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.

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—”