At other times, the Queen was busy elsewhere, consulting with the librarian and Magister Oblique, or ensuring the comfort of riflemen, el-Algreb, and Magisters who needed nothing more than rest and good food. She also visited the infirmary and the field hospital to show her support for everyone there, whether or not they had once been her foes. And she spoke at length with General Klamath, Elgart, and Prince Jaspid. She could not hear them. Her gift had been restored. But with the aid of Crayn’s signs and gestures, she pieced together their explanations of how and why they had come to be where they were needed most. Later, she addressed Chancellor Sikthorn in Maloresse, telling him what had happened—and what to expect.

But her first thoughts every day, and her last, were for Bifalt. She knew now that he would live. Still, too much between them remained unresolved. She wanted him to wake.

When he finally opened his eyes, they refused to focus. He recognized the blur of lamplight, walls at strange angles, a chamber of some kind. Nothing else. There was an emptiness in his mind, a gulf that swallowed comprehension.

His arms lay outside whatever covered him. Blankets? He was not sure. Hoping for something familiar, he lifted his arms a little, peered at his hands. But they were little more than vague shapes. They told him nothing. He closed his eyes again.

Wondering what had been done to him, he became aware that his face felt parched. A familiar sensation. He had experienced something similar long ago, when Set Ungabwey had abandoned him in the desert. But this was worse. His face and arms had been scalded.

He did not understand.

He imagined touching his face, exploring it. The fingers of his left hand refused. They were trapped somehow. He used his right.

That was not his face. He recognized the pressure of his touch. The dull burning lingered. His fingers increased it. Nevertheless his features were wrong. He found slick patches covered with grains like sand scattered on oil. They had a peculiar smell. They did not fit him. And his beard—

He remembered his beard. He had kept it cropped short, but he knew it.

It was gone.

Trembling a little, he explored farther. Eyebrows? No. On his head? The same dull burning, but no hair.

Who am I now? He wanted an answer, but there was no one he could ask.

“Your hair will grow again, King,” offered a familiar voice gently. “Your flesh will heal. You may not resemble yourself for a few days. But the gifts of the shamans are remarkable. Soon you will recognize your reflection.”

A tug of memory encouraged Bifalt to reopen his eyes. Turning his head, he made out an indistinct shape that made him think of Third Father.

He tried to ask, Father? No sound came. The muscles of his throat were as useless as his left hand.