“The Dweomer certainly has its uses.”

Afterwards they lay before the fire on a tangled mat of their discarded clothing. She rested her head on his chest whilst he stroked the small of her back, the delicate bumps of her spine. As always, the sadness hit him, the desolation of loss as he recalled Heria, and the times they had been like this. But for once he fought the feeling. He was tired of seeing only the shadow cast by every light. He esteemed this woman—there was no need to feel guilty about that. He would not feel guilty.

She raised her head and touched the tears on his face. “Time heals,” she said gently. “A cliché, but true.”

“I know. It seems endless, though. I don’t want to forget her, yet I must.”

“Not forget, Corfe. But she must not become a ghost to haunt you, either.” She paused. “Tell me about her.”

He found it incredibly hard to speak. His throat ached. His voice when it finally came out sounded harsh as a raven’s.

“There is not much to tell. She was the daughter of a silk merchant in the city—Aekir, I mean—and she ran the business for him. As the junior officer of my regiment, I was colour-bearer, responsible for our banners, which were of silk, like the Merduks’. They needed replacing, so I was sent to this merchant’s house, and there she was.”

“And there she was,” Odelia repeated quietly. “She never came out of Aekir, then?”

“No. I looked for her after the walls were overrun, deserted my post to try and find her, but our home was already behind the Merduk lines and that part of the city was burning. I was caught up in the flood of refugees, borne along the Western Road. I wanted to die, but did my best to live. I don’t know why. I just hope it was quick, for her. I have pictures in my mind . . .” He could speak no longer. His body had become rigid in Odelia’s arms. She felt the bottled-up sobs quiver through his frame, but he made not a sound and when she looked at his face at last she saw that he was dry-eyed again. There was a glitter in those eyes that chilled her, a light of pure hatred. But it faded, and he smiled at the concern on her face.

“I am glad of this,” he said haltingly. “I am glad of you, lady. Time heals, perhaps, but you do also.” And he pulled her closer.

She finally admitted it to herself. She was in love with him. The knowledge shook her, rendered her abruptly unsure of herself. She found herself hating the memory of his dead wife, envying a ghost for its hold on him. All her life, she had schemed and plotted and fucked to further her ambitions, to safeguard this kingdom. And she realized now that she would walk away from it—palace, kingdom, velvet robes and all—if he asked her to. She felt dizzied with fear and exhilaration in equal measure.

“Is there hope for us?” she asked him.

“I think so. If we hit them hard enough, quickly enough, and Berza’s fleet does its job down on the coast, they must withdraw. We will have won time, and a little space. But even so, it will not be over. Come spring, we will see the decisive battle.”

It was not what she had meant, but she was glad he had misunderstood her. It was near dawn, and he had come quite far enough for one night.

 

D AWN in Torunna was the sixth hour of the long winter night in Hebrion. Isolla paced the Royal bedchamber impatiently. Golophin was late, which was unlike him. If she opened the screens and peered out of the balcony she would be able to see the lights and merrymaking which had been going on throughout the night in the former monastery on the hilltop opposite the palace. A ball was being thrown there for the assembled nobility. It had been no great wrench on her part to turn down her invitation, but the faint, tinny clamour of the music penetrated even this room and intruded on her thoughts, irritating. She was beginning to doubt her role in this, and even found herself thinking nostalgically of the Astaran court, and especially her brother, Mark. What was she to do, send him a letter saying “I want to come home,” for all the world like a child sent away to a strange school? Her pride would never let her recover. So she paced the room with her long, mannish stride, and thought.

The click of the secret doorway stopped her dead. The section of wall slid inwards, and Golophin appeared. He smiled at her. “My apologies for being late, lady.”

“It doesn’t matter.” There was something different about him. Something—

“Golophin!” she cried. “Your eye, it’s healed.”

He raised a hand to his face. “So it is.”

“Have you recovered your powers?”

He stood before her. He had changed. His bones had fleshed out and he stood somehow taller. He looked twenty years younger than when she had last seen him, scant hours ago. But something was amiss. She could have sworn that he was confused—no, more than that. He was frightened.

“Golophin, are you all right?”

“I suppose I am. Very much so. I am wholly restored, Isolla.” Bale-fire clicked into life above his head, lighting the gloomy room. At the same time, every unlit candle in the chamber suddenly fizzled into flame.

“But that’s wonderful!” Isolla exclaimed.

The old wizard shrugged. “It is. It is, indeed.”

“What’s wrong? You should be overjoyed. You will be able to heal the King. Our troubles are over.”

“I don’t know how it happened!” he shouted, shocking her.

“You don’t? But . . . How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, lady, and my ignorance is driving me mad. Something happened to me this night, but I can remember nothing of it.”

“It’s like a miracle.”

“I don’t believe in them,” he said darkly. “Enough. This is not the time or place.” He rubbed his eyes. “I must go to work at once, if this damn council of theirs is to be thwarted. They’ll be voting on the regency tomorrow afternoon. Forgive me my bluntness, lady. I am somewhat out of order.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just heal him.”

He nodded and sighed as if exhausted, though he was fairly crackling with energy. Even the wattles below his chin had tightened and disappeared. She longed to pose question after question, but remained mute. They repaired to the King’s bedside. Golophin looked down on the unconscious, mutilated form, and seemed to calm. He glanced around. “What have we here to work with? Not a lot. We are in too much haste.” He stroked the heavy wood of the bedposts. “It will do for now, I suppose.” He turned to Isolla. “Lady, I need you to hold the King’s hands. Whatever you see, whatever he does, you must not let them go. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly,” she lied.

“Very well. Then let us draw up some chairs and begin.”

She took Abeleyn’s hands. They were hot and feverish, but the King’s face was as still as that of a wax image. The sheets, though changed daily, were soaked with sweat. The King seemed to be burning away like a hearth of coals with a bellows feeding them.

Golophin closed his eyes and sat as motionless as his King. Nothing happened. A quarter of an hour went by. Isolla longed to change her posture, stretch her neck, but she dared not move. She had been prepared for lightnings, thunder, a blaze of theurgy or a chattering of summoned demons—something. But there was only the stifling room, the weird flicker of the bale-fire, the wizard’s composed face.

And then the creak of wood. She started as the bed began to tremble and shake. The canopy overhead billowed like a ship’s sail. It cracked and flapped, the heavy drapes whipping her across the face, and then the whole thing took off and tumbled end over end across the room.

The bedposts, thick carved baulks of timber as wide as her thigh, began shrinking. She gaped at them. They were disappearing from the top down. It was like watching the hugely accelerated work of termites. They had been taller than a man—now they were dwindling foot by foot as she watched.