Princess reached them before Jason but only by a moment. She stepped directly through the man who crouched over Falk without seeming to notice him.
Jason studied the man’s handsome, translucent features. He hardly seemed to take note of either Princess or Jason. He gazed at Falk with such sorrow and yet he kept his hands buried in Falk’s chest as if he were trying to dig out his heart.
“Franklyn?” Jason asked.
The man started in surprise and then very slowly lifted his gaze to Jason.
“How do you know me?” Franklyn asked. His voice was only a sigh.
“Henry told me about you,” Jason replied. He knelt down at Falk’s side. Grief and guilt distorted Franklyn’s face as he met Jason’s gaze.
“I can’t get my knife out of his heart,” Franklyn whispered. “I keep trying, but I can’t get it out. How can he forgive me if I can’t get my knife out of his heart?”
Jason considered the shadow that Franklyn was, the way he clung to Falk.
“The knife came out a long time ago,” Jason told him. “You just have to let go now.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.” Jason reached out and curled his hands around Franklyn’s forearms. They felt cold and as insubstantial as snowflakes melting against his fingers. “I’m going to help you.”
Franklyn looked frightened then, but Jason simply whispered a hoarse, aching lullaby to Franklyn and slowly, gently lifted his hands from Falk’s body.
“I deserve to suffer,” Franklyn said as he rose to his feet with Jason.
Jason shook his head, uncertain if he could force even one more word from his throat. They had all suffered. Wasn’t that what Falk had said? Probably suffered too much.
Jason embraced Franklyn, though it was like holding ice to his bare body. Franklyn melted against him and Jason found the strength to utter a final word.
“Good-bye,” he told Franklyn. And then, in a streak of light, Franklyn was gone.
At Jason’s feet Falk dragged in a slow breath. His eyes fluttered briefly open, seemed to focus on Jason, and then fell closed again.
Jason felt the shade lands slip away.
***
The doors of the Hall of the Throne swung open and a group of men and women in dull green uniforms gaped in. Despite the horror in their expressions, they entered the hall and immediately busied themselves tending to the wounded. They spoke in a bright language that Jason didn’t understand, but he thought that at least a few of them must be doctors.
Snow goblins and tall men in leather armor arrived, bearing stretchers that seemed to have been improvised from spears and blankets.
A pretty young girl with her hair in braided loops spread black cloths over the dead. She approached the throne with a drawn expression, her eyes darting to Jason and then away as if she didn’t dare look him in the face. She draped a black cloth over one body, but when she came for Falk, Jason waved her away.
And oddly she obeyed him, bowing and backing from him as she whispered, “Lasair.”
Jason felt too done in to wonder what that meant. None of the other sidhe in the hall approached him. Most averted their gazes when he caught them staring at him.
A dozen gold-skinned men dressed in silk arrived at the doors, speaking among themselves excitedly. Jewels glinted from their ornately braided hair and the rings adorning their graceful hands.
Goblins and soldiers carried the injured and dead out past them.
Gunther ducked in through the doors and offered Jason an easy salute before beckoning a man whom Jason had earlier decided was a doctor. It was nearly more than Jason could manage to lift his arm and wave to Gunther in return. But at least Gunther seemed to have things in hand. It didn’t look like they were going to have to try and fight their way out of here. That thought alone came as an immense relief to Jason.
Gunther and the doctor stepped out into the rainy courtyard.
Jason gazed down at Falk. If only he would wake up. Jason’s gaze suddenly fell on the iron shackles binding Falk’s wrists. He knelt, caught them in his hands, and called on them—as he had called on the storm winds—to release Falk. The iron stung his hands, but he didn’t let go. He’d fought goblins and conquered a world of furious ghosts; a set of bracelets wasn’t going to stop him now.
The metal cracked in his grip and the iron chain fell away.
Jason swayed and stumbled back, nearly delirious with exhaustion. He slumped onto the black throne, wanting only to rest there briefly.
Suddenly a sound like fanfare filled the air and gleaming sparks lit the battered black surface of the throne. If Jason had possessed the strength he would have leaped clear, but as was, he simply watched as gold filigree spread through the dark stone and sprouted up from the back of the throne to reach all the way to the roof of the hall.
Jason scanned the room for Gunther, hoping the agent would offer him some sign of just how badly he’d screwed things up.
He didn’t find Gunther, but the view that greeted him seemed almost incomprehensible. All across the hall, men, women, and even goblins stared at him as if in awe. After a moment, some burst out in laughter; others cheered. Many, even those among the wounded, dropped to their knees before him. The girl with her black blankets knelt with her hands raised toward him as if she were warming them before a fire.
“Lasair,” called a man in leather armor as he too knelt.
Beyond the open doors the rain seemed to suddenly cease and sunset rays of light poured into the already bright hall. Jason couldn’t be certain, but it almost seemed that the entire building was rising upward.
As more people poured in through the great, golden doors only to drop to their knees, Jason began to wonder seriously if he was dreaming.
Then Gunther appeared at the door and sidled his way through the growing crowd to approach the throne.
“I leave you alone for ten minutes and you become the high king,” Gunther commented. “Not exactly discreet.”
Jason frowned at Gunther’s words. Then he realized that Gunther was making fun of the ridiculous scene he’d made. He wondered how long this was going to take to straighten out. Outside the hall, bells rang out and Jason thought he heard distant voices rising in cheers.
“Sorry,” Jason rasped. He flopped his hand off the arm of the throne, trying to reach the body sprawled there. “I found Henry.”
Gunther’s eyes dropped to where Falk lay in the shadow of the throne. He winced at the sight of the spears jutting from his body.
“He’s alive,” Jason assured him.
Gunther nodded and then crouched down at Falk’s side. With what struck Jason as practiced efficiency, Gunther jerked the spears from Falk’s body. He groaned.
“Time to wake up, Henry.” Gunther stood and surveyed the crowd gathering at the foot of the throne. “You’re going to miss the high king’s coronation.”
Jason mouthed a dry rasp of a laugh at Gunther’s sarcasm.
But then Falk’s eyes opened. He stared up at Jason for a moment, then offered him a weary smile and clumsily sat upright.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Henry told him. He tugged self-consciously at the sweat jacket he wore, as if he could shield Jason from the sight of the wound in his abdomen.
“Neither are you,” Jason replied hoarsely. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Henry sounded almost surprised. “I feel better than I have in a long time…You don’t look so good, though.”
“What kind of thing is that to say to your knight in shining armor?” Jason murmured.
“Nah, you’re Prince Charming,” Falk told him. He scowled out over the gathering in the gallery of the hall. “Looks like you’ve got quite the audience.”
Jason just shook his head. He would tell Falk all about it later and Falk would probably laugh at him. But he didn’t mind that because they were going to be all right now.
That knowledge seemed to release what little energy Jason retained. He leaned back into the throne, hardly feeling Princess’s weight as she leaped up onto his lap. Jason let his eyes fall shut.