fighter when the battle is on the line.”
This man might not have personally ended the Bane’s existence, but he was no less remarkable than his brother.
She reached out and took his hands in hers. “She was the bravest mage I have ever met. You and she both have my eternal gratitude.”
Vasudev Kashkari gazed upon her a moment. “And you ours. Never forget that.”
The story of the Bane’s death was released that evening. Iolanthe read it in her copy of The Delamer Observer, fascinated even though she already knew everything. The article, which occupied nearly the entirety of the paper, ended with,
For their safety and the safety of their families, all who played important roles in these remarkable events have not been mentioned by name. To their extraordinary courage and sacrifice we owe our undying gratitude.
For the next forty-eight hours, the entire city was wild with celebration. And then came the state funeral. Dalbert had secured Iolanthe and West an empty reception room at Titus the Great Memorial Museum, next to the cathedral. They arrived as the sun was setting, the windows of the cathedral ablaze in the dying light of the day. An enormous crush of mages, quiet, sober, and all dressed in white, thronged the length of Palace Avenue.
West’s fractured leg had already healed. He could have gone back to England, but he’d wished to attend the funeral. While they waited for the procession to start, they chatted about his plans, hers, and all the marvelous things he had seen in the Domain. Then she said, “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“You were quite interested in the prince, at the beginning of last—no, this Half. It used to make me a bit suspicious. I wondered whether you weren’t an Atlantean spy—but you aren’t. So why did you have so many questions about His Highness?”
A little color came into West’s face. “I first saw him on the Fourth of June, when his family set up court underneath that huge white canopy. He was beautiful and angry. And, well . . .” West shrugged. “I thought of him all summer.”
Iolanthe rested her fingers against her lips. “I never guessed in that direction.”
“Promise me you won’t tell him.”
She was about to reassure him that Titus would hardly change his opinion of West because of something like this, when she realized that it was simply the request of a proud young man who preferred to keep his unrequited love to himself. “I promise.”
As the first stars appeared in the sky, the hundreds of torches that had been placed along Palace Avenue burst into flames. The ethereal notes of the Seraphim Prayer rose, almost inaudible at first, then growing stronger, more impassioned. The funeral procession started from the Citadel, the biers that bore the departed not drawn by pegasus, or even phoenix, but carried on the shoulders of mages.
The crowd joined in the prayer, hundreds of thousands of voices raised together. “Do you leave as a ship sailing out of harbor? Do you return as rain to the earth? Will I guide you in the Beyond, if I hold aloft the brightest light here on earth?”
Five biers arrived at the plaza before the cathedral: Amara, Wintervale, Titus Constantinos, Mrs. Hancock, and Master Haywood—these last two represented by lifelike wooden statues. The Master of the Domain was one of the bearers of his father’s bier, the Kashkari brothers for Amara, Lady Wintervale for her son, and Commander Rainstone for Mrs. Hancock. Iolanthe was touched to see Dalbert as a bearer for Master Haywood.
The departed were set on their pyres. The prayer rose to a crescendo, then faded into complete silence. The Master of the Domain, solemn and compelling, addressed the crowd. “Before you lie courage, perseverance, kindness, friendship, and love. Before you lie men and women who could have chosen otherwise, who could have inured themselves to the injustices of the world, rather than giving their lives to change it. Tonight we honor them. Tonight we also honor all who have gone before and paved the way, the ones we remember and the ones we have forgotten.
“But nothing is lost in Eternity. A moment of grace resonates forever, as does an act of valor. So honor the dead—and live in grace and valor.”
One by one he lit the pyres. The flames leaped higher and higher, whipping, crackling. A child’s voice, as clear and bright as the Angels’ clarion, rose with the opening notes of the Adamantine aria, “For what is the Void but the