“Had enough,” muttered Rannilt. “Want to go home.’
Rix did too. They had been standing at the edge of the Abysm for hours, waiting for the sign that king-magery had anointed the new king, but no sign had yet come. He was cold, tired, wet and hungry, and he just wanted to go back to Garramide, close the door to his chambers and be alone with his grief.
“We can’t,” he said as patiently as he could. “It would be a great insult to the Cythonian people to walk away at such an important time.”
“Bugger the Cythonian people!” Rannilt muttered.
“Rannilt!” hissed Glynnie. “Where did you learn such language?”
“We’ve just ended a war that began two thousand years ago,” Rix said to Rannilt. “Insulting the Cythonians would not be a good way to begin the peace.”
Rannilt scowled across the Abysm. They were laughing, joking, and loudly debating which of the candidates would be the next king. Whoever it was, he would inherit a devastated land, and his choices would either heal it or destroy it.
An argument broke out between two rival candidates, each loudly stating his own qualities and decrying the qualities of his rival.
Moley Gryle came running across, her black hair flying. “How dare you!” she cried, pushing them apart. “It will certainly be neither of you.”
The rivals grinned, shook hands and walked off cheerfully. Rannilt made that seething sound again and went to Tobry, who was standing by himself, staring down into the Abysm with a desolate look on his face.
“It’s all right,” she said gently. “You’ve still got us.”
He clutched at her hand and dragged his other hand across his eyes.
Rix swallowed the lump in his throat and went looking for Glynnie. Before he reached her there came a dazzling explosion of golden light from the canister of king-magery, a fountain that rose up from the centre and rained light beams down over all.
The core of the fountain continued rising. It drifted around over the heads of the Cythonians, then the fifteen candidates, and on, then finally swooped and settled.
On Rannilt.
Who was staring around her as if she had no idea what was going on.
There was utter silence for twenty seconds, then a deafening clamour as everyone, Cythonians and Hightspallers, started talking at once.
“Who the hell is she?” said an unidentified voice from the throng.
“Why her?” said one of the young men who had been fighting several minutes ago. “She’s not even one of us.”
“She’s just a grubby little kid,” said the second young man. “It’s got to be a mistake.”
Moley Gryle stepped forward. She held a parchment envelope in one hand.
“King-magery has spoken. The girl named Rannilt has been gifted with king-magery. She is our child-queen.”
“But she’s a girl!” said a third candidate.
“Queens generally come from girls,” Moley Gryle said with evident sarcasm.
“But… she’s not one of us. She’s a Pale.”
Moley Gryle held up the envelope. “This was given to me by Errek First-King, before he passed down the Abysm.” She unsealed it and began to read.
“Rannilt’s mother was a Pale,” she read, “and her father was Cythonian. She is the best choice to unite our two peoples in the troubled times that lie ahead. But Rannilt has been chosen for other, finer qualities. She is the only gifted person never to use her great gift for herself, but only to help others.
“And because, when Lyf stole quessence from this innocent child five months ago, she lost her magical gift but gained Lyf’s healing gift to enhance her own. No one but a future sovereign could have gained, and so wisely used, the healing gift of a king of Cythe.”
Again there was silence. The radiance was slowly dwindling above Rannilt, shrinking as if it was passing into her. She kept turning around and around. She had no idea what to say, nor what to do.
Tobry stepped forward and put his arm around her.
“Rannilt!” he said thickly. “Queen of Cython; Queen of Hightspall.”
“The land’s gunna need a new name,” said Rannilt. “Not Cythe or Cython, nor Hightspall neither.” She looked up at the glow above her. “I’m gunna call the land Radian.”
Rix smiled. It was a good start.
The Cythonians flooded around her. Rannilt clung to Tobry for a moment, before stepping forward, spraying her own golden radiance from her fingertips, to accept the congratulations of her people. And despite her ragged clothing, which was no cleaner than it should have been, in the golden light she did look like a little queen.
Rix pushed his way through the throng to Moley Gryle and shook her hand.
“Will your people challenge her?” he said anxiously.
“Oh, no,” said Moley Gryle. “The choice made by king-magery can’t be challenged. It’s the only way a new king—or queen—can be appointed.”
“What will your people do now? Caulderon must surely be uninhabitable—and much of Central Hightspall.”
“Our numbers here are only a few hundred, but we’ll clean out Turgur Thross and make it habitable again, then send out search parties to find out where the rest of our people—the survivors—have taken refuge. I think some may have gone back to Cython, begging for sanctuary, though whether they gained it…”
“Miracles have happened lately,” said Rix.
“Yes, they have. But until we know what’s happened to them, and can plan for the troubling future, it might be best if Rannilt remained with her own people. She has much to get used to.”
Rix offered Moley Gryle whatever help in men and supplies he could spare, including the vast quantities of goods, wagons and food Grandys’ fleeing army had abandoned outside Garramide. She thanked him, gravely, and turned away to her people.
Then she turned back, surreptitiously withdrew a small, heavy parcel from inside her coat and handed it to him.
“She’ll need this,” Moley Gryle said quietly. “Best if it’s always kept secret.”
Rix put it in an inner pocket. She picked up the empty canister and turned away.
“Let’s go,” said Rannilt. “I’m starvin’.”
As they were heading to the horses, and the Cythonians prepared to close off the Abysm again, Tobry stopped dead, making a whimpering sound in his throat. Light was flooding up. He stumbled to the edge, his arms outstretched, as Tali rose out of the top of the Abysm and settled on the ashy, trampled grass.
She opened her eyes, looked around, and he was the first person she saw. She went to him. Knelt before him. Bowed her head.
“I’m sorry for being such a fool,” she said, her voice muffled. “Can—can you ever forgive me?”
He looked down at the top of her head, which was covered in golden stubble. The bandage was gone, and so was the wound, save for a small round scar.
“We’ll see,” said Tobry gruffly.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He lifted her to her feet and they walked off, together but separate.