its grate, casting a reddish hue over the tiled floor. On a tall marble pedestal, Miro saw the box where Dzavek kept Rana.
Servants appeared to rebuild the fire. Others took away a tray with its wine cups and flask. A brief interlude of waiting came next, while Miro wondered if he had misjudged his timing. Then, the door swung open. A shadowy figure stood framed in the lamplight from the corridor.
His breath went still. This was not Valara Baussay, but a stranger. A Károvín. No, he saw traces of Veraenen blood in her features, which were translucent in the vision, like the faded ink drawings of centuries past.
I know her. She was there, when we attacked.
Her signature intensified. It was like sunlight glancing through the clouds. He watched as she hurried into the room, making directly for the marble pedestal with its open box. She had just touched the ruby when Dzavek appeared, also in the spirit. He spoke. The woman turned and answered. Their mouths moved in a silent conversation that Miro wished he could hear. He watched the turns in her expression—fearful, controlled, a brief inward look that might be grief or shame.
Events moved more quickly. Dzavek rejoined his body. Unexpectedly Valara Baussay appeared. King and queen spoke at once. Or was it brother to brother? He could not tell. The air shimmered with magic’s current, waiting only for a word …
A blinding explosion lit the room with fire. The sight was so vivid, so real, that Miro imagined he could feel a hot wind blow through his hair. Before he could react, the bright light vanished, and smoke blanketed the room, making it impossible to see.
No movement. No sign of any presence, flesh or spirit. Miro waited, unable to breathe.
At last a shadow emerged from the haze. A thin arm swept upward, its motion echoed by a trail of gray and black. Gradually the smoke dissipated, revealing the destruction wrought by that explosion.
Valara Baussay crouched at the far end of the room.
Miro released his breath. She lives. She survived.
Leos Dzavek lay crumpled on the floor. The unknown woman knelt beside him. Dzavek jerked upright. His eyes stared, unseeing, but then he stiffened and his face swiveled toward Valara Baussay. His lips were moving. He meant to summon more magic before he died. And he would die—Miro saw that plainly.
The woman touched his cheek. Dzavek flinched, turned toward her. There was a look on the king’s face that Miro had never seen before. An expectant look, as if the dark dreary centuries had dropped away, and the man saw the hope of sunrise. The woman continued to speak, her whole manner tense. He could not make out her words, but Dzavek’s gaze was fixed upon her face, as though she were sharing a last and vital clue, one important to them both.
She leaned close. Kissed him upon the lips. Miro could almost hear the king’s breath as he exhaled. He thought it was just an ordinary breath, but then the king went limp and collapsed onto the floor. The woman touched his brow. Her lips formed the words He is gone.
Around him, the cloud of magic ebbed away, leaving behind a burning smell. His torch, which guttered in his hand. By its flickering light, the room with its wreckage looked even more desolate now. Miro extinguished the torch.
For a while, he could do nothing but stare at the scene, thinking, The king is dead.
A deep, breathy note sounded, just below the surface of his thoughts. Rana’s song. Here, in the study. Miro dropped to his hands and knees and plunged his hands into the debris covering the floor. Steady, he told himself. Do not lose this chance through panic or carelessness.
He closed his eyes. In spite of his weariness, he found it easier to draw his thoughts to a single point of focus. Ei rûf ane strôm. Ei rûf ane juweln.
The current hissed and whispered.
Then, Ei bin unde was. Wir sint unde waerest unde werden.
Rana was babbling a confused chorus of tones. Each syllable merged with the next, rising in pitch until he no longer heard them, and then dropping into deep-throated chords that vibrated in the air.
The fireplace. Its song in his ears, Miro hurried to the grate and knelt. Yes. Beneath the thick ashes he saw a dark red glow. With a set of tongs, he pushed the still-hot coals aside, then drew the ruby toward himself.
The ruby’s polished surface flickered with magic. Daya. Asha. Daya.