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Gem paced, up-down, and down the worn-wood flooring. The valley spread out beneath her. The waterfall made to mourn.
Up, down. Up, down. She turned on her heel and glanced down below, just briefly. Her stomach clenched. She looked no more.
Her balcony was a favorite place: a place to watch the world go by, from up where it could not touch her. Would that it could not touch her! The egg burned in her arms.
The smoke drifted up. It was too thin by the time the wind reached her to be more than a ghost of a smell. She did not rub her eyes or cough. Her hands were busy, anyway. She had to keep the egg safe. She had to keep it warm.
The bonfires burned, far below. She could hear the singing faintly, borne up by that wayward wind. There was always singing at a funeral. She could almost hear the words.
"Weep, ye ladies, laughing low…"
There were not usually so many funerals in midsummer. Gem wondered who was dead this week. She doubted she had known them.
Down below, there'd be singing, and feasting, and weeping, as much as the mourners could spare. They'd join their hands for one last dance and carole around the burning pyre. The smoke would rise. The flames would lick soul-blue. There would be no hauntings. Not here.
Gem paced. Gem paced. The wind caught in her unveiled, unbraided hair, her skirts as green as faded spring. For she was not in mourning blue: she was not so damned. What business had she in funereal dress? What buisness had she to weep?
The smoke rose up below.
"…For winter comes to claim the slopes…"
The song came up to haunt her, blown to her heights by the wayward wind. Gem tossed her head away; clutched the Dragon's egg a little tighter in her grasping, greedy grip. She could not suffer it to fall. She had to keep it safe. She had to keep it warm. It shouldn't be hard, in midsummer. It wouldn't be hard, in the valley. The peaks, of course, never really thawed. Gem should know. If anyone knew, it was her.
She wished she could cover her ears. She ought to go inside. She needed to do ten thousand things, and none of them pacing here. She wanted to bolt the shutters tight.
Gem paced, on her balcony, hearing the waterfall, feeling the wind. The pyre burned blue, below. The mourners danced: hands joined, song loud and ragged, reeling, out of tune. She remembered too well how it had torn at her, that far first time she'd heard it. How cruel, that the wind even here made her hear it. How bitter, bitter, sharp. It cut her to the bone.
Gem paced. The egg was getting heavy. She could not let go now.
Midsummer was a strange season for mourning. Gem wondered, absently, how well corrupted things could burn.
"…And we who still dwell here below…"
Up, down. Up, down. Gem turned on her heel, skirts swishing cold, caught up in the rush of the mountain winds. The valley was hers: she was the Wizard of these peaks, and they'd hold her firm until she died. But she could not bear its mourning. Not today. Not today…
The egg was heavy in her arms. Strange, how quickly she'd grown used to it. Strange, how tight she clutched it. Gem held it. Gem walked. Gem did not look below.
"…Have blown away the dead."