Reblogged from Myths of the Mirror:

image from en.wikipedia.org

“I don’t think I can die, Estriilde,” Gryff said, his first words since the peak of the bridge.

“You’ve pickled your head in wine,” Estriilde replied. They hurried toward her tent, so close to being free of the wind.

“It’s not the wine. It’s the sunwield. I don’t believe it will let me die.”

“We all die, Farmer.” Her cloak opened as wide as wings, and she flew ahead. He plodded behind her, entering the dark tent as she fumbled to light her brazier. Sparks flinted to life, and the fire began its fight to banish the cold. He sank onto a stool as Estriilde sat back on her heels and studied him. “Every one of us dies in our time.”

He drew on the cord around his neck. The medallion rose from inside his shirt and hung exposed on his chest. She shuffled forward on her knees, close to him, and caught the bronze disk in her hand, silently counting.

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