign of life in Kieran's mind at all now. As for Kieran's body, it was utterly limp, skin chilled and greasy, heartbeat weak, breath labored and loud. With each breath, liquid gurgled and clicked in Kieran's lungs. The sound was dreamily horrifying. Too terrible to be real.

Through the remnant of the night, Ash lay listening to that sound. Through the blues and grays and purples of daybreak, through the gold and white of dawn, he listened to the wet rattle of Kieran's breathing.

Until, just as sunlight flooded the western mountains, the sound stopped.

The next few minutes were a chaos of frantic action in denial; trying to make Kieran take just one more breath, trying to turn back time just a few moments, to that last breath he'd allowed to slip by, as if he could have caught it with both hands and held it, shoved life back in; trying to trade anything, everything of himself to turn the broken body in his arms from a corpse to a person again.

No use. No hope. Everything wrecked. Every second of his life in vain, all leading up to this second of understanding that Kieran was destroyed, that there was no more of him in the world anywhere. All that strength and striving, all that brilliance and cruelty and sweetness and fear and love, vanished like a voice in still air.

He opened his throat and let the grief rush out; he couldn't stop howling, even though howling didn't help. If he could have smashed the world to powder, in that moment, he would have.