“I’m on my last legs, Michael,” Prataxis said. “I never thought it would come to this when I came here. Who attacks dons of the Rebsamen?” He tried to chuckle. It came out a pathetic gurgle. “Stay with her, Michael. Guide her. Your organization is almost a shadow government. Use it. For Kavelin’s sake.”

Michael sighed. “Don’t put that on me, Derel.”

“Was all your work in vain? Have you spent so many years building just to walk away? You can lighten the winds of change and soften the coming night. Don’t walk away. But be careful. There will be dreadful people near her.”

“All right,” Michael said. “All right.” He didn’t mean it at the moment. He was just saying what a dying man wanted to hear. But even then, way back in his mind, there was a part of him which still believed in the dream.

“Thank you, Michael. Now I feel I won’t have died entirely in vain.”

“Die? Who’s going to die? You’ll be up and around in a few days.”

“Don’t be a fool, Michael. I’d be dead now if I hadn’t been determined to see you before I go.”

Yes, Michael thought. He could see Derel’s reserves going as he talked. He didn’t have long.

“Michael, do one more thing for me.”

“Name it.”

“In my quarters. In the big cedar chest at the foot of my bed. All my notes and manuscripts. All the drawings I did with Varthlokkur …they’re more precious than gold, Michael. Get them back to the Rebsamen.” A pleading note had entered Prataxis’s voice. He was begging that his life’s work be preserved.

How could Michael deny him? “You’ve got it.” And this promise he meant to keep. “They’ll be gone before dawn.”

“Thank you, Michael. You’re a good friend. Doctor, I’m finished now.”

Wachtel gestured toward the door. “He’d rather it happened privately.”

Michael nodded, began retreating.

Prataxis went before Michael got out, a last, soft, “Gods save the King,” drifting over his dry lips.

Michael walked alone for a long time, thinking. Prataxis had been his last friend here. He was alone in a hostile land now, surrounded by the growing might of people who hated him. He wouldn’t survive long if he stayed and tried to fight the good fight.

He wasn’t afraid. Death held no terrors for him. But he was lonely, and loneliness was a foe he did not know how to defeat.

Eventually he went down to Prataxis’s quarters and prepared the man’s manuscripts for shipment.

It was there, deep in the night, with lightning stalking the heavens and a hard rain driving into the streets, that Inger’s messenger found him. “The Queen would like you to join her in the audience chamber, Captain. Planning session, she said.”