Reaching the king’s privy chamber, they entered. Fflergant looked pale, but seeing Tavey, he seemed to perk up.

Tavey bowed to the king. “My mistress has just awakened, and, learning of your need, has told me to tell you she will be here in the third hour after the dawn tomorrow.”

“Thank her for me, and tell her I eagerly await her coming,” the king replied. Then he fell back among his pillows, and his eyes closed again.

Tavey looked to the great hourglass. The purple sand was almost all gone now. When the last grain of it dropped from the top to the bottom it would turn silver, and the king would die. He bowed again, and backed out of the chamber.

Cinnia went to her father’s side. “You cannot die before this is decided,” she said. “It is tradition. And you cannot die before you have passed your authority to your successor. That, too, is tradition on Belmair.”

“I have almost waited too long,” Fflergant said weakly. “My pride could not admit to the fact that I was getting old, Daughter. But my time is very close now. I heard your mother singing again in my dreams last night. She is waiting for me.”

“And you will be with her soon enough, Father,” Cinnia said softly, her eyes welling with tears. “But do not leave me until you have met this man who I must wed and who will be Belmair’s next king.”

“There can be no delay,” the king told his daughter. “Once he is chosen and brought to the castle, the marriage must take place. My last breath as king will be his first breath as king. That is also tradition, Cinnia.”

The young woman nodded. “I chafe against it, but I will not break with tradition, Father. I will not be like those exiled from us so long ago,” she promised him.