“Sire?” Her softly spoken call boomed in the suffocating stillness. She yelped at the sudden ghostly touch on her arm.

“Peace, Imogen. I’m here.”

As if his words broke a sleeping spell, flames erupted from torches lining lime-washed walls. The light beat back a hovering gloom to reveal a vast presentation chamber fallen to disuse. Dust blanketed every surface in a thick shroud. Tables and chairs lay overturned and scattered throughout the hall, as if a great brawl had erupted and the fighters used the furniture as weaponry. A grand throne, perched atop a pyramid of narrow stairs resided over the ruin. High above, the swoop of an arched ceiling, buttressed by massive wood beams, flickered and faded in the dance of shadows. Where the glass of tall windows once filtered light, only open sills remained, revealing the drift of gray clouds across the night sky.

“This was your home?”

“It is still my home.”

Imogen winced. Damn her and her careless tongue! She wasn’t used to conversing with others besides Niamh, and it showed. She bowed. “I meant no offense.”

“None taken.” He touched her arm again, and this time she didn’t automatically jerk away. “Follow me. There’s a chamber upstairs you can use while you’re here.”

He led her through the hall and up a spiral of stairs to a long gallery still roofed. Faded murals of landscapes and people decorated the walls. Torches flared to life as they passed, lit by unseen hands, and Imogen wondered how easy it was to get lost in the king’s palace. They finally stopped before a set of ornately carved doors that opened silently at Cededa’s touch.

More torches lit, and Imogen gasped at the neglected splendor before her. Murals and chipped gilt decorated the walls and wood molding. Scenes of palace life captured the eye, chief among them scenes of a wedding between a royal bride and a Tineroth king, a grand marriage of state attended by thousands. Time had not been kind to the mural, nor had the human hand. The king's face had been obliterated by the harsh battering of a chisel. The queen's features, still lovely despite the faded paint, remained untouched.

A large bed, its frame rotted and collapsed on one side stood against the far wall. The mattress had disintegrated, chewed away by nesting mice. A single chair, still intact, occupied space near the cold hearth. The musty smell blanketing the chamber lightened with the cooling breeze drifting in from two broken windows.

Imogen didn’t care about the neglect. She’d been prepared to sleep outside on the ground. Now, she had shelter—a roof over her head and some measure of protection from the elements. As it was, she was so tired from her journey and the shock of actually finding the Undying King, she’d happily sleep on the floor, wrapped in her cloak.

Cededa gestured toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll return with fresh water to drink and more to wash off the road dirt.” He looked to the pack tied to her back. “Do you still have rations? If not, I can hunt.”