Aureve stood beside the child, her head bowed beneath the shadow of her hood, her presence quiet yet deeply rooted in the memory, and Sylvaris stood next to her, silent as well, because after all, these were her memories—unfolding by her will, drawn from the depths of her soul—and he could only follow what she allowed him to see.
The same people were present as before, gathered in a circle around the slab where the child lay: his mother, his father, his grandfather, and the other wives of Arathor, all of them dressed in black garments that seemed to drink the torchlight, their faces strained and pale, their eyes fixed on the small figure in the center. None of them spoke. None of them moved. The only sound in the chamber was the slow, steady drip of blood from the knife held in the surgeon's trembling hand.
