I take Alua’s hand and place it upon the open wound.
“Call upon your white flame,” I tell her. “Close this wound, Alua.”
Her look says I will try. She has no confidence. She remembers Vireon, but she has lost the deep love they shared.
Pale light slips from the skin of her palm, sinking into Vireon’s gouged flesh. It erupts into a dancing flame, like the blue Flame of Intellect dancing on my own chest. Alua’s power burns without heat. The torn flesh sears and blends, knitting itself back together. When Alua removes her hand, the wound has closed, leaving only a great scar stretching from sternum to navel.
Sharadza breathes a sigh of relief behind me. I touch the new flesh of the scar. Vireon’s skin is still pale. Still cold. I feel no heart beating in his chest. His eyes do not flutter.
“Will he live?” Sharadza asks. Her hand trembles on my shoulder.
I must tell her the truth. If he dies it is my fault. I cannot compound my crime with a lie.
“The wound is closed and the flesh is whole,” I say. “Yet the blade of Zyung tore through spirit as well as body. I fear the damage is greater than we can see.”
“What does that mean?” Sharadza asks. There is panic in her voice. Desperation. Love.
“It means we must wait,” I tell her. I hold her hands and bring my face as close to hers as I dare. Her eyes are drowning emeralds. “Alua’s presence may call him back. Or his soul may have wandered too far away from his flesh. It may be too late.”
“How long?” she asks. Always one for impossible questions.
“I cannot say. But I will not leave his side. And I will do what I can to aid him. I promise you. Try to get some rest.”
“I’ll not leave this room,” she says.
I ask an Uduri to bring a cot for her. It takes a while, but I convince Sharadza to lie upon it and sleep next to her brother’s bed. Alua sits near Vireon, his hand in her own. This reminds me of Dahrima, who did the same before we arrived. She stands now among the rest of the spearmaidens, but she does not share their icy detachment. Her eyes are red with weeping. I see the worry that obscures her face like a gray mask. I see also that Vireon is far more than a King in Dahrima’s heart.
Servants bring us wine and food. The drink eases my vigil, but the quiet of the chamber weighs upon me like a set of chains. Alua whispers to Vireon, speaking of wildflowers and snowy hillsides. Her voice and touch may be what he needs to bring him back to us.
I watch and wait. Sharadza and Vaazhia sleep.
As I pour another cup of wine, the chamber doors swing open yet again. A wounded warrior stands there. I recognize him as D’zan of Yaskatha when he shuffles into the light of flaming braziers. He moves slowly as an old man, though he is in the prime of his life. Bandages cover his arms and legs, chest and waist. Another dressing winds about his forehead, pushing back his mane of thick blond hair. I am glad to see him alive, yet the number of his wounds is appalling. The great blade of Olthacus the Stone still hangs upon his back. The weapon seems to weigh him down like a yoke of iron, yet his eyes gleam bright as candles. He has come to see his Queen.
“She sleeps,” I tell him. I offer him a chair at the table where attendants have placed pomegranates, pears, and a roasted pheasant with black bread. He bends to kiss Sharadza’s cheek without waking her, then he sits painfully. His jaw is clean-shaven, and in the absence of a beard he looks as young as a teenager. Yet the lines of worry and pain lend wisdom to his handsome face. His green eyes are troubled, restless, and distant.
“You were right,” D’zan says, cradling the cup of wine in his hands but not drinking. “The sea battle was sheer folly. We never stood a chance.”
“Undutu has paid the price for his warrior’s pride,” I say. “I could not make him listen. Khama was swept away by that same pride.”
D’zan’s face tightens. “Along with several thousand lives,” he says. “What of Vireon? Will he recover?”
“That remains to be seen.”
D’zan drinks. Words flood from his mouth while tears crawl down his cheeks. “All those men burned and drowned to gain nothing. I could have said no to Undutu. You speak of his deadly pride, yet I am as guilty of it. I should have died with my warriors. Every ship was lost and I could do nothing about it. Nothing but watch them burn and sink.”
I say nothing. D’zan needs to tell of these things. He needs me to listen.
“When the Kingspear went down, I went with it,” he says. “My armor dragged me to the bottom of the sea. I struggled to remove it, knowing I would drown before I could do so. I held my breath as long as I could, fumbling with the straps of my corslet. I even cast aside my crown. I did not want to die, but eventually I had no more breath left. All about me dying men bubbled out their last bit of air and twitched like beached fish. I thought my life was over. My lungs were fit to burst, and still I could not get the metal off my body. Panic had numbed my fingers and made them clumsy.