Micum put an arm around her, but his gaze was on the wizard as he said, “Don’t fret, love. If anyone can, it’s Thero.”

The phial lay safely in the center of the table, on the map of Rhiminee still spread out there with the coins on it.

Valerius carefully picked up the bottle and held it a moment, frowning. “You really believe the soul of Illia Cavish is in here? And yet her body is still alive.”

“We can have that debate later,” said Thero. “Micum, would you and Alec clear the floor for me?”

They pulled back the carpet, uncovering the smudged remains of the last circle. Working on hands and knees, Thero slowly inscribed a larger one. When he was done Micum carried Illia from the bedroom. She looked smaller, younger, more vulnerable, lying against her father’s shoulder in the oversized nightshirt.

Micum laid her in the wizard’s lap, then handed him the phial. Thero reached out and wrote one last symbol, closing the circle.

The critical moment had arrived, and the others stood around in tense silence as he broke the seal.

Thero sent up a silent prayer to Illior Lightbearer, then murmured the spell of intent. The energy rose more slowly than usual in him, but he pressed on. He had to do this, and he would, at any cost. With that spell complete, he pried the cork from the bottle. At once a white plume of spirit surged from it like steam from a boiling kettle and swirled around him in a mist. No one in the room said a word.

“Illia, can you hear me?” he asked.

There was no face in the mist this time, but he heard the faint sound of crying, then a whispered Thero?

“Yes, Illia! Can you see me?”

Yes, and Mother and Father and Elsbet. And Uncle Seregil and Uncle Alec. There was a pause, then And I see me. Am I dead, Thero?

“No! You just need to go back into yourself, that’s all. Can you do that, Illia?”

Illia made no reply, but after a few agonizing moments the mist began to thin, then disappeared altogether. The girl stirred in his arms and looked up at him in alarm. “Am I still not dead?”

Thero hugged her. “You’re fine, Illia. Welcome back!”

He cut the circle and Micum hoisted his daughter in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks. Kari and Elsbet clung to them, weeping with joy and relief.

Thero rose unsteadily to his feet, and a wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed him. As the edges of his vision went dark, he found himself supported on either side by Alec and Seregil.

“Well done, my friend.” Seregil’s voice was hoarse, but he and Alec were both grinning like madmen. “I think this may qualify you for uncle status, too.”

CHAPTER 46. Phoria's Return

ON a crisp, cold morning, the twentieth day of Rhythin, Princess Klia, Marshal of the Queen’s Armies, arrived at the north gate of the city, not at the head of the regiments but with a small bodyguard and a covered catafalque drawn by glossy black horses.

Alec stood with Seregil and Thero among the privileged nobility on one of the red-and-gold-draped platforms that had been set up outside the gates. Elani stood with Korathan in the open gateway, surrounded by the highest-ranking members of the court.

There had been a good deal of speculation as to how Klia would present herself to the young queen-to-be. Although Elani was the queen now, the formal coronation and succession rites could not be performed without the Sword of Gherilain.

Elani was dressed in a flowing black gown and the gold-chased ceremonial breastplate Alec had seen Idrilain, and then Phoria, wear. An empty sword belt hung around her hips. Her head was bare except for a diamond-and-ruby circlet.

As Klia neared the gate, Alec could see that she had a sheathed long sword slung across her saddlebow.

“Beka and Nyal aren’t with her,” he whispered in dismay.

“They’re still in Plenimar,” Seregil whispered back.

Still some twenty yards from where Elani stood, Klia reined in and dismounted. Taking the sheathed sword down from the saddle, she walked the rest of the way until she

stood before Elani. Without a word, she knelt and placed the sword in Elani’s hands. Elani slid it into her sword belt, then extended her hand and brought Klia to her feet. In front of the assembled throng, she kissed her aunt on both cheeks, then embraced her. Despite the gravity of the occasion, people broke into cheers at the sight. The succession was secure. Korathan embraced Klia next, then Aralain. The four of them, Phoria’s heir and the last of Idrilain’s children, walked to the catafalque. Soldiers lifted aside the wooden cover, revealing the dead queen.

The drysians had done their work well, preserving the body from decomposition on its long journey by sea and land. Phoria lay on a raised bier, dressed in her uniform and cape, boots, and gorget. Her grey-blond hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, hands folded on her breast. Her face was gaunt, but peaceful.

A hush fell over the crowd and people went to their knees as Elani and the others silently accompanied Phoria through the gates of her city for the last time. Inside, they mounted horses and continued slowly through the Harvest Market and on down Silvermoon to the Palace, with Alec and the other nobles walking behind the court.

Every foot of the route was lined with crowds of citizens, come to pay their respects to the fallen and the victor, many holding candles and victory wreaths swathed in black silk. Like a great wave, they fell to their knees when the catafalque and the new queen passed.

At the gates of the palace grounds the courtiers continued in, while the lesser nobles went their separate ways. Retrieving their horses, Alec and the others set off for Wheel Street.

Thero wiped his eyes. “She was a hard woman by all accounts but such a warrior! At least she died a good death.”

“Such a short reign,” Seregil noted. “But this marks the beginning of a new era for Skala, I think-a kind and gracious queen and peace. What will we do with ourselves, eh?”

CHAPTER 47. Watermead

SEREGIL sat with Micum on the wall of the sheepfold, watching Alec and Illia petting the spring lambs. In the distance herds of still-shaggy horses gamboled and grazed in verdant, rolling meadows.

The two men didn’t talk; watching Illia play and listening to a murder of crows palavering in a nearby tree was enough. The sound of singing drifted to them from the house, where Kari and the household women were doing laundry, and laughter and chatter from the kitchen garden, where Luthas and Gherin had been sent to pull turnips. Seregil felt splendidly content.

Just then they heard the distant sound of horses from the highroad, and saw a cloud of dust rising over the treetops.

“The army is back at last,” Seregil noted.

“Thank the Flame and Light!” Micum exclaimed softly. “What do you say we ride down to meet them and see if Beka and Nyal are with them?”

“I’ll come with you,” said Alec.

“Me, too!” exclaimed Illia, jumping nimbly over the sheepfold gate.

Before they could saddle their horses, however, they heard the sound of riders on the river road, coming on at a gallop. As they watched from the front courtyard, eight riders came over the hill from the river bridge. Though Seregil couldn’t make out faces, Beka’s coppery red hair shone like a banner in the sunlight. All but two were wearing the green-and-white tabards of Beka’s regiment.

“It’s Beka and Nyal!” Illia shouted as she ran to meet them.

Micum slapped Seregil on the back so hard he nearly knocked him over. “Come on, Uncle Seregil. Let’s go meet the prodigals.”

The whole household came running into the courtyard as Beka and the others rode up. She hopped lightly down from the saddle and ran to embrace her parents and siblings. Nyal and the others dismounted and Seregil saw with surprise that among the other riders were Princess Klia, dressed in the royal red of command, and Thero in the finest riding outfit Seregil had ever seen him wear. As Marshal of the Armies, Klia had gone back to Plenimar for the winter to oversee the encampment and spring homecoming. Thero must have ridden out to meet her.