"My father is dealing with the death of three of his sons. And the death of many more of his people. As much as he cares for Gavril, this is not the time to bother him with funeral arrangements."
"I-it is not that . . ."
"Sorcery," one of the girls whispered. "It is sorcery."
The steward spun, hand raised as if to strike her. Tyrus caught the man's arm and then turned to the girl.
"What is happening?" he said. "And remember who you address."
The girl bowed her head. "Yes, your highness. I--I cannot say exactly what happened. I know only that it is sorcery. When we saw . . ." She swallowed. "We fled the room and summoned the steward and the guards."
Sorcery. The spell Alvar had cast. The girl said something about the body. Had he done something to Gavril's body? Some final indignity? Revenge on his son for his betrayal?
"We have to--" she began.
She didn't need to finish. Tyrus's hand was already on the door, his glare silencing the steward.
"Ashyn? Ronan? I'll ask you to wait here. Moria and I will see what this is."
"And you'll bring us in then, correct?" Ashyn said, meeting his gaze. "If it is sorcery, Moria and I may be able to do something."
Tyrus nodded. "I will summon you as soon as we've determined it's safe."
"Or as soon as you've determined it isn't," Ronan said.
Another nod, and Tyrus opened the door. Moria and Daigo walked in, and he closed it behind them. Gavril lay on a raised platform. He was naked, a sheet pulled over him for propriety. He lay on his back, his wound partially bound. There had been some initial attempts to clean the flecked blood on his face and shoulders, as if the girls had started there while awaiting a surgeon to sew up the terrible wound on his back. The bindings had been pulled away, preparing for that, and Moria stopped short, not wanting to see that horrible wound. Except . . .
Moria stopped. She stared. Then she jogged past Tyrus to Gavril's side and pulled the binding back farther. She kept tugging, certain she was mistaken about the wound, the size of it, the horror of it, and that at any moment, she'd reveal the bloody slice that had ended his life.
There was no wound. Moria grabbed a cloth from the bowl and hastily wiped at Gavril's side. There, under the blood, was the mark. Not the gaping tear that had nearly ripped him in two. Just a mark, like a long-healed scar.
"It must be farther up his back," Tyrus said.
She nodded and pushed Gavril up, Tyrus helping. But there was no gaping wound, only that scar. She stood there, Gavril's body cold against her fingers.
Why would Alvar do this? Spend his last moments closing his son's wound? Was this a custom from the mountains, from before the Kitsunes became the Kitsunes, before they became an imperial clan? Ashyn had once mentioned a tribe that would stitch its dead back together fully, in the belief that they would not be able to enter the afterlife otherwise.
"I don't understand," Moria whispered.
Tyrus shook his head. "Nor do I. But if it's sorcery, it isn't with evil intent. I don't see how it could be." They lowered Gavril's body to the platform. "I'll tell the girls to resume their work, and we'll stand guard, in case they're concerned about evil magics."
He headed for the door. Moria stood there, looking down at Gavril, thinking of Gavril, seeing him again, his glower, his scowl, hearing his snapped words. And the rest, too, that slight smile, that low laugh. Rare moments. Too rare. She reached for his hand and took it, feeling the skin warm as if from her touch, and she thought of those last moments, Gavril on the dais, meeting her gaze as she'd silently pleaded with him to do something.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so--"
His hand twitched, and her heart stopped. She stared down at him. He lay as still as ever. His lips as still as ever. His chest as still as ever. It was her imagination. Her treacherous--
Gavril's lips parted and his chest moved and she shouted for Tyrus, her hands flying to Gavril's neck, feeling the barest pulse of life. Then his eyes fluttered and opened, looking into hers as his lips curved in the faintest smile, and his lips parted to whisper, "Keeper." And she threw her arms around him and wept.
FIFTY-NINE
"Come," Moria whispered in Ashyn's ear. "Let's leave them alone."
Gavril was sitting now, talking to Tyrus as one of the young healers ran to find her mistress and the guard ran to inform the emperor.
"If you wish to stay . . ." Ashyn whispered, but Moria shook her head and said, "Gavril died for him. They should have a moment alone. And they'll not get it once everyone hears what has happened."
What had happened? Ashyn still didn't know, to be quite honest. Gavril was alive. Alive and healed, and she'd checked him herself, as Moria had tentatively put questions to him, ensuring it was no sorcery. He'd passed her sister's tests. It was Gavril. Alive. And as Moria walked from that death chamber, she glowed as if lit by the fire of the goddess herself.