“Well, then, in the meantime, Olaf, perhaps you should concern yourself with calmly clearing the king’s liquor cabinet,” Queen Nor sniped. “If Xander drives himself to madness, then he will fulfill the Prophecy all by himself.”

The queen did not wait for a response. She left the observatory and turned in the opposite direction from that of Xander.

TWELVE

Everson smelled tobacco. Not the acrid assault of smoke, but the warm, rich aroma of well-cured leaves. It was the first sensation to pierce the heavy cowl of his unconsciousness, even before he became aware of the insistent yellow glow that permeated his closed eyelids.

His eyes fluttered open only to find his field of vision almost entirely blocked by the Tinderbox. Then, like a hanged man jerking to a stop beneath the gallows, the orb dropped into the scant space between him and the Tinderbox. He was not yet beyond flinching at such antics, and the little surge of adrenaline he felt cut through the lingering effects of sleep. The orb hovered a hair’s breadth from his face, in a fashion now familiar to Everson, with little consideration for his personal space. It seemed to stare at him in concern, and he had the undeniable impression that it was assessing his health.

Then it winked out of sight, leaving Everson to stare at the Tinderbox. Obviously, the orb had returned it to him, emphasizing, it would seem, his ownership of it. The last thing he remembered before passing out from pain was an annoying buzz filling his head, matching the fuzziness of his eyesight. At the time, he recalled, he had thought it was a by-product of the blow to his head delivered by the elder guard. Now he realized, it must have been the orb, but how it had been summoned, he didn’t know. How long had it then hovered over him, guarding him? And what else had it done?

After a moment of hazy recollection, Everson realized that something was not quite right. It wasn’t just the quality of the light, it was its direction. It was low, as it had been when he passed out, but now it came from behind him with the unmistakable starkness of morning. Everson had been unconscious for the entire night.

He roused himself gingerly, acutely aware of his injuries and grudgingly thankful for the military conditioning that had honed his resilience. Rising stiffly to his feet, Everson glanced at the enigmatic Tinderbox and, once again, mused wryly that instructions would have been helpful.

“Destiny omniscient guides,” he snorted. “Omniscient, maybe. Guidance, no.” He scooped up his dubious prize and returned it securely to his satchel.

Now that he was standing, the orb’s industry was painfully evident.