Falana peeled off her jacket and blouse. She cut a long strand of hair, and despite the biting wind that lashed her from shoulder to hip, she shaped a loop, using two long hairs to suspend the Fire of Skanderbek from about her throat.
She knelt, posed by sure instinct, head flung back, and the monstrous ruby all ablaze against her white skin. The lower end of the six-sided crystal barely dipped into the shadow of her breasts.
The Venusian images of memory were blotted out, and with them, the great white orb as well. Falana became all women in one, yet remaining all the while wholly herself.
Verrill's face, or her own instinct, told her when to end the tableau. She slipped into her jacket and went into the shadow beside him. She caught him in her arms, to pillow him better than had the rocks and the saddle-bags that had softened them. And then Verrill went on his long road, and entirely content, for he had in his way done with the Fire of Skanderbek as he had planned.
Not long after sunrise, a handful of Ardelan's men came along from the new valley. They had routed the raiders. Somewhere, they told Falana, there had been several shots, which had alerted them.
"The shots Verrill fired," they concluded, having seen and understood from the face of things.
She gave them no time to wonder about her presence. "He was going to stay for days and days with the people Ardelan was sending into the new valley. I made him take me with him. So I was here when he killed his enemy, the one with whom he had a feud."
Despite their grief at losing their doctor, the mountaineers forgot none of their ways. Methodically, they took the gear from the dead horse, and stripped the dead enemy, leaving nothing but vulture bait. And among the things they found in his clothes was the Fire of Skanderbek.
"The gods told Verrill," Falana said. "But not all, and not in time. Only enough to send him where he would meet the thief."
They studied his face, and one said, "It is clear that the gods welcomed him when he took their road."