Stunned silence shrouded the battlefield. At last one wizard began to chant Zalathorm's name. The survivors took up the chant, raising bloodied swords and long-spent wands to the skies as they lauded their king for his final victory.
No one heard the small, ragged voice singing a faint melody, no one but the young woman at her side. Keturah's hand sought Tzigone's. Their fingers linked, and their voices rose together in song.
It was not a summoning and held not compulsion but an entreaty. The faint shadows of elven spirits took up the refrain and their song drifted softly over the battlefield to mingle once more with the spellsong rising from the queen and her sorceress daughter.
Finally they parted, revealing the form of Halruaa's king. Gently, as if they were teaching first steps to a stumbling babe, they guided Zalathorm's spirit back to his mortal remains.
The ghostly form melted into the king's body. Slowly, the decay began to reverse. The chanting grew in volume as Zalathorm's subjects welcomed their king back, with wild joy and without reservation.
Keturah ran forward and fell into Zalathorm's arms. They rose together, hand in hand, and Zalathorm raised their enjoined hands high. Her name was added to the chant, for many had seen her sing the king's spirit back to his body.
Finally Zalathorm lifted a hand for silence. "This is a time for truths long untold. I know you are weary, but listen to a tale too long hidden."
He told them all the truth behind the Cabal, the long path to vengeance taken by an elf woman who had dedicated her life to its destruction. He spoke of the brave queen who for years had been trapped between the artifact and the elf, and the daughter who had never given up her quest to find and free her mother.
Finally he pledged to make changes and to pardon the wizards who plotted against him if they pledged by wizard-word to work with him to make Halruaa all that they have ever dreamed she could be.
As one, the people of Halruaa fell to their knees and raised Zalathorm's name into the darkening skies.
Unfamiliar tears dampened Matteo's face as he watched the scene unfolding. "At last she has found her family, her name," he said with deep satisfaction.
"And you?"
Andris's words were whispered and sounded nearly as pale as the jordain once had been.
"I am a jordain, and always will be," Matteo said. "If can see and sense the Shadow Weave, all the better. In years to come, the king may have need of this."
Andris smiled wistfully. "I was a jordain, then an elf-blooded warrior, and finally, one of three. That was the best of all."
He reached for Matteo. The jordain clasped his friend's wrist in a warrior's farewell, holding the grip long after Andris's hand fell slack, until his own hand fisted on the empty air.
After all he had seen this day, Matteo was not surprised that Andris simply faded away. He watched as a familiar form strode toward the waiting shadows. Andris was received joyfully and without reserve by the elves he had helped to free. Together they turned their eyes toward the first star and rose to meet the evening sky.
Matteo's gaze shifted from the royal family to the stars. Andris, like Tzigone, was finally among family.
The king's jordain rose and quietly walked toward the royal family, ready to serve, content in his own homecoming.
Epilogue
Matteo strode quickly through the city, sped by the light of the full moon and the sounds of battle coming from the dockside tavern.
He shouldered his way into the room and regarded the familiar scene with resignation. A young lad stood on one of the tables, juggling several mugs. A trio of angry men circled, grabbing at the boy's feet. The performer held them off with well-placed kicks and an occasional hurled mug. Several of the patrons cheered him on and even tossed other mugs to replenish his artillery.
Unfortunately, not all of those mugs were empty. Here and there ale-soaked patrons raised angry words and quick fists to the juggler's benefactors. Several small skirmishes provided side entertainment. Bets were shouted, coin changed hands.
Matteo strode into the room and stalked toward a trio of brawlers. He seized two of the men by their collars. He brought their heads together sharply and tossed them aside. The third man, seeing himself alone, snatched a sword from an observer's belt and brandished it with drunken menace.
The jordain's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. He raised one hand and beckoned the man on. Bellowing like a bee-stung bull, the lout charged the apparently unarmed man.
Matteo stepped into the charge, seized the man's arm, and forced it down. The sword caught between two of the floor's wide wooden planks. The man kept going without it.
The lad, still juggling, hurled all three mugs in rapid succession. All three struck the drunk's forehead. He staggered, fell to his knees and went facedown into a puddle of ale.
Drunken cheers filled the tavern. The performer grinned like an urchin and took a deep bow.
Matteo seized a handful of short brown hair and pulled the "boy" from his perch. He deftly caught the miscreant and slung her over his shoulder.
The cheers turned to catcalls and protests, but by now it had occurred to the revelers that the intruder wore jordaini white. Few of them were drunk enough to seriously consider taking on one of the wizard-lords' guardians.
Matteo kept a firm grip on his captive as he strode away from the docks. After a while she began to squirm. He rewarded her efforts with a sharp slap on the bottom.
"Hey!" protested Tzigone. "Is that any way to treat a princess?"
"Start acting like a princess, and you'll be treated as one."
She muttered something that Matteo studiously ignored, then bit him on the handiest portion of his anatomy.
He let out a startled yelp and dropped her. She rolled to her feet and backed away. "We're even now," she pointed out.
"Not even close! Tzigone, I'm supposed to protect you. You haven't exactly made it easy."
Her face crumpled into a frown. "How do you think I feel? All these protocols and rules and expectations chafe like a badly fitting saddle. And don't get me started on the clothes I have to wear! Shoes, too!"
He glanced down at her small, bare feet, and his lips twitched reluctantly. "I suppose you're not happy with me for spoiling your fun."
"Damn right! You're the king's counselor, and if the push for a hereditary monarchy comes to anything, you might be stuck with me a very, very long time."
For a long moment she glared at him, then her anger changed to horrified realization. Matteo mockingly copied her expression. They both dissolved into laughter.
He took her arm and tucked it companionably into his. "Since I'm destined to serve as your jordain, allow a word of advice: If you must insult people, pick smaller men, preferably those who like to drink alone."
"Forget it. I've got to keep your fighting edge up." She glanced up at him. "How did you find me?"
"This is Halruaa," he reminded her. "There is no shortage of magic."
"True, but I can't be tracked by magic."
Matteo quirked one eyebrow and glanced pointedly at their moon-cast shadows.
Tzigone's eyes widened in consternation. "The Shadow Weave. Damn! I forgot about that."
"A wise young woman recently gave me an excellent piece of advice. Would you like to hear it?"
She let out a resigned sigh. "Would it make any difference?"
Matteo chuckled and ruffled his friend's tousled brown hair as if she were truly the lad she pretended to be. "Things change," he told her. "Do try to keep up."