The arrow took him in the throat.

It was a clean strike. No scream. Just a wet thud against the leather of his collar.

Barnaby fell.

The mud of the valley was cold. It seeped through his doublet. It smelled of iron and old rain.

He did not die.

Not yet.

The war had come to the valley of St. Jude. The banners of the King were red. The banners of the Duke were blue. Barnaby wore grey. He was a reader of the air. A seer.

Or so they said.

He lay on his side. His hand went to the wound. Blood ran between his fingers. It was thick. It was warm.

He saw the sky.

It was a bruise of purple and grey. Clouds rolled fast. They looked like horses with broken legs.

He tried to stand.

He could not.

His legs were heavy. His mind was sharp.

This was the trick of the seer. The body fails. The eye remains.

He closed his eyes.

He listened.

The wind was in the trees. The trees were beech. They were bare. It was late autumn. The leaves were gone. The branches were black bones against the sky.

He heard the boots of the soldiers.

They were coming to finish him.

He knew they would.

In the war, no one left a seer alive. A dead seer was a useful tool. They would take his head. They would pin it on a spear. They would say the magic was gone.

Barnaby knew this.

He had always known this.

He had spent his life waiting for the arrow.

He had not feared it. He had dreaded it. There is a difference. Fear is loud. Dread is quiet. Dread sits in the stomach. It waits.

The boots stopped.

Ten paces away.

A voice spoke.

"Is he dead?"

"Check the pulse."

"Look at his eyes."

"Open them."

Barnaby opened his eyes.

The man who spoke was young. He had a scar on his cheek. It was old. It was white. He held a sword. The blade was wet.

Barnaby looked at him.

He did not speak.

He could not. The arrow had cut too deep. It had touched the cord that moves the jaw.

The young man leaned down.

"Look at me," the boy said.

Barnaby looked.

The boy’s eyes were green. They were full of fear.

Barnaby wanted to tell him.

He wanted to say, *I know what you are.*

He wanted to say, *I know what you will do.*

He could not.

He only breathed.

The air came in. It went out. It rattled in his chest.

The boy straightened up.

"He is alive," the boy said. "But he is done."

"Kill him," said another voice.

The first voice. The one from the captain.

The captain was a large man. He wore a coat of black wool. He held a cane. He did not carry a sword. He did not need one.

"Kill him," the captain repeated.

The boy with the scar looked at Barnaby.

"Wait," the boy said. "He is a seer. The King wants him alive. We can sell him."

The captain laughed.

It was a dry sound. Like a branch breaking.

"Sell him," the captain said. "We have no gold. We have no food. We have blood. Kill him."

The boy looked at Barnaby again.

He lowered his sword.

He took a knife from his belt.

Barnaby saw the blade.

It was small. It was sharp.

The boy raised it.

Barnaby did not close his eyes.

He watched.

He watched the light on the steel.

He saw his own face in the metal.

It was a mask. It was white. It was empty.

The boy struck.

The blade went into Barnaby’s chest.

It was not a kill stroke. It was a gutting stroke.

The pain was sudden. It was bright. It was white.

Barnaby gasped.

The boy pulled the knife out.

Blood sprayed.

It hit the mud. It hit the boy’s face.

The boy stepped back.

He wiped his mouth.

He looked at the captain.

"It is done," the boy said.

The captain nodded.

"Good," he said. "Burn the body. Take the ring. Leave the rest."

The boy looked at Barnaby.

Barnaby was still on the ground.

His eyes were open.

He was looking at the boy.

The boy felt a cold feeling in his stomach.

He looked away.

He walked toward the captain.

The captain was already walking away. He did not look back.

The valley was silent.

The wind moved through the beech trees.

The leaves were gone.

Barnaby breathed.

The air was hard to pull. It burned in his lungs.

He was dying.

He knew this.

But he was not dead.

Not yet.

He looked at the sky.

The clouds were moving. They were fast. They were low.

He saw a bird.

It was a hawk.

It circled above him.

It was alone.

It was high.

It was free.

Barnaby smiled.

The smile was a spasm. It hurt.

He smiled at the hawk.

He smiled at the sky.

He smiled at the boy who was walking away.

He smiled at the captain who was disappearing into the trees.

He smiled at the war.

He smiled at the end.

He had waited for this.

He had waited for the arrow. He had waited for the knife. He had waited for the silence.

He had thought it would be different.

He had thought he would hate it.

He did not hate it.

He felt a strange lightness.

It was in his chest. It was in his hands.

It was in the air.

The arrow was still in his throat. The knife was in his chest.

But the pain was fading.

The pain was becoming a memory.

The memory was becoming a thought.

The thought was becoming a bird.

The bird was flying away.

Barnaby closed his eyes.

The darkness was not black.

It was blue.

It was deep.

It was cold.

It was clean.

He floated in it.

He did not struggle.

He did not fight.

He let it take him.

He let the war take him.

He let the boy take him.

He let the captain take him.

He let the sky take him.

He was a seer.

He had read the air.

He had read the wind.

He had read the hearts of men.

He had read the fate of kings.

He had read the end of the world.

And now he read the end of himself.

It was simple.

It was true.

It was enough.

The hawk circled once more.

Then it was gone.

The wind stopped.

The valley was still.

The mud was dark.

The blood was dry.

Barnaby was gone.

The boy with the scar stood in the mud.

He looked at the body.

He felt nothing.

He felt no guilt. He felt no joy. He felt no fear.

He felt only the weight of the sword in his hand.

He sheathed it.

He walked to the body.

He knelt.

He took the ring from Barnaby’s finger.

It was gold. It was warm.

He put it in his pocket.

He stood up.

He walked away.

He did not look back.

The captain was waiting.

"Did you find anything else?" the captain asked.

"No," the boy said.

"Good," the captain said. "Burn the body."

"Yes, sir."

The boy lit a fire.

The wood was dry. The fire was red.

The smoke rose.

It went into the sky.

It joined the clouds.

It was gone.

The boy watched the fire.

He watched the body burn.

He watched the skin curl. He watched the bone crack.

He watched the light die.

He felt a small part of himself die with it.

He did not know what it was.

He did not care.

The war was not over.

The war would not end.

The arrows would fly.

The knives would cut.

The blood would flow.

The seers would die.

The kings would rule.

The earth would turn.

The boy stood in the cold.

The night was coming.

The stars were coming.

They were bright.

They were far.

They were indifferent.

The boy looked up.

He saw the stars.

He saw the light.

He saw the dark.

He turned away.

He walked into the dark.

He was a soldier.

He was a tool.

He was a shadow.

He was nothing.

And that was fine.

That was the truth.

The truth was simple.

The truth was cold.

The truth was hard.

The boy walked on.

The valley was silent.

The wind was gone.

The sky was clear.

The earth was still.

Barnaby was gone.

The seer was gone.

The end was here.

And it was quiet.