“See to it, General,” he said like a sigh. “As soon as you can. When we return to the Open Hand.” If Rile had not burned the entire city— “Elgart knows where the el-Algreb live. And the library must have maps.”

Considering the difficulties, Klamath answered, “As you say, Majesty. Suti al-Suri’s people have given us their lives. We will do whatever we can to aid them.”

Even if the smithies remained intact, the forges would be cold. The substances the alchemists needed to make gunpowder might have been scattered. And most of the Hand’s people had left for Amika.

Already half asleep, Bifalt said, “Then recall Commander Forguile.” Estie could do that. “Send him and his men to the el-Algreb. They can defend our allies until my promise is kept.”

He wanted to say more. He had other questions. But his need to sleep outweighed them.

The next time he saw Queen Estie, he was out of bed. Wearing a simple linen shift, he was learning how to walk again.

A monk attended him, a shy woman who identified herself as Fifth Daughter. She kept one hand on his arm, but gently, encouraging him to awaken his muscles and rediscover his balance. To distract himself from his weakness, he had been asking her vague questions. Without raising her eyes, she had informed him that life in the Last Repository went on. Teachers, students, scribes, and servants, all had returned to their tasks. Efforts to repair the damage of the final Decimate had begun. At the same time, the Farsighted kept watch on the survivors of the Great God’s armies. If they could be helped, the librarian did not mean to let them die in the desert. In a darker mood, Magister Threnody intended to respond if the infantrymen began forming bands to raid and kill.

Bifalt did not inquire how the librarian would respond—or who the Farsighted were. He simply wanted to hear Fifth Daughter’s voice. It helped him put one bare foot in front of the other.

Estie’s arrival banished everything else. Bifalt shed the monk’s grasp, tottered toward his wife. He had to put his hands on her shoulders to catch his balance. He might have dared to kiss her. But she had Commander Crayn with her. He held back.

She hugged him quickly, fiercely, then withdrew to study his face. The lamplight shone in her eyes like tears.

“Majesty.” The Commander produced a formal Amikan bow. He had left his weapons behind. Under one arm, he carried a book. “Accept my gratitude. You have given us a great gift. Your recovery makes it complete.”

Bifalt flinched, acutely aware of his frailty. He had earned no one’s gratitude. He had not earned his place as Belleger’s King. He had been born to it. He had simply tried to prove worthy of his father—and perhaps of his wife.