EPILOGUE

Tira Miron seemed to cradle Gaven’s body in her arms. A black shroud embroidered with gold, enchanted to stave off the corruption of death on the journey back from Varna, covered everything but his face, like a lifeless mask. The tracings of his dragonmark, darker than they had been before the Dragon Forge stripped them from his skin, were just visible beneath his chin and disappearing under the shroud.

Aunn unrolled the vellum scroll, a gift from the queen, and let his eyes roam over it without reading. It was utterly unlike the one he’d used in the Labyrinth, though the ritual it contained was the same in essentials. That one had been scribed by a cleric of Dol Dorn, the war god, and ornamented with images of warfare. This had been seized from the Cathedral of the Silver Flame when King Wrogar closed it, and each black letter was outlined in silver, while intricately swirling decorations of silver filigree ran along the edges of the page.

He looked around the cathedral—at the saints arrayed around the dome, at his friends arrayed around him, at the mosaic icon on the floor. He felt privileged to be in their company, honored to call these people friends. Rienne had embraced him so tightly when she saw him that he thought she might squeeze the breath from his chest. Cart and Ashara, their arms linked in obvious affection, had reported Jorlanna’s arrest and joined in celebrating the unraveling of all her schemes. Rienne’s young companion Cressa, a fountain of energy, seemed fascinated with Aunn and had barely given him a moment’s peace since her arrival in Fairhaven.

He liked to imagine that his other friends had joined the ring of saints around the dome—Dania and Vor, Farren and the other warriors of Maruk Dar, Zandar and Sevren. The Silver Flame burned brightly in the cathedral, it seemed, despite eighty-five years of disuse. Aunn had refused to attempt the ritual anywhere else.

He let the ritual take shape in his mind complete and entire, each letter, each word contributing to a whole that was more than a string of sounds. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, setting fire tingling down his spine, the touch of the Silver Flame upon him. He opened his eyes again and began to read.

Once again magic streamed from the words, dissolving the ink and burning around him like a raging flame. He was the merest flicker in that great flame, and yet he felt himself cradled in divine arms, embraced, accepted, acknowledged, and loved. He did not command the power of the Silver Flame—he requested it, implored it to condescend to work through him. Flames danced from his hand to wash over Gaven’s body, cleansing the stain of death from his flesh.

There was a moment of perfect silence. No one breathed, no waft of wind stirred the dusty cathedral floor, nothing moved. They hung suspended in time.

And then Gaven drew a shuddering, gasping breath, and the sky rolled with a distant rumble of thunder.