The vapors braided themselves into a moving helix, in which Ingold was no more than a half-guessed shape, arms raised, foxlight luminous in his hair. The fog whispered with an inner pulse of light and the beating of wings.

Gil raised her hand a little, and thought, Don’t die …

Ingold moved. The air changed. The fog was lit from within, as if by sudden moonlight. The column stretched skyward, then collapsed; the vapor streamed away in all directions, swirling over Gil’s feet.

The trees gave one final shudder and were still. Ingold was gone.

Gil knelt to feel the earth where he had stood. It was warm under her hand. A falcon feather lay upon the imprint of the old mage’s naked feet …