"This way," Anna said, hurrying ahead of the others down the dim stone corridor. She reached the corner and paused. "Down there," she said, her finger pointing around the corner. Madia nodded, then stepped past her, followed by Prince Jaran, Purcell, and a dozen other men. On the left, they found two guards seated at the little table at the head of the wide, dark stairwell opening. Both jumped up at the commotion and drew their swords.
Purcell took his men forward as Jaran and Madia jogged right, snatching a torch from the wall before heading down the stairs. Madia heard one guard scream as he died, then heard the other shouting surrender as she reached the bottom. Here she went right, letting Jaran take the left, and they began banging on the steel faces of the aged dungeon doors, shouting her father's name as they went. The smell of mold and rotting straw and worse filled her nose with every breath. The torchlight seemed to die in the blackness beyond the bars of the cell doors as she held it up to look inside each one.
After more than a dozen doors, Madia heard a faint voice calling back to her. She found the door, then held the torch up and peered in. A dark figure sat on the floor resting tight against the far corner. Jaran brought the keys in a moment and quickly opened the door. As Madia entered she held the torch up, then moved slowly closer as Anna came in just behind her.
"It is him," Anna said, kneeling down beside the silent, staring figure. Madia went to her knees as well, still inspecting the filthy, ailing old man who sat slumped before her. His eyes were nearly empty, unfocussed, unseeing. His limbs hung limply at his sides and his cheeks lay hollow against the bones and teeth behind them. The hair was thin and matted and filthy, but white, she decided, pure white. A man who looked at least a hundred years old. And yet, it was him!
"Father," Madia said, finding that her own eyes were suddenly burning, an enormous weight suddenly pressing on her chest. "Father," she repeated, "I am home."
Frost leaned back in his chair and patted the roundness of his belly. Sated smiles graced many faces all around the great table, with the exception of Rosivok and Sharryl, who seemed to insist on their usual strict expressions. Sharryl sat at Frost's side, unusually attentive these past few days, for a Subartan. Frost smiled at them all. A new third Subartan would be needed eventually, he mused, though perhaps this time he could find someone with at least some slight sense of humor, just to round things out. Perhaps someone more like . . . Madia.
"To your liking?" Madia asked as he glanced toward her.
"Few tables are set any finer," Frost replied. "It is good to know the hospitality of Kamrit Castle is again worthwhile. Always, I will return."
She raised her brow. "To return, one must leave."
"Come spring," Frost said. "You will have the honor of my presence for another few months."
Madia nodded and seemed to let it go at that. He had never stayed any one place for long in his life, not since leaving Lagareth so many years ago; he had never been content with what he already knew, what he had already done. Madia knew this, he thought, and she knew something of the Demon Blade. She had seen the power of its touch: three thousand dried-twig corpses strewn about the battle field at Kopeth. She had asked him how it had happened, of course. Partly, he had told her.
By now all the people of the realm had heard of the rediscovery of the Demon Blade, of its fearsome powers, and its new keeper. They would come, of course, those who wanted Frost to use the Blade in their employ, or those who wished to own such a weapon for themselves; the Blade was not something one could easily give away, yet it was no doubt harder to keep. Frost understood old Ramins perfectly now.
His eyes came to rest on Madia's father: a dry, placid old face, a quiet, frail form. Kelren was aware now, and much of his memory had returned—he was able to recognize everyone, including Frost, and owing to some spells from Grish and Marrn, and a great deal of love and kindness from Madia and Anna, he had regained some of his color and grown rather talkative in recent weeks. But the damage lingered, a grave legacy of all the beast had done to the aging sovereign. He considered himself fortunate, as fortunate as Ariman was to have a strong queen.
"Of course you will stay until after the ceremony," Jaran said, putting his arm around Madia, grinning like a young boy. "I would not allow you to miss it."
"I don't recall being notified of such an event," Lord Dorree protested, which brought a quick chorus of "here!" from Lords Burke and Bennor. Jaran's father leaned toward the three of them, winking one eye, and raised his flagon as if to toast. "I have heard it is more than just rumor," he said.
"Jaran and I have not agreed on any such thing yet, I assure you," Madia scolded them all, but the smile in her voice as she spoke of Jaran gave much away.
Jaran called to Frost. "If it were so," he said, coddling, "would you stay?"
"A fool's wager," Madia cautioned, pointing at Frost almost accusingly.
"And one I accept," Frost answered.
"Really," Madia scolded, "you ought to be more careful."
Frost nodded graciously, then he began to laugh.