“And what of Khirro?” Therrador asked, his neck straining to hold his head up and look at Emeline.
“Khirro has gone on to the next life.”
“And the magician?”
Emeline looked around, noticing for the first time that the battle had not resumed. The dragon, the tyger, the Archon’s death had taken the fight out of the living, and the dead were staying dead. Kanosee soldiers retired from the field of battle as Erechanians tended their fallen comrades.
“He is gone, too.”
Therrador let his head drop back to the ground. “But the kingdom is saved. Because of Prince Graymon.”
The boy raised his head from his father’s chest. “Iana-”
“She’s fine, see?” Emeline said kneeling beside him. “Here, you can hold her for a moment. It seems the two of you are friends now.”
Graymon stood and Emeline placed the baby in his arms. He cradled her close to him, both of them smiling. Emeline looked at the king.
“Can you move at all?” she asked leaning close and keeping her voice quiet so Graymon wouldn’t hear.
“Nothing below my neck.”
Emeline nodded and looked up. To her right, a man clad in Erechanian armor was dragging the body of another soldier out of a pile of the dead. She waved her hands over her head and called out.
“Help us. Please help us. The king is injured.”
The soldier let the dead man’s body fall to the ground and rushed across the scorched ground to their aid.
Chapter Thirty-One
Khirro blinked.
The cerulean sky stretched away above him, unspoiled, unmarred, cloudless. He saw nothing but endless blue and realized there was nothing but the sky-no smells, no sounds, nothing.
Smells returned first, all of them familiar-grass and earth, the fragrances of flowers and trees; the scents of his life that had always been present.
The farm, then. I’m on the farm.
But that didn’t ring true. He felt warmth on his face and a lightness to his body; memories seemed faint, distant, as though seen through the wrong end of an eyeglass. It couldn’t be the farm, he’d left home long ago…but for where?
Sound crept back into Khirro’s world: the sigh of wind through grass, the creak of a tree limb, the beat of his heart, the sound of his breath. The sounds prodded Khirro’s mind and memories came back to him like a butterfly alighting on the petals of a flower. Consciousness returned, gently, lovingly.
He turned his head and saw the grass, impossibly green; in the other direction stood a tree, its limbs outstretched as though it cradled the sky against its bosom. The movement of his head caused no pain, though he’d suspected it would. Instead, he felt the tickle of the grass against his cheek, the delicate touch of his clothing on his flesh. The sights and sounds, the touch of grass and sun and cloth, all were pleasant, but none meshed with the memories of blood and death and pain. None of them matched his recollection of the farm, his home.
“Khirro.”
He hadn’t noticed the woman standing near his feet-perhaps she hadn’t been there a moment before. Khirro propped himself on his elbows to see her better.
Sunlight brightened her red hair to the color of fire; the smile on her face made her cheeks glow pink and her green eyes sparkle. The wind tugged at the hem of the thin white dress hanging to her ankles.
“Elyea,” he said. “So I am dead then, am I?”
She nodded and offered her hand. He took it and she helped him stand; he felt no aches and pains in his body, no evidence of the wound through his stomach and back that he remembered taking his life. They embraced.
“That is a sight I was not sure I would ever see,” a man’s voice said.
Khirro pulled away from Elyea and turned toward the voice.
“Athryn.”
The joy he felt at seeing Elyea again diminished with the sight of the magician. He should be happy to see his friend, but if both of them were here in the fields of the dead, surely it meant they failed to stop the Archon. Khirro went to Athryn, put his hand on his shoulder.
“I’d have hoped not to see you here,” he said.
Looking at the magician, Khirro saw changes in him and wondered if the same was true of himself. Athryn’s shoulder length hair was no longer blond, but ash; his skin glowed, his eyes glimmered, his smile was infectious. Despite Khirro’s distress that his friend, too, had been killed, he couldn’t prevent his lips from mimicking the magician’s expression.
“All is not what it seems to you.”
Khirro raised and eyebrow. “What happened?”
“We prevailed.”
Khirro hesitated an instant, then clasped Athryn’s other shoulder, gave his companion a friendly shake and laughed aloud.
“Yes,” he exclaimed. “But what of Graymon? And Emeline and the baby? Therrador?”
“The world of the living is no longer your concern, Khirro.”
“You can’t leave it like that for me.”
“I have already said too much.”
Khirro nodded. “But you fell, too, Athryn.”
“No, Khirro. I did not.” Athryn shook his head; his smile remained steady. “I now move freely between the living and the dead.”
It took a second for the magician’s words to sink in. When they did, Khirro’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open.
“You…you are the Necromancer?”
Athryn didn’t reply, only looked into his friend’s eyes, and his look told Khirro everything.
Elyea placed her hand on his arm.
“Come. It’s time to go.”
Khirro nodded and embraced Athryn, slapped him on the back.
“Thank you for everything you did for me, my friend.”
Athryn nodded and Khirro let Elyea draw him away. They walked away through the grass and Khirro noticed dew on the green blades; it felt cool and pleasant on his bare feet. He looked back at his friend.
“Will I see you again, Athryn?”
“Do not be surprised if you do. And Khirro…” The magician hesitated, as though considering his words. “Your friends and family go on.”
Relief washed through Khirro as a white mist rose up out of the grass and swirled around the magician, obscuring him from Khirro’s view. The mist became a column, then it sprouted wings, a head, a tail. The mist dragon flapped its wings once and the mist became vapor and disappeared, leaving the emerald grass and azure sky. Khirro breathed deep of the clean, crisp air and smelled the sweet odor of magic.
Elyea tugged at his arm.
“Come, Khirro. There are people waiting to see you.”
Their bare feet whispered through the soft grass as they headed toward the tree reaching to embrace the Heavens. Khirro ached to climb to the top of it and touch the sky.
Epilogue
Iana shifted uncomfortably beneath the tight corset and adjusted her skirts as she waited for the pages to strap Graymon’s armor in place. When they finished, the barber stepped forward to adjust his hair, then the Master of Wardrobe threw a cape around his shoulders and fastened it in place with a jeweled brooch. Graymon smiled his appreciation at Iana for her patience-he knew she didn’t like the fancy dress her station required.
With his armor in place and hair adjusted, Emeline shooed his attendants away and stepped forward to brush a lock of hair off Graymon’s forehead and back to where it had been before the barber interfered. She stroked the thin, neat beard on his cheek.
“I am so proud of you, my son.”
“Thank you, mother. My queen.” Graymon smiled and embraced her
“Not for much longer,” she said and looked to Iana. “In a short while, your wife will be the queen.”
“You will always be my queen.”
Graymon released her and stepped away to look at the wheeled chair sitting empty beside the hearth, a blue blanket with a frayed edge hung over its arm. His smile faltered and he thought of the statue of King Therrador recently installed in the courtyard to commemorate his twenty-two years of rule. The kingdom’s greatest sculptor-the same man the king had commissioned twenty years before to create the statue of a farmer named Khirro also standing watch in the courtyard-had depicted Therrador with sword in hand, head held high and proud, the stern look of benevolent rule in his expression. No one could dispute that the talented artist had captured so much of Therrador’s essence, so much of his charisma, but there was one thing that always seemed wrong about it to Graymon: his father was standing.