Someone he did not see slipped an arm under his shoulders, lifted him a bit, set pillows to support him. The lip of a flagon nudged his mouth. He tasted something ripe and soothing, tried to swallow it. One sip enabled another. It eased his raw throat.

Panting, he leaned on the pillows.

“You will live, King,” murmured the monk. “I am pleased to say it. And more pleased to acknowledge that you have surpassed yourself yet again. My expectations were high. You have flown higher.”

None of that made sense. But since Third Father mentioned expectations, Bifalt expected himself to ask, “And you?”

The monk seemed to smile. “It is not for me to say. But as it is you who ask, King, I will confess that I believe so. For a moment, I was more than I imagined myself to be.”

Bifalt may have nodded. But he had already lost the thread of Third Father’s reply. He had a more compelling concern.

With an effort, he cleared his throat. “Estie?”

Third Father sighed, a comforting sound. “The Queen is well, King. More than well. Her straits have been difficult. Yet she, too, has surpassed herself.

“She has spent many hours at your side. She will be saddened that she missed this moment of awakening. But she and the lib—”

The monk stopped himself. “Forgive me, King. You may not be aware that Sirjane Marrow is dead. The librarian is now Magister Beatrix Threnody. You will not call her arrogant.”

Then he resumed. “The Queen was called away. She and the librarian preside over a remembrance of the dead and a celebration of the living. It will be a lengthy ceremony. There are too many names, the dead and the living, and none should be forgotten.

“I was asked to attend. But I am near the end of my days, and my strength fades. I prefer to sit with you for a time.”

Bifalt retained parts of Third Father’s explanation. Other details slipped into the gulf where his recent memories should have been. But Estie was well. That was the important thing.

He went back to sleep.

When he awoke again, he had no idea how much time had passed. He lay in an unfamiliar bed. The lamplit chamber was strange to him. But he recalled a bit more of who he was. Scraps of events drifted at the edges of coherence. The same vagueness afflicted his vision.

Estie’s voice drew him toward her. It seemed to give him meaning.

“Welcome, my lord King.” She had lost none of her sweetness. “Third Father sent word that you have begun to rouse. I came as soon as I could.”

He blinked again and again. The blurring of his sight resembled the smear of sorcery that the priests had used against him. He hated it.

Through the haze, she looked inexpressibly weary. But as soon as he managed to croak “My lady,” she became radiant. Lights sparkled in her soft eyes. Her smile lifted everything around her.