THE WIZARD AND THE SYLPH
Chapter Seven
The Summoning Stone
Lily!
Anest watched her, helplessly, unable to speak as she wiped the whetted silver sliver that was her knife, over and over and over again, fearing that her fixation with the irremovable stain of killing might change without warning into physical harm, and the slicing open of her own hand. At last, unable to bear the sight any longer, he plucked the wicked thing, as long, slender and curved as a boning knife, from her trembling hands. For a long moment she stared at her own empty hands,
which though relieved of their instrument of killing, curled into claws in her lap as though they writhed with guilt. She seemed not to notice as he replaced the knife in its sheath at her belt and sat beside her, afraid to speak . . . to do anything that might make it worse . . .
After several moments, her eyes shifted from the sick, aghast otherness of her sight that gazed upon some inner apocalyptic wilderland, to a more comprehensible, less fearful inwardness.
"Anest . . . hold me please . . . I think I'm going to be sick."
It was some time before the physical reaction to all the violence became manageable. Even so, Lily still felt chilled to the pit of her stomach and giddy. Staring bleakly into the dark, night-shrouded forest, as though bereft of all that remained to her of her innocence, she sobbed brokenly, head pillowed in Anest's lap. Though he held her tenderly, stroked her head, wished there was something he could do to console her, he felt ineffectual knowing that he could not protect her from the carnage, the horror still to come. He would have wept, himself, but tears would not come, though his throat ached with grief.