5.Death of Chaos
LXXVIII
THE THREE DRUIDS stood in the grove of the ancient one, watching the sands that depicted all of Candar shift and boil.
The youngest druid held her lips tightly, recalling another time when she had watched the sands, then in hope. In the space before her, under the ancient oak that was older than Recluce, older than the citadel of Jellico, older even than ancient and departed Westwind, she watched the sands boil, changing from white to black and black to white.
“The angels will not return, not for all the songs, not for all of the cold iron of the machines,” said the male druid. His thin silver hair, his thin face, both topped a frame so frail that it seemed closer to vapor than flesh and bone.
“The price will be paid,” stated the other woman. “None have paid this price in generations, and the arrogance of the Emperor will ensure that his pride will be laid low.”
“His will not be the only pride laid low,” said the youngest druid.
“Oh, Dayala, never has it been easy for you and Justen.”
Dayala smiled, sadly. “I will be with him this time, Syodra. I will leave the Great Forest.”
“I thought you would be, should be.”
“All songs are sung a last time,” offered the old singer. “A last time when the words regain their purity and power.”
“In Balance, no less.” Syodra laughed, but the tears flowed from her eyes as her fingers stroked the smooth-gnarled bark of the oak.
Dayala's lips brushed the fingers of the singer, and her fingers squeezed those of Syodra, before she walked away from the grove and toward the river, and the boat, that would carry her to Diehl-and the journey beyond.