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I punched him lightly on the arm. “Leaving you! You were joining the temple, remember?”

His face sobered. “Well, that’s where I learned, in fact. You remember Christen?”

I nodded. The young spy who had died. “Of course I remember him. Your dear friend.”

Galahad nodded. “He was also a wonderful artist. He had been a painter’s apprentice before joining the temple and then the rebels. He helped me to hone my skills.”

“Well, they’re incredible. Really, Galahad. Incredible.” I turned around and looked from one painting to the next. “But when I think of how much we missed...”

I bit my lip and glanced at Draven. His back was to me. His arms were crossed over his chest. He hadn’t budged.

“Perhaps we’ll leave you two alone for a while,” Crescent said, following my gaze.

“Thank you. These paintings are... a wonderful way to remember her.” I stumbled over the words, hearing how cliched they were, but knowing they were true. “We’ll treasure them always.”

When the two men had left, I approached Draven.

“My heart is so sore, Morgan,” he said simply as I touched his arm.

“I know.” My heart ached for him.

“I have no tears to shed. It just... hurts too much.”

I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face against his chest. “I know, my love, I know.”

His hands came up to touch my hair.

“It’s cruel and unfair,” I murmured. “But oh, Draven. She was so good.”

“She shouldn’t have had to be,” he said, his voice cracking. “She should never have been there.”

“But she was,” I said tiredly. “She didn’t ask for any of it. Neither did we. We just... did the best we could. And we’ll remember her for what she gave. And always, always love her.”

There was a bench in the middle of the gallery. I drew Draven over to it, and we sat there for a long time, looking at the pictures.

Now I stood in a different room, alone and surrounded, not by paintings of Medra but by lavish gifts from every known land in Aercanum. Around me, ornate chests overflowed with treasure, each one more splendid than the next. Golden ornaments adorned with precious gems. Richly woven tapestries. Colorful jars of exotic spices. In one corner of the room, a gleaming suit of armor stood on display. King Mark had sent it from Tintagel. There was even a beautifully crafted sword next to it. A matching set.

I was in need of a new sword, it was true. I ran my hand over the hilt. Tintagel steel was said to be the finest in Eskira. Perhaps I would test the blade out when I had the chance.

There was a rap at the door, and I whirled about, suddenly conscious of the fact that I still had not put on my coronation dress as I had promised my ladies-in-waiting half an hour ago. The dress still lay on the bed, a monstrosity of crimson and gold silk and chiffon with a heavy brocade cape to accompany it.

“Morgan?”

I put a hand to my throat. “Oh, it’s just you.”

“You’re still not dressed?” Kaye stood in the doorway. “I thought the coronation began in an hour.”

I looked at my brother fondly. He looked very dashing in a tailored doublet of deep red velvet. A ruby-studded brooch in the shape of a rose was on his collar. “You look very handsome.”

“You look... very nice, too,” he said tactfully.

I looked down at myself and laughed. Draven and I had gone for a walk in the woods that morning. I was still wearing trousers covered in burs and thistles. “I’ll get dressed soon. But I swear, that dress is so heavy, the less time I’m forced to wear it, the better.”

Kaye nodded as if he understood. “I came to say thank you, again. For doing this for me. I know it’s going to be a lot of work.”

My face softened. “Of course, little brother. It’s no trouble. Not for you.”

“I will be a good king someday, Morgan,” he said. “I promise.”