Walda the Wise
He was the last. He was last of the queen's special group of healers, the gaggle of five misfits she had collected in her first year. He stood on the scoured mountain top while the ceaseless wind whipped his Mabon fire. Sandar had died of old age years ago. Then Kal and Venin died in the war in the same year, one in winter and one in summer. The last was just this year. Galean the Fair, they had called her. She was the best of them all, now she was gone. Now, the apprentices called him Walda the Wise. As if being the last somehow meant he was wiser than the others. Ridiculous notion. Walda watched the fire crackle and found little in this year's equinox to give him balance. It should have been a time of harmony and setting new intentions. He should be thankful for the harvest and the new peace after so much war. He was the last. It kept weighing on his thoughts. Walda could still see them all around the first Mabon fire. Young (except Sandar) and full of vigor, a li...