'No,' Ilea said. 'It would never live. It needs ashes, mountain winds, and winter storms to thrive. Look—' she scraped the ashes away from the bare rock, to show how it was cracked and crazed. 'This is what it needs; it can send its roots deep into the rock, and rise out of the ashes tall and strong.' She patted the ashes around the seedling with a motion that was almost affectionate, then carefully dripped water into the mound of ashes from her water bottle. 'It needs adversity to thrive.'
He held out his hand to her, and she used it to get to her feet. 'Something like Valdemar?'
She smiled, and if her smile held sorrow, it also held joy. 'And—something like us. All of us.'
For one last moment, they looked out over the mountains, wondering when adversity would cross them to find Valdemar again.
'And thanks to Lan, for a time we will have peace to grow,' Tuck said, with unusual eloquence.
Pol nodded, and moved to put his arm around Tuck's shoulders. 'Yes we will,' he replied. 'Just like this little tree. If it hadn't been for Lavan Firestorm, neither we nor the tree would still be here.'
They stood together in the silence for a long time, each of them with his own thoughts. Wulaf was the first to move, collecting a handful of pebbles, and carefully ringing the seedling with a protective barrier.
Fedor did the same, then added the silver arrow-pin of a Royal messenger, burying it in the ash within the circle. One by one, they each built the wall of protection a little higher and thicker, some adding tiny keepsakes to the ashes. When Elenor's turn came, with only Pol and Ilea to go, she added a covering of paper torn into the tiniest of scraps, then wetted with water from her water bottle, to the top of the ashes to keep them from blowing away. Pol had a fairly good idea where the paper came from, for she had brought Lan's few notes with her, and he had noticed her shredding paper as the others made their offerings.
Ilea simply held her hands over the seedling, giving it the strength only a Healer could impart.
Then it was Pol's turn.
He slipped over the seedling a thin bracelet that Macy had made for him, braided of his hair and Satiran's together. He hadn't come here with the intention of leaving it, but—it seemed right.
He straightened up, and met the eyes of each of the others in silence. Now, he sensed that some deep wound in each of them had begun to heal. It was not closed yet—but in time, they would all be whole.
'Time to go,' he said quietly, and they turned their faces home.
