I froze my heart. “I am sorry,” I said to Yaril. “Sorry to make you serve us so. But there is no one else.” And then I took my coronet of magic and knowledge and crammed it onto my sister’s bowed head.

At the touch of it, she flung her head back, like a horse refusing a bridle. But the magic was there, and the knowledge, and yes, my memory of telling her all that had befallen me that summer my father had given me over to the Kidona warrior Dewara. The magic brought it back to her vividly. And she knew now, as clearly as I did, how to get to the place where Dewara had built his fire and conducted me over to his spirit world. There, I believed, was the source of the rock that I had carried with me as a reminder of that encounter, the same rock that Caulder had stolen from me during my year at the Academy.

I felt the magic, felt its anger that I had torn it from its chosen course and set it into mine. I knew, in a way that defied explanation, that my path would work. It would be more convoluted, but it would serve just as well. Even the magic accepted that, but it accepted it coldly, with an angry promise of vengeance to come. And I acceded to that. I would pay, as I had paid before. But this time it would be worth the price.

Yaril had been crouched by my father. Now she sat down ungracefully, flat on the floor, her legs bent awkwardly under her. She swayed. My father’s eyes, opened to slits, looked down at her. Then he leaned his head back on his chair. He took a deeper breath and sighed it out, as if a heavy harness had been taken from him. His eyes traveled to meet mine. His pale lips parted; it could have been a smile. “Lord Burvelle,” he sighed. He reached out a shaking hand and set it on my sister’s fair head. “Protect her,” he murmured. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

“He’s dead,” Stiet said.

“No.” My father drew a deep, slow breath. “I’m not.” He breathed again, more raggedly.

With difficulty, he shifted until he was looking down at Yaril. She still sat on the floor, dazed. She was very pale, save for a bright spot of blood on her lower lip where she had bitten herself. She lifted her hands to her head and pressed them to her skull, as if holding her head together.

“Are you quite all right, my dear?” he asked her.

“I–I am.” Her eyes were clearing. Stiet held out a hand to her. Instead, she planted her own hands on the floor, pushed herself to her feet, and then swayed toward my father’s chair. She caught hold of the back of it, stood up, and set her hands on his shoulders. She leaned to say quietly by his ear, “I think that everything will be fine now for both of us. I know what I need to do.”

And with her words, suddenly the magic was finished with me. I watched the nimbus that had been playing about Yaril’s head suddenly fade, leaving only the necessary knowledge behind. It was over. I’d done all the magic wished me to do. I’d served its purpose and it was done with me. I danced still, but more slowly.

I lifted my head and turned my vision to the east. I could still feel my body, dancing its plodding dance, but it seemed very far away from me. I wondered if I could get back to it before it failed completely. I knew there was an important thing to do, but suddenly it seemed an onerous task, one at the very edges of my ability. I turned back to the room. Some time must have passed. There was a doctor there, fussing about my father, mixing a foaming powder into some water for him. Professor Stiet was gone, but Caulder was there now, very red in the cheeks from his recent exertion, and looking at my father with what seemed like genuine concern. Yaril sat in a chair to one side of my father, and a housemaid was just setting down a tray with a teapot and several cups on it. To me, Yaril looked more physically worn than my father. I felt my distant body tug at me faintly, a failing puppet trying to call its strings back to it. I went to my father.

“Good-bye,” I said. He did not look at me or give me any sign of response. I bent down and kissed his brow, as he had occasionally done when I was a little lad going off to bed. “Good-bye, Lord Burvelle. I hope you keep your title for many years to come.”

My body pulled at me more strongly now. I ignored it to go to Yaril, to bow and dance a final time with her. “Farewell, little sister. Be strong. I’ve given you the key. You must deduce how to turn it and unlock what is there in a way that will benefit the family. I leave it in your very capable hands.” I bent again and kissed her on the top of her head. She smelled of flowers.

Then I surrendered to the pulling of the magic. It drew me out of the house and down the long King’s Road. It was a quick-walk of the spirit. I knew the long road, recognized the growing towns and was startled by the mushrooming farms and homes along the way. Time rushed with us, it seemed, as it swept me along at a heady pace. The magic pulled me back into evening, but when I recognized Sergeant Duril camped alongside his high-wheeled cart, I dragged my feet to a halt. He was sleeping already, in a cramped bed made upon his cart’s load, with his long gun ready under his hand. His hobbled team shifted and one horse lifted his head and whickered softly as I drew near. The sergeant’s hat had slipped away; he was nearly bald now. I thought of trying to find my way into his dreams and decided not to. As soft as a breeze, I danced once around his cart. Then I put my hand over his. “No matter what they tell you, try not to think badly of me,” I asked of him. “I remembered all you taught me. It took me a long way, Sergeant. You did your task well.”